THE CAMP IN THE WILLOWS.
The most difficult portions of the journey would be encountered the
first day over the numerous ridges of barren waste intervening between
Rock Creek and the high divide. Old Joe shook his head in uncertain
manner when Jack asserted his confidence in being able to follow after
Colorow. Yamanatz nodded in assent at the dangers confronted by the
dilemma of Jack's unfamiliarity with the trail, and then in that
portentous monosyllabic manner of Indians in brief words conveying whole
paragraphs of information but adding to the dismal forebodings, said:
"White man all right. Plenty sign when trail in big woods. Heap sign on
big trees. Come big open, no trees, no sign; one look, two look, three
look, all same. All snow, no trail, no tree. Get lost; sundown, no fire,
no camp. White man cold. Pretty soon sleep; fall off pony; sleep long
time."
Then Jack knew that "three looks" would carry him from the top of one
high hill to the top of another, as far as the eye could reach to the
horizon, into a country absolutely treeless, and where even an Indian
would be lost if he had never been shown the trail. To attempt the trip
alone would be sheer madness and only result in that subtle overpowering
sleep into eternity--death by freezing.
Yamanatz stopped speaking for a moment to give his hearers ample time to
fully understand him, then continued: "White man sabe? Colorow gone one
sleep, mebbe so not make 'em Gore range. White man catch 'em pony
tomorrow. Two sleeps before can take 'em trail to follow Colorow, sabe?
Colorow mebbe so come back meet 'em white man. Colorow then heap mad, no
get 'em flour, bacon. Colorow, Antelope, Bennett all heap hungry. White
man no got 'em big gun; little gun not much good, mebbe so?" and
Yamanatz lapsed into silence.
There was no need to ask anything more. The cunning old warrior knew
only too well the fate that awaited Jack if Colorow and his ugly
renegade Indians should fail to get through to Sulphur Springs and had
to return empty handed to Rock Creek. Old Joe knew, too, that his own
safety would be problematical, even with his years of familiarity with
the whole Ute tribe. The gloom that settled over them was full of
foreboding. Each one was striving to hatch out a plan that would dispel
the dangers now besetting Jack's safety.
It was useless to think of old Joe attempting the trip with Jack, and
Yamanatz made no sign of being willing to assume the role of guide. At
last as Jack was about to abandon all hope, Chiquita arose and, crossing
over to where Jack was, bid him to be of good cheer.
Pointing to the stars, she said: "What Yamanatz has said is in the sky.
The Great Spirit who watches over the Indian maiden has told Chiquita to
lead the white man that he may go to meet his white brothers. Chiquita
knows the trail. Chiquita is not afraid. It is but one moon since
Chiquita's pony did paw the deep snow and carry Chiquita on the big
divide to meet the Ute braves coming from the Grand River. One sleep,
and the white man Jack must get his ponies, and two sleeps before the
sun shall show on top of the high mountain. Chiquita will be ready at
the tepee of Yamanatz to lead the white man over big divide, where make
'em one camp for Chiquita and one camp for white man Jack. One sleep and
Chiquita say adios to white man, then come back Indian village on same
day. White man go to his white brothers on Troublesome, then go long way
Denver City."
Here was a dilemma that confronted Jack, even more embarrassing than
anything yet thrown in his path--the would-be leader of the select four
hundred at White River acting as guide over a wild country, to say
nothing of a one-night camp among the willows at the edge of some little
creek. It must have amused him to a great degree, for, serious as it
was, a smile lurked around the corners of his mouth, causing Chiquita to
become a little disdainful, as an Indian is very sensitive to ridicule,
but Jack quickly relinquished the comical side of the question and his
features again became as grave as those of old Yamanatz. Old Joe was the
first to speak:
"The Injun gal is made of the right stuff and will pilot yer to ther
right place, an' she can take care of herself goin' an' comin'. I've
seen her throw that knife in her belt twenty feet as straight as yer can
shoot a bullet outen that six-shooter of your'n."
Then the old Ute spoke:
"Chiquita all same Yamanatz show 'em trail to white man. White man
sabe?"
Jack could do nothing but take Chiquita's hands in his own and bow his
humblest thanks. It occurred to him he had an old sealskin cap in his
war bag and that it might please the dusky maiden. He soon produced it
and, with another friendly greeting, presented it to her. It was lined
with bright red silk, and she proceeded to put it on with the silk on
the outside, to which Jack made no remonstrance. Although it made him
bite his tongue, he did not "crack a smile."
