repeated, absently, a tear rolling from her lashes to her cheek. Her
words and the look in her eyes thrilled the man to his inmost soul.
"Dora," he said, and arrested the hand travelling over Bose's head;
"Dora, I am old enough to be your father--"
"Yes," she replied, looking up artlessly--but there was something in his
face that made her eyes drop and the warm blood flush her cheeks.
When he spoke again it was of something quite different, and after
awhile the conversation turned to her family. Her stepfather did not
always treat her well; he had struck her cruelly once, and her mother
dared not interfere, she knowing his temper but too well. George could
hardly keep from putting his arms about her to shield her from the man's
rough ways, and in his heart he vowed that it should be different if
Dora did but will it so. The stepfather and aunt had spoken of pulling
up stakes soon, but what wonder that Dora was averse to going?
In the evening George W. proposed to the stepfather that he remain at
the station and "farm it" near the river, while the mother kept house
for them all and served meals to the travelling public of Arizona. From
sheer perverseness the stepfather refused, saying that he wanted to go
on to California, and George W. determined to hasten matters in another
direction. He hovered as much as possible about Dora, who, since the day
by the riverside, had taken Bose into her confidence and affection.
Wherever she went the dog went, too, and his master augured well for
himself from this, though Dora was shy and more distant than when she
first came to Gila Bend.
One day the Texans commenced gathering up their "tricks" and making
ready to go. Dora's eyes were red, and George W., to cheer her, perhaps,
proposed that she should go with him to where he suspected one of the
hens had made a nest in the bushes by the river bank. When they came
back she seemed even more shy, though she stole up to him in the
twilight, where he stood by the big mesquite tree, and hastily put her
hands into his. He drew her to him quickly, pressed her head to his
breast, and murmured: "Thanks, my little girl!" as he touched her hair
with his lips. An hour later there was clamor and confusion at Gila
Bend. George W. seemed to have caused it all, for to him the aunt
vehemently declared that she _would_ have the girl to drive her ox-team
into California--she had hired her and paid for her; and the step-father
shouted that he had control of the child, and go she should, whether or
no.
Poor George passed a sleepless night. The picture of Dora, barefooted
and weary, toiling hopelessly through the sand on the desert, was always
before him, and he swore to himself that she should not go from him;
that he would shelter her henceforth from the cruel, burning sun, and
the sharp words and sharper blows of her stepfather. In the morning,
after exacting a promise from the aunt and the stepfather to remain
until he returned, he started out alone on his trusty horse, Bose
running close by his side. When he had left the shelter of the trees, he
halted and looked keenly about him in every direction. A sharp bark from
Bose made him turn toward the river. Swift of foot as the antelope of
the plains, Dora was crossing the stretch of land between the road and
the river, and when she reached the lone horseman waiting for her, a
light bound brought her foot into the stirrup and her flushed face on a
level with his.
"Thanks, my little girl, I knew you would come," he said, as on the
night before; but this time he held her face between his hands and
looked searchingly into her eyes. "What if they should try to take my
little girl away before I come back--would she go off and leave me?"
She met his look fearlessly and confidingly. "Tell me what direction you
are going, and I will run away and follow you, if they break up before
your return."
"Toward Fort Yuma. I shall ride day and night, and return to you in ten
days. Good-bye; keep faith and keep courage."
"Good-bye!" for the first time the soft, bare arms were laid around his
neck, and the blushing, child-like face half-buried in his full black
beard. "Let me keep Bose here," she called after him, and at a word from
his master, the dog sped after her over the cactus-covered ground.
At Gila Bend, preparations for departure on George's return were kept on
foot--purposely, it seemed, to keep before Dora's eyes the fact that she
was expected to go with her people when they went. The days passed, one
like the other; there was no event to break the monotony of this
desert-life. Yes, there was a change; but none knew of it nor perceived
it, except, perhaps, Dora's mother. From a thoughtless, easily-guided
girl, Dora was changing into a self-reliant, strong-spirited woman. Her
mother knew of her resolve as well as though she had heard her utter it;
she looked upon her eldest-born with all the greater pride when she
discovered that "the gal had a heap of her dad's grit," as well as his
mild blue eyes.
