again crossed the desert, with only three men as escort. I had heard
nothing from either Mrs. Arnold or the Captain in all this time, for our
post was farther out than theirs; indeed, so far out that nothing
belonging to the same military department passed by that way. It was
midsummer, and the dreary hills shutting in Fort Desolation, and running
down toward the river some distance back of the place, were baked hard
and black in the sun; the little stream that had meandered along through
the low inclosure of the fort in winter time was now a mere bed of
slime, and the plateaux, which had been levelled for the purpose of
erecting the Captain's house and the commissary buildings on them, could
not boast of a single spear of grass or any other sign of vegetation.
The Captain's house lay on the highest of these plateaux; lower down,
across the creek, were the quartermaster and commissary buildings (here,
too, were Lieutenant Rockdale's quarters); and to the left, on the other
side of the men's quarters, was the guard-house--part _jacal_, part
tent-cloth.
How _could_ any one live here and be happy? Black and bald the earth, as
far as the eye could reach; black and dingy the tents and the huts that
strewed the flat; murky and dark the ridge of fog that rose on the
unseen river; murky and silent the clefts in the rocks where the sun
left darkness forever.
It might have been the fading light of the waning day that cast the
peculiarly sombre shadow on the Captain's house as we drew up to it; but
I thought the same shadow must have fallen on the Captain's face, when
he appeared in the door to greet us. Presently Mrs. Arnold fluttered up
in white muslin and blue ribbons; and both did their best to make us
comfortable. How my husband felt, I don't know; but they did not succeed
in making me feel comfortable. Perhaps the absence of the bright fire
made the rooms look so dark, even after the lights had been brought
in--there was certainly a change. Supper was placed on the table, but I
missed Constantia's round face in the dining-room. In answer to my
question regarding her, I was told she had expressed so strong a desire
to return to the States that she had been sent to Fort ----, there to
await an opportunity to go in. Lieutenant Rockdale's absence I noticed
also. He did not mess with them any more, I was informed.
My attention was attracted to a conversation between Captain Arnold and
my husband. The guard-house, he told him, was at present occupied by two
individuals who had made their appearance at Fort Desolation several
days ago, and had tried to prevail on the Captain to sell them some of
the government horses, and arms and ammunition, offering liberal
payment, and promising secrecy. They were Americans; but as the number
of American settlers, or white settlers, in this country is so small, it
was easy for the Captain to determine that these were not of them, and
their dress and general appearance led him to suspect that they belonged
to that despicable class of white men who make common cause with the
Indian, in order to rob and plunder, and, if need be, murder, those of
their own race. Of course they had not made these proposals directly and
openly to the Captain--at first representing themselves as members of a
party of miners going to Pinos Altos; but they soon betrayed a
familiarity with the country which only years of roaming through it
could have given them. He had felt it his duty to arrest them at once,
but had handcuffed them only to-day, and meant to send them, under
strong escort, to Fort ----, where their regimental commander was
stationed, as soon as some of the men from the picket-posts could be
called in.
It was late when we arose from the supper-table, and the Captain and my
husband left us, to go down to the guard-house, while Mrs. Arnold led me
into the room where their bed stood. This room had but one window--of
which window the Captain was very proud. It was a _French_ window,
opening down to the ground. Throwing it open, Mrs. Arnold said:
"What a beautiful moon we have to-night; let us put out the candle and
enjoy the moonshine"--with which she laughingly extinguished the light,
and drew my chair to the window.
From where I sat I could just see the men's quarters and the
guard-house, though it might have been difficult from there to see the
window. We had not been seated long when I fancied I heard a noise, as
though of some one stealthily approaching from somewhere in the
direction to which my back was turned; then some one seemed to brush or
scrape against the outside wall of the house, behind me. "What's that?"
I asked in quick alarm. It had not remained a secret to Mrs. Arnold that
I was an unmitigated coward; so she arose, and saying, "How timid you
are!--it is the dog; but I will go and look," she stepped from the low
window to the ground outside, and vanished around the corner of the
house. Some time passed before she returned, and with a little shudder,
sprang to light the candle.
