drew her close to him, pressing his lips on hers; and she did not shrink
away from him, but threw her arm around his neck, to bend his head down
for another kiss.
"But you would never have married me--a poor man," he says, bantering.
"Nor would you have married me--a divorced woman," she returns,
demurely.
_JUANITA._
"Every man in the settlement started out after him; but he got away, and
was never heard of again."
I had listened quietly to the end, though my eyes had wandered
impatiently from the face of the man to the region to which he pointed
with his finger. There was nothing to be seen out there but the hot air
vibrating over the torn, sandy plain, and the steep, ragged banks of the
river, without any water in it--as is frequently the case at this season
of the year. The man who had spoken--formerly a soldier, but, after his
discharge from the army, station-keeper at this point--had become so
thoroughly "Arizonified" that he thought he was well housed in this
structure, where the mud-walls rose some six feet from the ground, and
an old tent was hung over a few crooked _manzanita_ branches for a roof.
There was a wide aperture in the wall, answering the purpose of a door;
and a few boards laid on trestles, and filled in with straw, which he
called his bunk. He had raised it on these trestles, partly because the
snakes couldn't creep into the straw so "handy," and partly because the
_coyotes_, breaking down the barricade in the doorway one night, hunting
for his chickens, had brought their noses into unpleasant proximity with
his face while lying on the ground. He had confided these facts to me
early in the morning, shortly after my arrival, continuing his discourse
by a half-apology for his naked feet, to which he pointed with the
ingenuous confession that "he'd run barefooted till his shoes wouldn't
go on no more." He held them up for my inspection, to show that he had
them--the shoes, I mean, not the feet--a pair of No. 14's, entirely
new, army make.
We had arrived just before daybreak, my escort and I having made a "dry
march"--which would have been too severe on Uncle Sam's mules in the
scorching sun of a June day--during the night. The morning, flashing up
in the East with all the glorious colors that give token of the coming,
overpowering heat, brought with it also the faint, balmy breath of wind
in which to bathe one's limbs before the sun burst forth in its burning
majesty. Phil, the ambulance-driver, and my oracle, said I could wander
off as far as I wanted without fear of Indians; so I had ascended the
steep hill back of the station, and, spying what looked like a graveyard
at the foot of it, on the other side, I had immediately clambered down
in search of new discoveries. I knew that there had formerly been a
military post here: it is just so far from the Mexican border that
fugitives from the law of that country would instinctively fly this way
for refuge; and just near enough the line where the "friendly Indian"
ceases to be a pleasant delusion, to make the presence of a strong
military force at all times necessary for the protection of white
settlers. But there are none; and Uncle Sam, protecting his own property
"on the march" through here as well as possible, allows the citizen and
merchant to protect himself and his goods the best way he can. Why the
camp had been removed, I cannot tell--neither, perhaps, could those who
occupied it--but I am pretty sure they were all very willing to go. I've
never seen the soldier yet that wasn't glad of a change of post and
quarters.
There were quite a number of graves in this rude burying-ground (I don't
like that name, on the whole; but it seemed just the proper thing to
call this collection of graves), and among them were two that attracted
my attention particularly. The one was a large, high grave, with rather
a pretentious headstone, bearing the inscription:
"TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES OWENS,
Who came to his death May 20, 186-."
The other seemed smaller, though it was difficult to determine the exact
dimensions, on account of the rocks, bones, and dry brush piled on it.
It is the custom of the Mexicans in passing by a grave to throw on it a
stone, a clump of earth, or a piece of brush or bone, if they have
nothing else, as a mark of respect: so I concluded at once that some one
of that nationality lay buried here. One, too, who had some faithful
friend; for there was a look about the grave that spoke of constant
attention and frequent visits to it.
On my return, having done justice to the breakfast the station-keeper
had prepared (and for which he had killed one of his chickens, in order
to "entertain me in a lady-like manner," as he said to Phil), I
questioned him about the American whose grave I had seen out there.