When the morning of the tenth day dawned, Dora was up betimes, mending,
with deft fingers, all the little rents she could find, in her thin,
well-worn dress. Never before had she felt that she was poor, or that
she wanted more than the simple gown and the limp sun-bonnet making up
her attire.
"Moving" had been their permanent state and normal condition as long as
she could think back; and she had known mostly only those who lived in
the same condition. She had never seen town or city; yet, in the
settlements through which they had passed, she had seen enough of
backwoods finery to know that her wardrobe was scantily furnished. At
last, one by one, the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and she leaned
her head on the edge of the bed where her sister lay still asleep, and
sobbed till Sis woke up and looked at her with wondering eyes.
In the course of the day, Dora went to the river two or three times,
Bose always close at her heels. Whatever may have been the character of
the mysterious consultations they held, in the afternoon the dog was
missing until near sundown, when he dashed into the station, panting and
with protruding tongue, his tail wagging excitedly while lapping up the
water Dora had filled his basin with. Unobserved she stole away, and
when quite a distance from the house, Bose came tearing through the
cactus after her, "pointing" in the direction from where a light dust
arose. The little cloud came nearer, and soon a horseman could be
discovered in it. A race began between Dora and the dog, and when the
different parties met, Bose was fain to leap up and salute the horse's
face, because the rider was otherwise engaged. When Dora was perched in
front of him, the horse continued the journey in a slow walk, while the
girl looked the question she was too timid to ask. George answered her
look: "Yes, darling, I think your aunt will be satisfied."
"Then you have brought a man?" Her curiosity had conquered, for she
could see no human being beside themselves.
"I have." His laugh made her shrink a little--like the _mimosa
sensitiva_, when touched by ever so dainty a finger--and, he added,
soberly, "Two of them. One is the station-keeper at Kenyon's Station.
Their wagon will come into sight directly; but I don't want them to see
my little girl out here with me."
An hour afterward a heavily laden wagon, drawn by two stout horses, was
rolling into Gila Bend, followed by Mr. George W., mounted on Bess. A
pleasant welcome was extended by all to the new arrivals; even Bose, the
hypocrite, barked and capered and flounced his tail as though he hadn't
greeted his master, two miles down the road, a little while ago. Supper
was served by the mother and aunt--this latter lady being narrowly but
furtively watched by the station-keeper of Kenyon's Station. All
thoughts of business or departure seemed banished for that night. The
aunt and the newly-come station-keeper enjoying their pipe in quiet
harmony, a little apart from the rest, so much taken up with each other
that the second man was left entirely to the family. The next morning
this second man was offered to the aunt by George W. as a substitute for
Dora; but, as the Kenyon's station-keeper had offered himself to her as
a husband, earlier in the day, the substitute was declined. Neither
George nor the second man, however, seemed put out about it. Indeed,
there was something suspicious about the readiness with which he went to
work on the half-finished corral building at the station. The aunt and
the stepfather did not seem to notice this. Only the mother thought her
own thoughts about it.
Later in the day, when the father and the brother were with the man at
the corral, the aunt with her station-keeper, and Sis thoughtfully kept
employed by her mother, Dora found a chance to steal out to the wagon,
where George was waiting for her. From under the wagon sheet he drew two
or three bundles, which, on being opened, contained what Dora thought
the finest display of dry-goods she had ever seen. Lost in admiration,
her face suddenly fell, and a queer, unexplained sense of something
painful or humiliating jarred on her feelings when several pairs of
ladies' shoes and numerous pairs of stockings made their appearance from
out of one of the bundles. She drew back, hurt and abashed, and when
George asked--
"But, Dora, don't you like your finery? I thought you liked pink. Isn't
this dress pretty?"
She answered confusedly, "I--I didn't know they were for me--and
besides--I can't take them. I know I am a poor--ignorant girl--but--" a
sob finished the sentence as she turned to go to the house.
But she did not go. I don't know what George W. said to her while he
held her close to him. It was something about his right to buy finery
for his little wife, and the like nonsense, which Dora did not repeat to
Sis when she presented to her a dress of the brightest possible scarlet.