"How chilly it is getting," she exclaimed; and then continued, "it was
the dog we heard out there. Poor fellow; perhaps the cook had forgotten
him, so I gave him his supper."
Rising from my seat to close the window on her remark about the cold, I
stepped to the opposite side from where I had been sitting; and there,
crossing the planks that lay over the slimy creek, and going towards the
commissary buildings, was a man whose figure seemed familiar: I could
not be mistaken--it was Lieutenant Rockdale. No doubt the man had a
right to walk in any place he might choose; but, somehow, I could not
help bringing him in connection with "the dog, poor fellow," for whom
Mrs. Arnold had all at once felt such concern.
Soon the gentlemen returned, and we repaired to the parlor, where a
game of chess quickly made them inaccessible to our conversation. The
game was interrupted by a rap at the front door, and Harry, the sergeant
whom Mrs. Arnold had compelled to mount her black horse that day,
appeared on the threshold. In his face there was a change, too; his eyes
flashed with an unsteady light as he opened the door, and ever and
again, while addressing the Captain--whose thoughts were still half with
the game--his looks wandered over to where Mrs. Arnold sat. We were so
seated that the Captain's back was partly toward her when he turned to
the sergeant; and he could not see the quick gesture of impatience, or
interrogation, that Mrs. Arnold made as she caught the mulatto's eye.
Involuntarily, I glanced toward him--and saw the nod of assent, or
intelligence he gave in return.
The sergeant had come to report that the prisoners in the guard-house
had suddenly asked to see the Captain: they had disclosures to make to
him. When Captain Arnold returned, his face was flushed.
"The villains!" he burst out. "They had managed to hide about five
thousand dollars in United States bank-notes about them, when they were
searched for concealed weapons, and they just now offered it to me, if I
would let them escape. Not only that, but from something one of them
said, I have gained the certainty that they are implicated in the
massacre of the party of civilians that passed through here about two
months ago: you remember, the General ordered out a part of K company,
to rescue the one man who was supposed to have been taken prisoner. The
wretches! But I'll go myself, in the morning, to relieve the men from
picket-duty, and select the best from among them to take the scoundrels
to Santa Fé!"
When about to begin my toilet the next morning, I gave a start of
surprise. Was _that_ what had made the house look so dark and changed?
Before me stood a large tin wash-basin--of the kind that all common
mortals used out here--and the beautiful toilet-set of china, with its
splendors of gilt-edge and moss-roses, had all disappeared--all save the
soap-dish and hot-water pitcher, which were both defective, and looked
as though they had gone through a hard struggle for existence.
When our ambulance made the ascent of the little steep hill that hides
Fort Desolation from view, I saw three horses led from the stable to the
Captain's house--the Captain's horse and two others. He was as good as
his word, and before another day had passed, the two men penned up in
that tent there would be well on their way to meet justice and
retribution. A solitary guard, with ebony face and bayonet flashing in
the morning sun, was pacing back and forth by the tent; and walking
briskly from the commissary buildings toward the men's quarters, was
Harry, the mulatto sergeant.
From the first glance I had at Mrs. Kline's face, when we reached Fort
----, I knew that the mystery of the change at Fort Desolation would be
solved here. Constantia was there, and acting as cook in Dr. Kline's
family. She was an excellent cook, and we did ample justice to her skill
at suppertime. The gentlemen leaving the table to smoke their cigars,
Mrs. Kline and I settled down to another cup of tea and _médisance_.
From what Constantia had stated on coming to Fort ----, it would seem
that in some way Captain Arnold's suspicions had been aroused in regard
to the friendship of Lieutenant Rockdale for his wife. About two months
ago, he one day pretended to start off on a tour of inspection to the
picket-posts; but returned, late the same night, by a different road.
Stealing into the house through the kitchen, he had, rather
unceremoniously, entered the bed-room, where he found Lieutenant
Rockdale toasting his bare feet before the fire. Raising his carbine to
shoot the man, Mrs. Arnold had sprung forward, seized his arms and torn
the gun from him. In the confusion that followed, the toilet-set
referred to, and other articles of furniture, were demolished: but
Constantia, who had crept in after the Captain, to prevent mischief, if
possible, gave it as her opinion that Mrs. Arnold "had grit enough for
ten such men as him an' de leftenant."