Yamanatz and Chiquita immediately started on the trail for the Indian
village. It was ten o'clock. After a chat with Joe they both turned into
the bunk, Jack to dream of home, sheets and pillowcases, barber shops,
chinaware and a real live dining-room table. It took all next day and
far into the night to get his Ute ponies in readiness for Tuesday's long
journey, but at last the packs were made up. Three days' supply for two,
of bread, bacon, tea and coffee, were made into a convenient bundle, to
be rolled into the blankets, which would in turn be strapped behind
Jack's saddle. All the other paraphernalia--Indian moccasins, buckskin
shirts, beaded tobacco bags and a real Ute war bonnet, with lots of
pipes, elk teeth, bears' claws, arrow heads and Jack's clothing--were
packed in rubber blankets, canvas covers and grain bags, ready for the
pack-saddle on the other pony.
It was just daybreak when Jack bid the old Rock Creek camp farewell,
leaving it to be put in shape by old Joe, who had helped the young man
from the far east in his preparations. Old Joe did not waste words in
his good-bye speech, but there was at least a perceptible tremor in his
voice and a decided reluctance in withdrawing his hand after the adios
shake. The Indian village was reached at exactly sunrise, and as a
chorus of yelping dogs greeted the arrival of the ponies, a few squaws
poked their heads out of the tepees, nodding a salute of recognition to
Jack. Chiquita was ready to mount her pony as soon as Jack gave her the
word. He had tightened the diamond hitch on the pack pony and his own
saddle girth preparatory for a long lope over the sage-brush flat that
extended from the Indian village across the small mesa at the foot of
the first hills, which form the steps of the high divide. Chiquita,
dressed in her buckskin shirt, skirt, leggings and moccasins heavily
trimmed with beads, quickly sprang into her saddle and pulled the
blanket up around her shoulders Indian fashion. Her hair hung in heavy
braids at either side of her cheeks, while the sealskin cap with showy
red silk lining crowned her head. Into the peak of the cap she had
thrust an immense eagle feather. The chorus of yelping dogs again took
part in the ceremony attending their departure. As they ascended the
first bench several blacktail deer ran directly across their
path--beautiful animals that cleared the sage brush in graceful, easy
bounds, looking first to the right and then to the left, as much as to
say, "Come on, I'm ready."
It was noon when the last long snow-covered ridge lay behind them. For
two hours it had been a battle with snowdrift after snowdrift. The trail
cut by the Colorow Indian ponies had been filled by the wind with
drifting snow until not a sign was left. Parapets of snow ten feet high
were encountered, which had to be cut and the trail again located by
Chiquita. First one pony would take the lead and, reared on his hind
feet, paw the snow down beneath him, while the next in line trampled it
a second time, until a cut was formed at a low point in that endless
chain of banks stretching for miles in either direction. Towering forty
feet in the air were mountains of the same dazzling white, which had to
be circled, sometimes leaving the trail to the right or left for a mile.
At times these detours were made only to be retraced because of the
impassable blockades rising in sheer precipices, and once the trail
opened by these detours was found to be refilled within an hour, so
fierce was that icy blast, blowing its wanton breath in seeming malice
against the weary beasts and their equally weary riders.
Jack had tramped snow for the ponies on many occasions when they refused
to move. Chiquita had lent her encouragement time and again as Jack
seemed ready to abandon the trip, but at last behind them towered the
top of the big divide, on whose crest ran a snow bank higher than any
before encountered. Giving a few moments' rest to the panting ponies,
Jack took the lead, for now the trail was easily discernible and
followed without a break, down, down, over and through a few more banks
of that mealy substance, affording neither footing nor shelter for man
or beast, until the warm forests of pine once more protected them from
the frightful cold.