That night they all sat out under the trees together. There was no more
reserve or secrecy maintained. A dozen papers of the choicest brands of
tobacco and half a dozen bottles of "Colorado river water," from Fort
Yuma, had wonderfully mollified the stepfather. The mother would have
been happy, even without the indigo-blue dress that fell to her share,
and Buddy was radiant in new suspenders and a white store shirt. As soon
as possible a Justice of the Peace was imported from Arizona City, to
which place he was faithfully returned, after having made two happy
couples at Gila Bend.
Many months after, on my way back from Tucson, we came quite
unexpectedly, between the latter place and Sacaton, on a new shanty. It
was built of unhewn logs of cottonwood and mesquite trees, the branches,
with their withered foliage, furnishing the roof. A certain cheerful,
home-like air about the place made me surmise the presence of a woman.
I was not mistaken; for though the only door of the hut was closed, and
I could see no window, a loud but pleasant treble voice rang out
directly: "Dad! Bud! come right h'yere to me. I know that's her comin'
thar--I jist know it is," and a little lithe body rushed out of the door
and up to the ambulance, as though she meant to take wagon, mules, and
all by storm. A rough-looking man came slowly from behind the house, and
Bud, with a selection of dogs at his heels, clambered over a piece of
fence--merely for the sake of climbing, as there was plenty of open
space to cross.
The delegation insisted on my alighting, which I did in consideration of
Dora's mother being at the head of it. The family had moved back here
from Oatman's Flat, where they had given Sam his Indian scare on our way
out. Once in the house I no longer wondered how she had discovered the
ambulance, with the door closed and no windows in the house. The walls
had not been "chinked," so that between the logs was admitted as much
light and air as the most fastidious could desire. All around were the
signs of busy preparation. It was near Christmas, and they were
expecting company for the holidays--a family moving from Texas to
California had sent word by some vehicle swifter than their ox-teams
that they would be with them by Christmas-day.
Though the house contained but this one airy room, it was neat and well
kept. Just outside the door there were two Dutch ovens, and this was the
kitchen. Beyond the half-fenced clearing the willows and cottonwoods
grew close by the river, and the mild December sun of Arizona lying on
the rude homestead seemed to give promise of future peace and well-doing
to these who had planted their roof-tree on the banks of the Gila.
The mother sent her love and a fresh-baked cake by us to her daughter. A
loaf of the same cake was given to me, and I can say that it tasted
better than what I have often eaten at well-set tables, though there was
no cow to furnish milk or butter, and only a few chickens to lay eggs.
At Gila Bend, you remember, they had chickens, too; and when I got out
of the ambulance there some days later, I stopped to admire a brood of
little chicks just out of the shell.
"How pretty they are," said I, looking up into George W.'s honest face.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up, "but go inside, to Dora."
He led the way to the room, and there, in a little cradle, lay a sweet,
pretty girl-baby--the first white child, so far as history records, that
was ever born at Gila Bend.
_A LADY IN CAMP._
Camp "Andrew Jackson," in the southern part of Arizona, had not always
been without that brightest star on the horizon of an army officer's
outpost life, "A lady in camp." If you happened to be of sufficiently
good social standing, and clever fellow enough to be received and
entertained by the officers of the One Hundred and First Cavalry--which
had long garrisoned Camp Andrew Jackson--one or the other of them might
tell you, confidentially, lounging in a quartermaster-made chair under
the _ramáda_ of the sutler-store, as far as he knew it, the story of
this lady.
Camp Andrew Jackson was a two-company post; and the officers of both
companies, or the number remaining--after a liberal deduction by
detached service, furlough, and sick-list--had congregated one day,
years ago, to discuss the chances of the major's arrival in the course
of the night or the following day. The place of congregating was the
sutler-store, or the _ramáda_ in front of it; time, between "stables"
and "retreat."