"If you did but know the ingratitude of the creature," continued Mrs.
Kline, "and the devotion her husband has always shown her!" And she gave
me a brief sketch of her career: Married to Arnold just at the breaking
out of the war, and of poor parents, she had driven him almost to
distraction by her treatment, when thrown out of employment some time
after. At last he went into the Union forces as substitute--giving every
cent of the few hundred dollars he received to his wife, who spent it on
herself for finery. Later, when for bravery and good conduct he was made
lieutenant in a negro regiment, she joined her husband, and finally came
to the Territory with him. In their regiment, it was well known that he
had always blindly worshipped his wife; and that she had always ruled
him, his purse, and his company, with absolute power.
Before retiring for the night, we debated the question: Should we remain
the next day at Fort ----, or proceed on our journey? The mules needed
rest, as well as the horses, for the quartermaster could not furnish
fresh mules, which we had rather expected; still, my husband was anxious
to reach Santa Fé as soon as possible--and we left the question of our
departure where it was, to settle it the next morning at breakfast. The
news that came to Fort ----, before the next morning, made us forget our
journey--for that day, at least. Captain Arnold had been murdered! The
big, true-hearted man was lying at Fort Desolation--dead--with his
broken eyes staring up to the heaven that had not had pity on him--his
broad breast pierced with the bullet that a woman's treachery had sped!
Before daybreak, a detachment of six men had come in from Fort
Desolation to Fort ----, to report to the commander of their regiment
that Captain Arnold had been assassinated, and Sergeant Henry Tulliver
had deserted, taking with him one horse, two revolvers, and a carbine.
Captain Arnold had started out the morning before, with only two men, to
call in the picket-posts. An hour later, the two men had come dashing
back to the fort, stating that they had been attacked, and Captain
Arnold killed, by the two white men who had been confined in the
guard-house. It was ascertained then, for the first time, that the
prisoners had made their escape. A detachment of men was sent out with a
wagon, and the Captain's body brought in--the men, with their black
faces and simple hearts, gathered around it, with tears and
lamentations, heaping curses on the villains who had slain their kind
commander.
Suddenly a rumor had been spread among them that Harry, the sergeant,
had set the prisoners free; and instantly, a hundred hoarse voices were
shouting the mulatto's name--a hundred hands ready to take the traitor's
life. Vainly Lieutenant Rockdale--who, after the Captain's departure,
had at once repaired to his house--tried to check the confusion, that
was quickly ripening into mutiny: the excitement only increased, and
soon a crowd of black soldiers moved toward the men's quarters, with
anything but peaceful intentions. Perhaps Harry's conscience had warned
him of what would come, for while the mob were searching the quarters, a
lithe figure sprang over the planks across the creek, ran to the stables
below the Captain's house, and the next moment dashed over the road,
mounted on a wild-looking, black horse.
Could they but have reached him--the infuriated men, who sent yells and
carbine-balls after the fugitive--he would have been sacrificed by them
to the _manes_ of the murdered man; and perhaps this effect had been
calculated on, when the fact of his having liberated the prisoners had
been brought, to their ears.
"How did it come to their ears?" I asked of the Doctor, under whose care
one of the six men, overcome with fatigue and excitement, had been
placed. It seems that Mrs. Arnold had expressed her conviction of the
sergeant having liberated the prisoners to Lieutenant Rockdale in little
Fred's hearing, and the boy had innocently repeated the tale to the men.
In the afternoon of the same day, the detail had been made of the men
who brought the news to Fort ----; but when the detachment had been only
an hour or two on the way, they found the trail of the escaped
prisoners. The men could not withstand the temptation to make an effort,
at least, to recapture them. They knew them to be mounted, for the two
horses which Sergeant Tulliver had that morning separated from the herd
were missing; but the trail they followed showed the tracks of _three_
horses, which led them to suppose that Harry had found the men and
joined them.