At the first convenient spot Jack cleared away the snow from a huge rock
and soon had a cheerful fire roaring, which furnished warmth to their
numbed bodies; then from his tin cup in which snow was melted he brewed
a refreshing draught of tea, which, with a bite of frozen bread thawed
out on the hot rock, appeased their hunger for the time being. By the
aid of a pocket thermometer Jack ascertained the temperature to be 36
degrees below zero. The sky was clear, but even at the edge of the
timber a thousand feet below that terrible snow-turreted ridge the wind
screamed in its fury and pierced the heavy garments and blankets within
which Chiquita and Jack were encased. The ponies humped their backs at
the lee side of the fire and seemed grateful for a few mouthsful of
smoke in lieu of a wisp of dry buffalo grass. Conversation was almost
impossible, as words were not audible three feet distant. Both were too
numb to talk, and it was difficult even to eat. The half hour at an end,
Jack struck into the trail, leading his pony. Chiquita had not
dismounted since leaving the Indian village, and was getting pretty
stiff with cold. At the end of another half hour she managed to make
Jack hear her, and after considerable trouble he found a log by the side
of the trail, where she could stand and swing first one leg and then the
other to restore circulation. After ten minutes' vigorous exercise she
remounted, and the little procession again started through the down
timber.
They had reached a portion of heavy forest that had been ravaged by
timber fires. Miles and miles of immense trees lay in chaotic confusion.
Tall spires of limbless bark-burned pines stretched eighty, one hundred
and even a hundred and fifty feet skyward, the weather-beaten trunks
white with the storm-scouring of years. Through this desolate stretch of
ghostyard (a veritable birthplace for spooks and goblins, the terror of
that docile animal known as the Rocky Mountain canary, but usually
called a jackass) the party moved in silent Indian trot, each step
taking them nearer and nearer the warmer region of cedar, pinon and sage
brush, through groves of quaking asps, whose leaves in the summer time
never cease their eternal and restless quiver and upon whose smooth
trunks were Indian signs galore. On the larger and older trees could be
found those subtle knifecuts, conveying intelligence through
representations of chickens, horses, snakes, hatchets, knives, guns,
arrows and other characters which in the past had warned of the
approaching enemy or told of the chase, of the success or the defeat not
only of Utes, but of Sioux, Apaches, Arapahoes and Kiowas. Many an hour
had Jack spent in studying these trees which are scattered over the
Rocky Mountain region, bearing whole histories, trees generally found
within an altitude of 6,000 to 8,000 feet above sea level.
It was not long after passing through this belt that they came to the
south hillsides, whose slopes were free from snow and where the runways
for deer, elk and mountain sheep became more and more numerous. Stocky
little cedar trees stretched forth their long arms over the trail,
sending forth fragrance of lead-pencils and giving a slap on the face if
the rider neglected to duck in season to avoid the branch. Entering a
sage-brush covered mesa, immense jack-rabbits bounded hither and
thither, sage hens flew up with a whir of their wings and the shrill
scream of an eagle greeted their ears as if to warn them against
entering his domain. As the trail led them nearer and nearer to the
banks of a good sized creek the ponies became restive, and finally the
pack animal resorted to that well-known method of suggesting that it was
time to make camp by "bucking"--not a stop in the bucking process until
blankets, bags and bundles were scattered for a mile over the sage-brush
flat. It was an hour's work for both Jack and Chiquita to get the
plunder together and again pack it on the refractory cayuse, and it was
all the more aggravating, as it was only a couple of miles from the spot
selected for camp.
Arriving at a bend in the creek--rather it was a fair sized river--they
proceeded to make the best of everything at their command. There was a
space along the edge of the river about two hundred feet wide, covered
here and there with wild rye, at the roots of which was dried buffalo
grass. This strip of land ran back to a canon wall, a precipice some
forty feet high, sheer and without foothold for even a wildcat. Thick
willows grew along the base of this wall, and it was but a few minutes
after the ponies were relieved of their saddles ere Jack had selected
two favorable spots which would afford reasonably good beds, one for
Chiquita and one for himself. Cutting away the willows up to the wall in
a narrow space just big enough for one to lie down, and forming a
mattress of others occupied but a little time. Meanwhile, Chiquita had
brought driftwood and dry sticks until an immense pile of fuel was in
readiness for the long night. The ponies were picketed, one on each side
of the camp and the third one close to the edge of the stream, forming a
guard past which no wild animal would attempt to go. It was now dark and
the ponies were foraging for buffalo grass, while Jack toasted some
bacon on a stick, made coffee in an old baked-bean can, which he had
thoughtfully tied to the pack-saddle, and toasted the frozen bread on a
hot rock. During the early dusk the mew of a plaintive camp bird gave
notice that that mountain sentinel was at hand, and the handsome
gray-coated camp follower would spread his black-tipped wings and fly
down to the edge of the fire, looking for crumbs and refuse of the
"kitchen." Chiquita gave him a few morsels, but there was little to
spare from the stock at hand.