"Don't I tell you," asserted young Grumpet, in his most emphatic manner,
"don't I tell you that when I was in Tucson, the general told me that he
should not be able to let the major have more than five men and a
corporal for escort from Tucson out here; and do you think that Major
Stanford, with that young wife of his--a shining mark for Apache
arrows--would venture on the road, in broad daylight, with this small
number? No, indeed. I tell you he'll start out from Tucson about this
time, reach Davidson's Springs at midnight, and get in here toward
morning in good order and condition."
"Seems to me I shouldn't be afraid to start out from Tucson, and go
anywhere in broad daylight, with _my_ wife," said old Captain Manson,
the post-commander, grimly.
An amused expression passed over the faces of the younger officers;
everybody in camp knew, from hearsay, if not from personal observation,
that the captain and his wife lived like "cats and dogs" when they were
together, and that he would probably have let _her_ go out from Tucson
anywhere, in broad daylight and all alone, without the slightest fear or
compunction, had she been in Arizona.
"For my part," continued Mr. Grumpet, who had been assigned to the One
Hundred and First, and ordered to Arizona immediately after graduating
from West Point, one year ago, "I shall be rejoiced to welcome a lady to
the camp. One grows rusty at these outposts in the course of years,
without the refining influence of ladies' society--without opportunities
of any kind for cultivating and improving one's intellect and manners."
"The One Hundred and First has always had an excellent library,
embracing books suited to a wide range of capacities and intellect, from
a 'First Reader' to 'Corinne' and the 'Cosmos.' And, as far as
_tournure_ and manners are concerned," continued the gruff captain in a
lower tone, and turning to the post-adjutant beside him, "why, I'm sure
the doctor and I have made Chesterfieldian prodigies of Tom, the pup;
Bruin, the grizzly; and Chatter, the parrot!"
From the laugh that followed, the junior lieutenant of Company "F" knew
that something had been said to create this merriment at his expense;
but he consoled himself with the thought that "old Manson" felt sore
because Major Stanford would relieve him in the command of the post, and
probably make him (Grumpet) post-adjutant, as he belonged to the
major's company. Left in command of Company "F" by the senior
lieutenant's absence, and officer of the day at the same time, Mr.
Grumpet felt that he had no more time to devote to this class of
mortals; so, bidding them a disdainful "_Adieu_," he proceeded to his
own quarters, where he arranged sash, sabre, and belt to the greatest
advantage on his sprightly person, and then awaited the summons to the
parade-ground.
Whatever his meditations might have been, as his eyes wandered over the
interminable sand-waste before him, they were interrupted by the
spectacle of a cloud of dust arising in the distance. Quickly returning
to his brother officers, he called their attention to this phenomenon.
"If it is not a smoke that the Indians are raising for a signal, it must
be the major with his party," was Captain Manson's opinion.
To Mr. Grumpet's infinite disgust he could not find time to argue this
question with his superior officer, for the arbitrary tones of the bugle
called him to the parade-ground, and when he next found time to
contemplate the landscape, the major's outfit was already in sight and
slowly nearing the camp.
There is nothing martial in the appearance and progress of a military
"outfit," unless accompanied by a command: the rough, gaunt mules
drawing the dust-covered ambulance or carriage, followed, as the case
may be, by one, two, or three heavy army-wagons; the jaded, worn horses
of the escort, and the tired-looking, travel-stained men forming the
escort, make a decidedly demoralized and demoralizing impression toward
the close of a long journey.
The two occupants of the elegant travelling-carriage accompanying this
train were in a state of involuntary _déshabillé_, owing to the
sand-storm through which they had passed early that morning, during
which the major's hat and a number of Mrs. Stanford's veils and wraps
had taken to flight. Marcelita alone, seated beside the driver in the
front of the carriage, had sustained no losses; as her _rebozo_, the
only outside garment she possessed, had been so tightly wrapped around
her that the storm had vented its fury in vain on her belongings.
Marcelita was one of those moon-faced, good-natured Mexican women we
meet with in New Mexico and Arizona. She had probably decided in her own
mind--though it was not very deep--that it was just as easy to smoke her
_cigarritos_ lounging on the floor of the _adobe_ quarters of Camp
Andrew Jackson, earning thereby _dos reales_ per day, and a
never-failing supply of _frijoles con carne_, as it was to perform the
same amount of labor in Tucson, where nothing could be earned by it, and
the supplies of the dainties just mentioned were by no means certain or
unfailing. So Marcelita became Mrs. Stanford's maid. "Tiring-maid," I
should have said; only I am very certain Marcelita would have drawn Mrs.