But the trail led farther and farther from the road, and fearing to be
ambushed, they turned back, leaving the man who had been driven from the
companionship of his brethren by a woman's treachery, to become one of
the vultures that prey on their own kind.
_THE GENTLEMAN FROM SISKIYOU._
In Gilroy, when the sun lies hot and yellow on the roofs of the
frame-built houses and the wide meadows, waving with grain or cropped
short by herds of grazing cattle, the eye turns instinctively to the
mountains, where the dreamy mid-day atmosphere seems to gather coolness
from the dark woods that crown its summit.
"Over that way lie the Hot Springs," says one or the other, pointing out
the direction to the stranger who comes for the first time to Santa
Clara Valley.
If he wait till the early train of the Southern Pacific Railroad comes
in from San Francisco, he will see any number of passengers alighting at
the depot, whose dress and belongings speak of a residence in a place
somewhat larger and wealthier than the pretty little town of Gilroy.
After a comfortable dinner at either of the two hotels, carriages,
stages, and buggies are in readiness to convey those in search of either
health or pleasure on to the Springs.
It is too early in the season yet to feel much inconvenience from the
dust; and the drive through the precincts of what is called Old Gilroy
is a charming trip. The modest but cheerful houses are just within sight
of each other, separated by orchards, grainfields, vineyards; a grove of
white oaks here and there, a single live oak, and clumps of willow and
sycamore, make the landscape as pleasing as any in the country. Nearer
the first rise of the mountain, the view of grainfields, fenced in by
the same dry board fence, would become monotonous were it not for the
ever-fresh, ever-beautiful white oak that stands, sentinel-like,
scattered through the golden fields, its lower branches sometimes hidden
in the full-bearing garbs.
First we hardly notice that the road ascends; but soon, as the
foot-hills leave an open space, we can see a vast plain lying beneath
us, and then the climb begins in good earnest. "Round and round" the
hill it seems to go--a narrow road cut out of the long-resisting
rock--the wounds which the pick and shovel have made overgrown by
tender, pitying vines, that seek to hide the scars on the face of their
fostering mother. Trees high above us shake their leafy heads, and the
wild doves who have their nests in the green undergrowth, croon sadly
over the invasion of their quiet mountain home. Vain complainings of
tree and bird! When the eyes of man have once lighted on nature in her
wild, fresh beauty, they are never withdrawn, and they spare not the
bird on her nest, nor the tree in its pride.
Here opens a mountain valley before us, and, nestled in the shadow of
sycamore and alder, a cosy, home-like cot. The peach and grape-vine
cluster by the door; and where a rude tumble-down fence encloses the
fields, the Rose of Castile, the native child of California, creeps
picturesquely over the crumbling rails, and fills the air with its own
matchless fragrance. Bees are drawing honey from geranium and
gilli-pink, and the humming-bird, darting through space like a flash one
moment, hangs the next, with a quivering, rapturous kiss, in the petals
of the sweet-breathed honeysuckle.
Then the road winds higher, and the hills and rocks above grow steeper,
bearing aloft the laurel tree and manzanite bush, the madrone tree and
the poison ivy. There is not an inch of ground between the wheels of the
stage and the steep declivity; and once in a while a nervous passenger
of the male gender turns away with a shudder, while the female hides her
eyes in her veil or handkerchief, never heeding the sight of the bare,
bald crags, and the pine-covered heights far above and in the dreamy
distance.
As we enter the heart of the _cañon_, the rocky, vine-clad walls on
either side seem to reassure the nervous passenger and the half-fainting
lady; and the grade being very easy for quite a while, there is no more
lamentation heard till the horses dash full-speed through a laughing,
glittering mountain stream, the head-waters of the Cayote, throwing its
spray merrily in at the open window. Again and again the brook is
crossed, as it makes its quick, flashing way through blackberry clumps
and wild grape-vines, glancing up at sycamore and buckeye tree as it
hastens along. Suddenly the driver strikes one of the shining white
rocks on which the water breaks into foam, and then a general commotion
ensues in the stage, and before the passengers have settled back in
their original places, a soft, sad music seems to float toward us on the
air--the rustling of the gray-green pines that overhang the last rise in
the road, and shade so romantically the white cottages clinging to the
mountain-side, and built on the plateau that is crowned by the hotel and
gardens of the Gilroy Hot Springs.