Before he could answer, a shadow fell across the doorway, and I half
rose from the ambulance-cushion I was occupying, when I saw an Indian, a
young fellow of about twenty, stand still in front of it, half hiding
the form of an aged crone, on whose back was fastened a small bundle of
fire-wood, such as is laboriously gathered along the beds and banks of
water-courses, in this almost treeless country. The Indian stooped to
lift the load from the woman's back; and she turned to go, without even
having lifted her eyes, either to the ambulance that stood near the
doorway, the soldiers that lounged around it, or myself. The
station-keeper seized an old tin-cup, filled it with coffee, piled the
remains of the breakfast on a tin-plate, and disappeared in the doorway.
Returning, he answered me, at last:
"The grave you saw was dug for a man that lived here while I was yet a
soldier in the ---- Infantry at this camp. He had brought a Spanish
woman with him, his wife, with whom he lived in one of those houses,
right there, on the bank of the river. He had sold some horses to the
Government, at Drum Barracks, and was sent out here with them; and
seeing that it was quite a settlement, he thought he'd stay. _She_ was a
mighty fine-looking woman--a tall, stoutish figure, with as much pride
as if she had been a duchess. Among the Mexicans in the settlement was a
man who, they said, had been a brigand in Mexico, had broken jail, and
come here, first to hide, and then to live. It warn't long till he began
loafering about Owens' place; and one night, while Owens was standing in
his door, smoking, there was a shot fired from the direction of the
hill, behind this place, and Owens fell dead in his own doorway. There
was no doubt in anybody's mind who the murderer was, for his cabin was
empty, and he could be found nowhere about camp. The soldiers, as well
as the other fellows, were determined to lynch him, and every man in the
settlement started out after him; but he got away, and no one ever heard
of him again."
"And the woman?" I asked.
"Oh, nobody could hurt her; and she raved and ranted dreadful for
awhile. But she turned up absent one morning, about a week after we had
put him under the ground, and her husband's watch and money had gone
with her."
"But," said I, impatiently, "where is the settlement you speak of? I
have not found a trace of it yet."
"Well, you see, they were _adobe_-houses that they built, and the rains
were very heavy last year, and the Gila commenced washing out this way;
the banks caved in and carried the rubbish away. They hadn't been
occupied for some time; but the house where Owens lived is just right
across there--if you go near the bank you can see where he built a good,
solid chimbley, like they've got at home. The camp used to be down the
flat apiece. I had my house there last year; but it washed away with the
rain: so I built up here, where there's better shelter for my chickens.
They're my only friends, besides Bose, and I've got to be choice of 'em.
I don't see a white face for months, sometimes, since the war is over,
and it keeps me company kinder, to see the places where the houses used
to be."
"And the other grave--that with the bones and rocks piled on it?"
The man threw a look toward the doorway, and put his hands in his
pockets.
"That's Juanita's grave. She was an Indian girl."
He walked out of the door; and, as I had nothing better to do, I too
stepped out, thinking to go as far to look for the ruins of that
"chimbley" as the blazing sun would permit. The first I saw when I came
out of the doorway was the old Indian woman, sitting on the ground in
the shade of the house, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up,
her elbow resting on them, the doubled fist supporting the face, while
the other hand hung listlessly across them. The face was aged and
wrinkled, the hair a dirty gray, and the eyes seemed set--petrified, I
had almost said--with some great, deep sorrow. Beside her stood the
tin-cup, untouched and unnoticed; the tin-plate had been almost emptied
of its contents; but a drumstick in the hands of the young Indian, and a
suspicious glossiness about his mouth and chin, seemed to mark the road
the chicken had taken. The station-keeper stood by the woman, and said
something to her in a jargon I could not understand; but she took no
more notice of him or what he said than if it were a fly that had buzzed
up to her. She moved neither her eyes nor her head, looking out straight
before her. I walked as far as the banks of the river, failed to
discover the remains of the "chimbley," and turned back to the house.
The station-keeper was not to be seen; the Indian boy paused from his
labors to take a look at me; but the woman seemed to be a thousand miles
away, so little did she take heed of my presence.