Stanford's stockings on her arms, and one of the richly embroidered
petticoats _over_ the plainer-made dresses, had the attiring been left
to the taste and judgment of this dusky child of the soil.
Captain Manson alone greeted the major and his wife when the train drew
up at the commanding officer's quarters, the younger officers discreetly
awaiting the morrow to pay their respects. In accordance with true "army
spirit," Major Stanford's quarters had been furnished with the best Camp
Andrew Jackson could boast of, in the way of household goods and
furniture, when it had become known that he was to bring a young wife to
camp. Not the officers of the army alone possess this knightly spirit;
every soldier in the command is always ready and willing to part with
the best and dearest in his possession, to contribute to the comfort or
pleasure of "the lady in camp." Major Stanford had not been with his
company since the close of the war; still, when the captain courteously
inquired whether there was any particular individual in the company whom
he would prefer to take into his personal service, the major requested
that Holly--who had already been an old soldier, while the major was
cadet at West Point--might be sent him.
Holly demonstrated his joy at being thus distinguished by his "old
lieutenant;" and on returning to the men's quarters had so much to say
about the beauty, grace, and goodness of the major's wife, that the men
immediately grew enthusiastic, and before tattoo obtained the
sergeant-major's permission to serenade this first lady in Camp Andrew
Jackson, providing a sufficient number of instruments could be found.
And Mrs. Stanford was awakened from her early slumbers by "music," the
first night she spent in this camp.
There are always a number of tolerable musicians to be found among
almost any body of soldiers. The One Hundred and First had always been
celebrated for the musical talent in the rank and file of its members;
and though the Graces and the Muses had been somewhat neglected of late
years, they threatened now to take possession of every individual man,
with truly alarming fervor. Indeed, Mrs. Stanford's life was made very
pleasant at this dreaded outpost in Arizona--albeit in a little,
cheerless room, with mud walls and mud floor, carpeted half with soldier
blankets half with old tent-cloth. A washstand of painted pine-wood, and
a table of the same material in its native color; a bench to match; one
or two camp-chairs, and a camp-cot with red blanket--representing a
sofa--made up and completed the _ameublement_ of Mrs. Stanford's best
room. But there were red calico curtains at the little windows, and a
bright rug upon the table; and books, and the thousand little
_souvenirs_ and pretty trifles always to be found in a lady's
possession, were drawn out of trunks and boxes, and other hiding-places,
to give the room a civilized aspect.
Still, it was not pleasant in this close-built room, with the door
shut; and open, the sand and reptiles drifted in promiscuously. It
became one of Marcelita's chief duties, in time, to examine the nooks
and corners of the apartment before closing the door for the night, to
make sure that no intrusive rattlesnake had sought admittance, and to
shake up pillows and blankets before her mistress retired, to see that
neither centipede nor tarantula shared her couch. Otherwise it was
tolerable; even young Grumpet was agreeable, though he had not been made
post-adjutant, but he was Mrs. Stanford's most favored escort in her
rides, and that made up for all other losses and disappointments.
The country was not altogether a howling wilderness, either; though the
road that passed close by the major's quarters led into the most
desolate, the most Indian-ridden part of all Arizona, still, at a point
where the road made a sudden fall, a narrow path branched off, and ran
immediately into a little valley, where grass and wild flowers were kept
fresh and blooming, by the spring at the foot of the hill. It was an
oasis such as is frequently found in Arizona, more particularly at the
foot of the mountain ranges; and to this spot Mrs. Stanford, accompanied
by the major, Marcelita, or some one of the gentlemen, often bent her
steps, at times when no Indians were apprehended in the vicinity of the
post. The evenings at the garrison were dedicated to quiet games of
whist, or interchange of the various news of the day. On Tuesdays, these
conversations were liveliest; for the mail came in from Tucson on that
day, and letters from the different outposts and the East were received
and discussed.