After they had satisfied their hunger Jack and Chiquita settled
themselves for a long talk. It was the first opportunity that had been
presented since old Joe and Yamanatz interrupted them the Sunday before
after the six-course banquet Jack had given his eastern friends by
proxy.
The ponies tugged at their picket ropes, wandering around in search of
overlooked patches of grass. Occasionally a wolf howl mournfully
awakened the stillness of the gathering darkness, to be answered by
others of the same species, each animal in the common quest of something
to eat, and all probably attracted by the camp fire and its attendant
odors.
A first-quarter moon shed its cold, silvery light on the drama at the
base of the precipitous rock. The air was crisp and still. The splashing
stream dashing its burden along the confines of its narrow channel to
the Pacific Ocean was the orchestra, keeping in touch with the scene,
staged by no artificial hand and curtained by the star-spangled canopy
of night. The camp fire sent showers of sparks far aloft and its warmth
unloosened the tense-drawn muscles, every one of which had been called
upon to its utmost capacity in the battles that the weary travelers had
encountered with the snowdrifts. Jack lay stretched upon the sand by the
fire, while Chiquita stood beside him. They had recounted the perils of
the day and had outlined their respective trips for the morrow--she to
face again the dangers of the divide and go back to the uneducated,
primitive life of the forest man, degraded by the deceits and intrigues
of the avaricious, land-grabbing representatives of schools, colleges
and institutions, proclaiming the law to be justice, he to face the
vicissitudes of an unknown trail, the possibility of meeting a murderous
band of these forest men while on his way back to that realm of advanced
civilization, educated to the highest degree of refinement of "doing"
others legally.
Both had remained silent for a long time after the exchanges of the
day's experiences. Jack wanted to express his gratitude to Chiquita for
her bravery and self-imposed task in conducting him over the trail, for
he now fully realized the certain death that awaited him had he
undertaken the trip alone. But he was not master of words that the
Indian maiden would understand in their fullest import, nor did he hope
to be able to convey by signs that which was uppermost in his mind.
It may be Chiquita read his thoughts, but was equally at loss to find
adequate words to impart any assistance. Finally, after many misgivings
as to what she might consider an ample word reward, he started in at
random:
"Chiquita sabe that she has been good to Jack?"
"Me no sabe, Senor."
Jack was nonplussed. In her he found the same ability to dissemble that
predominated in the well-known character of the first lady in the Garden
of Eden. He tried to recall some Spanish words that she might
understand, but none of the few which he essayed to use met with any
better reception.
"Chiquita heap brave," said Jack, to which she made no reply.
"Chiquita save Jack; make 'em glad Jack's heart. What Jack do to make
Chiquita's heart glad?"
He at last had struck the right chord, as her face beamed with a glad
response, but it brought questions causing a train of thought which made
him smile even at the risk of incurring her displeasure. To express
gratitude to an Indian requires much more diplomacy and skill than is
required under like circumstances in civilized communities.
"Would the fair-faced sister of the white man save Jack all same
Chiquita? Would the pale-face maiden bring firewood and sleep in willow
bed to save white man's life?"
Her eyes blazed in the consciousness of knowing that in the present age
on the American Continent no white woman had ever been put to a like
test. Whether she felt this intuitively or whether she had learned it
from the squaws who had visited the big cities as they recounted the
adoration extended by the male to the weaker sex as a part and parcel of
civilization, it matters not.
Jack knew that he was at as great a disadvantage in her presence as if
at the mercy of the divinest coquette in all of God's country. He
essayed to answer, but something restrained him. It was not fear; it was
not because he had his own misgivings on the subject, nor was it because
he had no ready reply. Nevertheless, he waited and in his mind he tried
to picture one of the belles of society bucking snow to save some
football graduate from death, or one sleeping in the open air, without a
chaperon, and a man in the same canon. What _would_ Mrs. Grundy
say? Of course he thought of the story by an eminent author where there
was a scuttled ship laden with gold, a clergyman and a rich man's
daughter cast upon an unknown island, and Jack acknowledged he had never
heard of Mrs. Grundy making unkind remarks about that tale. But that was
the result of accident, and mortuary tables classify accidental risks in
a category by themselves.