It was nearly noon, and I concluded to pass the rest of the day in
sleep, as we were to leave the station at about ten in the night, when
the moon should be up. The "whole house" had been given up to me, and a
comfortable bed arranged out of mattress and wagon-seats, so that I felt
comparatively safe from prowling vermin, and soon went to sleep. I awoke
only once, late in the afternoon; the station-keeper was saying
something in a loud voice that I could not understand, and, directly, I
saw two pair of dusky feet passing by the space that the blanket, hung
up in the doorway, left near the ground. After awhile I raised the
blanket, and saw the Indians trudging along through the sandy plain, the
woman following the tall, athletic form of the man, the yellow sun
burning fiercely down on their bare heads, scorching the broad, prickly
leaves of the cactus, and withering its delicate, straw-colored, and
deep-crimson flowers. I dropped the curtain, panting for breath: it was
too hot to live while looking out into that glaring sunshine.
Later, when I could sleep no more, and had made my desert toilet, I
stood in the doorway, and saw the two Indians coming back as in the
morning: the woman with a bundle of fire-wood on her shoulders, the man
walking empty-handed and burdenless before her. I turned to the
station-keeper, and pointing to the bundle she had brought in the
morning, and which lay untouched by the wall, I said, indignantly:
"It seems to me you need not have sent the poor woman out in the blazing
sun to gather fire-wood, when you had not even used this. You might have
waited till now."
"She--she would have been somewhere else in the blazing sun; she was
just going--" And he stopped--as he had spoken--in haste, yet with some
confusion.
I cast a pitying look on the woman, which, however, she heeded no more
than the rose-pink and pale-gold sunset-clouds floating above her, and
then wandered slowly forth toward the hill, which I meant to climb
while the day was going down.
When I reached the top, the light, flying clouds had grown heavy and
sad, and their rose hue had turned into a dark, sullen red, with tongues
of burning gold shooting through it--the history of Arizona, pictured
fittingly in pools of blood and garbs of fire. But the fire died out,
and a dim gray crept over the angry clouds; and then, slowly, slowly,
the clouds weaved and worked together till they formed a single heavy
bank--black, dark, and impenetrable.
Just as I turned to retrace my steps, my eyes fell on a group of low
bushes, which would have taken the palm in any collection of those
horribly dead-looking things that ladies call phantom-flowers. So
pitilessly had the sun bleached and whitened the tiny branches, that not
a drop of life or substance seemed left; yet they were perfect, and
phantom-bushes, if ever I saw any. How well they would look on those
graves below, I thought, as I approached to break a twig in remembrance
of the strange sight. But how came the red berries on this one? I
stooped, and picked up--a rosary; the beads of red-stained wood, the
links and crucifix of some white metal, and inscribed on the cross the
words, "_Souvenir de la Mission_." How had it come there? Had ever the
foot of devout Catholic pressed this rocky, thorny ground? Of what
mission was it a gift of love and remembrance? Surely it had not lain
here a hundred years--the gift of love from one of the Spanish _padres_
of the Arizona Missions to an Indian child of the church! Or had it come
from one of those California Missions, where the priests to this day
read masses to the descendants of the Mission Indians? Yonder, in the
west, with the purplish mists deepening into darkness in its cleft
sides, was the mountain which to-morrow would show us "Montezuma's
face," and here lay the emblem of peace, of devotion to the one living
God. Perhaps the station-keeper could solve the mystery; so I hastened
back through the gloom that was settling on the earth, unbroken by any
sound save the distant yelping of a _coyote_, who had spied me out, and
followed me, as though to see if I were the only one of my kind who had
come to invade his dominion.
"See what I have found!" I cried exultingly, when barely within speaking
distance of the station-keeper, who stood within the doorway.
In a moment he was beside me, calling out something in his
Indian-Spanish, which seemed to electrify the woman, who still sat by
the _adobe_ wall. Springing up with the agility of a panther, she was by
my side, pointing eagerly to my hand holding the rosary.
"What does she want?" I asked, in utter consternation.
"The rosary; give her the rosary"--the barefooted man was speaking
almost imperiously--"it's hers; she has the best right to it."
"Gladly," I said; but she had already clutched it, and turned tottering
back to the mud-wall, against which she crouched, as though afraid of
being robbed of her new-found treasure.