The stage halts, and after shaking hands with the dozen friends one is
sure to find, and partaking of the dinner, which is consumed with
ravenous appetite after the drive of two or three hours, it is still
early enough for a walk to the Springs before the balmy moonlit night
sets in. The terrace-like walk, partly cut out, partly filled in on the
steep mountain-side, is overhung by hills rising again on hills; tiny
cottages peering out here, there, and everywhere, from out manzanite,
laurel and pine trees. Beneath, the mountain falls off into a deep,
narrow valley, clothed in luxuriant green, a towering mountain rising on
the other side.
There are thousands of silver trout in the streams in the valley; there
is an abundance of game in the wild, rugged, but beautiful mountains
back of and above the Springs. As in some cases, however, a horrid,
vicious-looking lamprey-eel has been found on the rod, instead of a
speckled-back trout, so in other cases have brave hunters returned from
the chase with blanched faces and reports of startling sights of huge
bears and California lions, instead of the tamer game they had expected
to bag.
"But it is delightful here for all that!" is the almost involuntary
exclamation of those who, on some bright June morning make their way
slowly, slowly--drinking their fill of nature, sunshine, and mountain
air--to the bubbling, hissing, seething Springs.
We hear this same remark just now from the midst of the group of ladies
who are making their way around the gentle curves of the terrace-walk to
the Springs; and as the words come from the lips of one who is to figure
as the heroine of our short but veracious story, we must take a closer
look at her, as she sweeps by, moving along with the rest, yet always a
little apart from them. She is carelessly swinging her hat by the
strings, and the sun, now and again, as they round some curve in the
road, kisses the auburn of her curls into ripples of golden bronze. The
_nonchalance_ expressed in air and carriage was affected, it was said,
and that she always knew what was going on around her, without ever
asking any questions.
"That gentleman has been devouring you with his eyes this last half
hour. I noticed him up at the house as we were getting ready to
start--and now he is here before us;" and fat, motherly Mrs. Bradshaw
laughed as only such large-framed, large-hearted people can laugh.
"I hope he finds me more palatable than the beefsteak we had this
morning--it was horribly tough."
"Are you speaking of the gentleman from Siskiyou?" asked the tall lady
with glasses, who was Miss Kingsley, and popularly supposed to be
getting up a book on "The Resources of California."
"No, of the beefsteak," quickly replied she of the auburn curls. Mrs.
Bradshaw nudged her very perceptibly, to which admonition she made
answer, _sotto voce_, "I hate old maids and blue-stockings."
Miss Kingsley had drawn herself up to her stateliest height: "I had
meant to inquire whether Mrs. Bradshaw was alluding to the gentleman
from Siskiyou?"
"Yes, dear; didn't you see how he kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Clayton,
before he turned away when he saw us laughing?"
"I did not observe. My opinion, however, if I may venture to express it,
is that Mrs. Clayton, with all her talent for subjugating mankind, will
hardly succeed in bringing that gentleman to her feet. This piece of
rock, I think, could be inspired with the tender passion just as soon."
"Oh! did he refuse that valuable information in regard to the resources
of California?" asked Mrs. Clayton, with mingled indignation and
concern.
Mrs. Bradshaw was bubbling over with laughter, while the rest of the
ladies shared her mirth more or less openly, according to the degree of
friendship entertained for Miss Kingsley.
When the party rounded the last bend near the spring, a tall, spare man,
conspicuous in a generous expanse of white shirt-bosom, and low,
stiff-brimmed hat, hastily laid down the drinking-cup, and moved out of
sight, making the circuit of the bath-houses in his anxiety to avoid the
advancing column of fair ones. Uncle George was on hand, as usual,
smilingly filling glasses and dippers with the boiling waters, trying
between whiles to answer the numerous questions propounded, mostly in
regard to the retreating form disappearing among the manzanite on the
hillside.