Chiquita had suggested the society belle who would voluntarily give up
half her estate for a real live, accidental romance that did not incur
too much danger. Would she leave her maid and steam radiator and in the
midst of a western blizzard sally forth to carry coal up three flights
of stairs to a poor, benighted student, and then sleep on the doormat,
for any reward there might be in store for her, either from a
consciousness of having performed a creditable act or because she loved
him?
Of course, Jack knew there was no occasion ever presented where a loving
young thing, just out of the sixth grade, had been called upon to carry
anything any more formidable than a bunch of roses to a sick friend, and
the modern equipages splashed only a little dirty water over roads well
kept from snowdrifts by indulgent taxpayers. Still, the question had
been asked, and he manfully determined to stand up for the fair ones
across the range.
"Si, Senorita Chiquita, the Indian maiden has said it. The pale-faced
sisters of Jack would save their white brothers--even their red brothers
and their black brothers. The fair sisters of the white man brave death
in many ways for their white brothers. See, Chiquita, the medicine tepee
of the white man is great as the high rock. It has many beds, more than
the number of all Yamanatz's ponies. The young man who makes the gun,
the maiden who makes the pretty cap mebbe so breaks the leg. Mebbe so
the big steam cars come together all in big smash--kill many, heap hurt
all. Then taken 'em to white man's medicine tepee. Medicine man tie up
head, arms, legs, and white maiden in medicine clothes, all clean dress,
white cap, red cross on the arm, give sick man medicine, wash sick man's
hands, feet; give little something to eat, sit beside 'em, feel of hot
head; stay all day, stay all night; watch 'em little blood knocks on the
wrist, count all same on little watch. Mebbe so one get well, go way,
good-bye. Mebbe so some die, go way too. Some more come bad hurt. Mebbe
so like mountain fever; mebbe so heap sick inside. Big medicine man
takes little knife, cut 'em all open, so. Cut out big chunk, mebbe so
little chunk, all same; sew 'em up again, so, sabe? White maiden stand
by, help big medicine man. 'Nother medicine man stand by give 'em heap
strong stuff on cloth, sabe? Sick man all same breathe 'em in, byme by
go sleep; no feel 'em knife. Big medicine man heap cut. Sick man no feel
all same. Byme by wake up. Heap sick now long time; mebbe get all well;
mebbe so one moon, mebbe so two moons; mebbe so die. All same pale face
maiden heap brave; save many white man like Jack."
Chiquita never took her eyes from Jack's countenance. That she fully
understood every phase of the hospital life as portrayed by him was
evident from the dilated nostril, the wide-open eyes and the tumultuous
heaving of the bosom through the heavy folds of her buckskin. She waited
a full two minutes after Jack had finished, and then in a voice just
above a whisper asked: "Will the white man Jack take Chiquita to see the
medicine tepee of the white people that she may see the fair white
sister in her medicine clothes?"
Jack little realized that he had touched the one chord in Chiquita's
character that she yearned to follow. The imaginings of her young life
had met with no sympathetic response. She revolted at the cruelty often
displayed by the warriors in the Indian village, and the atrocities
committed on captives while she was but a child were hideous
recollections.
Jack quickly replied: "When Jack comes back to go with Yamanatz to
Blazing-Eye-by-Big-Water then Chiquita will see big medicine tepee in
Denver City and the fair sister in her medicine clothes."
"Will Jack come back Rock Creek when beaver cut 'em big tree?" asked the
Indian girl.
Jack figured that April would be early enough, and even that would
require him to use snowshoes a great part of the distance. The Berthoud
pass would not be open until June, and he doubted if the snow would be
passable for ponies on the high divide they had just crossed, but the
Gore range could be crossed farther north and obviate the high ridge and
its deep snow.
"Jack will come back the first new moon after beaver begin cut. Will
Chiquita be in tepee near Pony Creek or White River?" He both answered
one question and asked another.
"Me no sabe where Chiquita then," she replied, in a rather sorrowful
tone, continuing: "Mebbe so all go to agency, mebbe so stay on Pony
Creek. White man no find Chiquita on Pony Creek, go all same agency find
'em Yamanatz. Where Yamanatz there Chiquita wait for white man Jack."