The man turned to me in evident excitement: "And you found it! Where?
She has been hunting for it these years--day after day--in the blazing
sun and streaming rain; and _you_ found it. Well, old Screetah's eyes
are getting blind--she's old--old."
"But her son might have found it, if he had looked; for I found it just
up on the hill there," I suggested.
"He's not her son; only an Indian I kept to look after her, kinder; for
she's been brooding and moping till she don't seem to notice nothing no
more. But now she's found it, maybe she'll come round again, or go on to
Sonora, where, she says, her people are."
"How came she to lose it, then, if it was so precious?"
"She didn't lose it--but, I forget everything; supper's been waiting
on; if you'll eat hearty, I'll tell you about those beads after a while.
The moon won't rise till after ten, and you've good three hours yet."
I was so anxious to hear about the beads, that I would not give the man
time to wash dishes; though he insisted on putting away the china cup
and plate, which he kept for State occasions, when he saw my disposition
to let Bose make free with what was on the table--table being a
complimentary term for one of the ambulance-seats.
In the days when this had been a military post, garrisoned by but one
company of the ---- Infantry, the station-keeper had been an enlisted
man, and the servant of Captain Castleton, commanding the camp and
company. Young, handsome, and generous, the men were devoted to their
captain, though as strict a disciplinarian as ever left the military
school. The little settlement springing up around the camp was chiefly
peopled by Indians and Mexicans, and only two or three Americans. When
Captain Castleton had been here just long enough to get desperately
tired of the wearisome solitude and monotony of camp, and had put in
motion whatever influence his friends had with the authorities at
head-quarters to relieve him of the command of the post and the inactive
life he was leading, an Indian woman and her daughter came into the
settlement one evening, and found ready shelter with the hospitable
Mexicans. That she was an Indian was readily believed; but that the girl
with her belonged to the same people, was not received with any degree
of faith by those who saw her. She was on her way back to Sonora, she
said, to her own people, from whence she had come with her husband,
years ago, along with a pack-train of merchandise, for some point in
Lower California. From there she had gradually drifted, by way of San
Diego, into California, up to Los Angeles, and on to some Mission near
there, where she had lived among the Mission Indians, after her
husband's death, and where Juanita had been taught to read, write, and
sing by the Mission priests.
At last Screetah had concluded to go back to Sonora, and had drifted
downward again from Los Angeles, to Temescal, to Temacula, to Fort Yuma,
and through the desert, till, finally, some compassionate Mexicans had
carried her and the girl with them through the last waterless stretch to
this place. The girl, with her velvety eyes and delicately turned limbs,
soon became the favorite and the adored of every one in camp and
settlement; and, though that branch of her education to which her mother
pointed with the greatest pride--reading and writing--had never taken
very deep root in the girl's mind, she sang like an angel, and looked
"like one of them pictures where a woman's kneeling down, with a crown
around her head," while she was singing. Indeed, the religious teachings
of the good priests seemed to have sunk deeply into the gentle heart of
Juanita, and her greatest treasure--an object itself almost of
devotion--was a rosary the priest had given her on leaving the Mission.
It had been impressed on her, that "so long as these beads glided
through her fingers, while her lips murmured _Aves_ and _Pater-nosters_,
night and morning, so long were the angels with her. Did the angels take
the rosary from her--which would happen if Juanita forgot the teachings
of the priests, and no longer laid her heart's inmost thoughts before
the Blessed Mother--then would she lose her soul's peace and her hopes
of heaven; and she must guard the sacred beads as she would her own
life."
There was no point of resemblance between Juanita and the old Indian
woman; and the girl, though warmly attached to her, declared that she
was not her mother, only her nurse or servant. Her mother, she said, had
been a Spanish Doña, and her father a mighty chief of his tribe, whose
head had been displayed on the gate of some Mexican fortress for weeks
after it had been delivered to the Government by some treacherous Indian
of his band. Juanita's personal appearance, the fluency with which she
spoke Spanish, her very name even, seemed to confirm her accounts, dim
and confused as the recollections of her earliest childhood were;
nevertheless, she had "Indian in her," as the man said, for she proved
it before she died.