That being settled, Jack took the blankets and distributed them on the
willow beds. He then replenished the fire with some half-green logs
pulled from a pile of drift wood, examined the picket ropes of the
ponies and lit his pipe for another smoke. Chiquita wrapped herself in
her blanket, tucked herself into a big wildcat-skin bag, which made a
part of her bed on the willow branches, and was soon asleep.
Through the rings of smoke which curled from his pipe Jack sensed the
future, as a spiritualist would say, and, realizing that this would in
all probability be his last night of outdoor life for some time to come,
he was loath to close his eyes in sleep, shutting out the grand
retrospect of independence which a few months' experience on the
frontier had taught him--a life absolutely free from conventionalities,
police interference and taxes.
"No wonder," he soliloquized, "that the red man prefers the avenues of
the forest, the virgin plains of grass, the rugged canons running with
sparkling water, the smoke of his tepee fire and a starry dome for his
homestead, to the cobblestones, the plowed ground, the artificial goose
ponds, the greasy-surfaced rivers, the steam-heated, foul-smelling
hothoused monuments of man's industry and civilization."
The ponies snorted as though an intruder was lurking on the outskirts of
the camp. Jack kicked one of the smoldering logs and a shower of sparks
were borne upward into the dark night air. A few moments later and the
prowler's deep, dismal howl wafted along the river course, supplemented
by the short, snappy yelps of half a dozen coyotes. The interruption was
ended and the man of the house again lapsed into speculation.
"Who would believe that Jack Sheppard would be here alone with that
Indian girl in the middle of January, over a thousand miles from his
home, where are velvet carpets and feather beds for old folks, eiderdown
quilts for his sisters and probably a good hair mattress and blankets
for the butler?"
Knocking the ashes from his pipe and placing that article of luxury
safely in an Indian-beaded buckskin tobacco pouch, he drew one foot up
and clasped his hands over the greasy overalled knee, resting his back
against one of the log "divans" which go to make up every camp, even be
they temporary ones. He had divested himself of his outer coat and
relied upon the heavy buckskin shirt and the camp fire for protection
from the cold. Long strings, demanded by frontier fashion, dangled idly
from the sleeves and yoke of the garment. As he silently contemplated
his wardrobe he gave an additional sigh and wondered, almost aloud:
"I suppose these will have to give way to a 'biled' shirt, tailor-made
clothes and white collar, to say nothing of getting a haircut
regularly."
This last "think" made Jack unclasp his hands rather hastily, but having
assured himself that his hair was still intact, he gave vent to more
soliloquy.
"If I were to walk into that Sunday-school class of mine, of
ten-year-olds, in this rig, I wonder if the shorter catechism would
stand any show?"
With a smile he proceeded to throw on a couple more logs, refresh
himself with a drink of water and, having divested himself of his boots,
using a saddle and coat for a pillow, he pulled the blankets around
himself and was soon fast asleep.
[Illustration: THE CAMP IN THE WILLOWS.]
He was awakened by snorts of all three ponies. The fire had burned out
with the exception of a bed of coals glowing in the deep black night.
The "watchdogs" of the camp had crowded up to the lengths of their
picket ropes, getting as near each other as they could. Jack slowly
raised himself to a sitting position and listened attentively. Peering
out through the willows he could see, by the restive tugging of the
ponies at their fastenings with the pricking of their ears toward the
high precipice, that the cause for alarm did not come from inside the
canon. Cautiously putting on a pair of moccasins, which he always had
near him at night, he picked up his .44 and was on the point of stepping
into the open by the fire, when from above came a screech, a long
cat-like growl of defiance, yet defeat, that made the canon echo and
re-echo with maniacal vocal debauchery. Jack's heart, it is needless to
say, quit doing business peremptorily for at least thirty seconds. His
eyes followed the ear-vanes on the ponies' heads, and just at the edge
of that breastwork of rock could be seen two golden discs as big as car
wheels, Jack thought. A greenish glare as of a halo surrounded the
yellow spots, and occasionally the bright spots suddenly disappeared
only to shine forth again appallingly bright. It was a mountain lion
taking snap shots while it speculated on its appetite. Jack stepped out
and gave the end of a burned log a kick into the hot coals. Millions of
sparks flew up. The big lemon-colored orbs slunk back out of sight and
ten minutes later the faint repetition of the first number proclaimed
the concert ended.