But to return to the time of their arrival in camp. Screetah seemed in
no hurry to resume her journey through the burning desert; and, as
Captain Castleton said, he would no doubt have retained her by force
rather than let her drag the poor child through the waterless wastes
into sure destruction. He had given them an old tent after they had been
with their Mexican friends for nearly a week; and when these same
Mexicans left the camp, the two women were given possession of their
house. Here it became a source of never-ending delight to the old Indian
that all the choice things by which she set such store, and which among
her "civilized" Indian friends had been so scarce, as coffee, sugar, and
bacon, were served out to her as though they rained down from the sky.
But to do Screetah justice, the sweetest side of bacon and the biggest
bagful of sugar never gave her half the pleasure that she felt when one
of the soldiers gave to Juanita a lank, ragged pony, which, on a scout,
he had bought, borrowed, or stolen from an Indian at the Maricopa Wells.
Her time was now pretty equally divided between the rosary and the pony,
which, in time, lost its ragged, starved appearance, under her
treatment, and retained only its untamable wildness, and the
unconquerable disposition to throw up its hindlegs when running at full
tilt, as though under apprehension that the simple act of running did
not give an adequate idea of its abilities. At first, Captain Castleton,
highly amused, would call for his horse when he saw Juanita battling
with her vicious steed on the plain near camp, in order to witness the
struggles of "the wild little Indian" near by. But, after awhile, they
would ride forth together, and dash over the level ground or climb up to
the highest point of the hill--Juanita's voice ringing back to the camp
almost as long as she was in sight, chanting some wild anthem, in which
seemed blended the joyous strains of the heavenly band and the wild song
of the savage when he flies like an arrow through his native plains.
Old Screetah's low-roofed _adobe_ had assumed quite an air of comfort
through the exertions of some good-natured soldiers, and more
particularly through the manifestations of Captain Castleton's favor.
From a passing pack-train, laden with Sonora merchandise, he had bought
the matting that covered the mud-floor; the sun-baked pottery-ware was
Screetah's greatest boast, as it came from the same province--her
birthplace; and the bright-colored Navajo blanket had been bought with
many a pound of bacon and of coffee--articles more precious far in this
country than the shining metal which men risk their lives to find here.
No wonder that the captain passed more of his time in Screetah's hut
than in his white wall-tent, where the sun, he said, blinded him,
beating on the fly all day long; and where the slightest breeze brought
drifts of sand with it. That Juanita seemed to live and breathe only for
him had come to be a matter of course. Among the Mexicans it was
accepted that at a certain phase or change of the moon there had been
some words spoken, or some rite performed, by old Screetah, which,
according to their belief, constituted Indian marriage; and both seemed
happy as the day is long.
Like a thunderbolt from the clear sky it struck him one day, when the
mail-rider brought official letters advising him of the change that had
been made in his favor. He was directed to proceed at once to Drum
Barracks, there to await further orders! It was, perhaps, the first time
that he experienced the curse of having his most ardent wishes
gratified. For days he wandered about like the shadow of an evil
deed--restless from the certainty of approaching judgment, and fainting
with the knowledge that he was powerless to ward off the coming blow. It
was hard to make Juanita understand the situation, and the necessity of
parting; but when she had once comprehended that she was to be
abandoned--a fate which, to her, meant simply to be thrust out on the
desert and left to die--the Indian blood flowed faster in her veins, and
rose tumultuously against the fair-faced image that her heart had
worshipped. What was life to her with the light and warmth gone out of
it? He was leaving her to die; and die she would.
When the little cavalcade, ready and equipped for the march, was about
to leave the camp, Juanita was nowhere to be found. For hours the
captain sought her in every nook they had explored together, and called
her by every endearing name his fancy had created for her. Juanita's
pony was gone from his accustomed place, and he knew it would be useless
to await her return. Captain Castleton was not a coward; the searching
glances he sent into every _cañon_ they passed, and among the sparse
trees on their road, were directed by the burning desire to meet the
dearly loved form once more; but they would not have quaked had the
arrow Juanita knew so well to speed, sank into his heart instead.