The "big dipper" pointed to 3 o'clock. Throwing on some more fuel the
fire blazed high. Chiquita thrust her head out of the environments of
the fur bag and sat up in the willow retreat. "Me want 'em drink; mouth
heap dry," was the laconic remark she made to Jack as he acknowledged
her wakefulness. Giving her a cup of water, he referred to the visitor
just departed, to which she scornfully replied:
"Heap big coward, big cat with long tail. Little cat with short tail all
same like this bag, no coward. Big cat all same you call 'em lion, no
catch 'em ponies, Indian or white man, all time afraid. Big cat catch
'em rabbit, lame deer. Mebbe so heap hungry tackle 'em big elk; drop
from big tree on elk back. Big cat, little cat, wolf, bear, no come near
camp fire. Look at camp fire long way off. Chiquita no fraid when all
'lone."
With this piece of information, with which Jack was already acquainted,
they both resumed their interest in the land of Nod.
The bright winter sun had not mounted far enough in the heavens to shed
any warm rays into the camp when Jack pulled on his boots and poked the
fire preparatory to an early breakfast. The ponies did not look as if
dyspepsia troubled them, nor did Jack feel overburdened with belly
worship. The little larder was a hollow mockery to the knockings of a
ravenous appetite. Jack concluded that a well-fed discretion was better
than hungry haste, so he meandered down the river in search of a rabbit,
while Chiquita attended to her morning ablutions. About the time that
the average city girl would have consumed with curling tongs, cashmere
bouquet and in getting her hat on straight, Jack returned with a nice
fat "jack" of the _lepus cuniculus_ family, all ready for the
coals. It did not take long to cook the choice cuts from the delectable
portions of "Bunny." The seasoning was rather crude, consisting of
powder taken from a misfire cartridge, which Jack happened to have in
his belt. But "saltpeter in gunpowder is better than no salt at all" is
an old axiom among hunters. This addition to the "hollow mockery" larder
sent their spirits up to the top of the goodfellowship thermometer.
"A burned hare is worth two in the bush," said Jack, as he irreverently
twisted a trite quotation and rabbit leg. But Chiquita kept right on in
her argument with a section of the vertebra just roasted on a forked
stick.
After the first pangs of hunger had been somewhat appeased the Indian
girl said to Jack, "What you call 'em little things use all same knife
when eat off tin plate?"
Jack recalled the fact of some cheap silver-plated forks that made up
the camp kit.
"Forks," he replied, adding, as Chiquita seemed to want further
information, "The fair sisters of Jack no eat 'em venison with fingers,
all same Chiquita. Think 'em Chiquita wild girl. When Jack come back
bring 'em forks and spoons for Chiquita."
To this she seemed satisfied, but remarked: "Mebbe so fingers pale face
girl good play 'em tom-tom, make 'em beadwork, wash 'em tin plates. No
good catch 'em pony, cut 'em firewood, make 'em buckskin."
With this she scornfully turned her lip up in a manner that made Jack
laugh outright, a proceeding that always made Chiquita's eyes snap with
dangerous fire. He quieted her by pointing at the sun as an indication
that it was time to say adios. The ponies were brought up and quickly
saddled, Jack's belongings packed in the most approved fashion to stand
another hard climb over the Gore range, and Chiquita's restive "Bonito"
carefully cinched for the return trip to the Indian village. The last
point of the "diamond hitch" had been made and the rope drawn taut; the
last knot had been tied over the roll of blankets behind Jack's saddle,
and the last of the morning's banquet had been divided between the
wayfarers, whose journeys would in a few moments lead in opposite
directions. As Chiquita arranged herself on the back of "Bonito" she
looked wistfully at the sky and surrounding peaks. "Me make 'em Yamanatz
tepee sun here," pointing halfway down the horizon to the west.
Jack signified his expectations by remarking, rather dubiously, "Me
mebbe so get to Troublesome heap dark."
Following the direction of Chiquita's finger as she pointed to the high
divide where the previous day they had battled long in the deep snow,
Jack felt some misgivings as to the Indian girl being able to ride the
big drift down. But the confidence she enjoyed in her own ability to
stand hardship and the additional reliance she placed in the
thoroughbred Ute pony was summed up in her one decisive comment, uttered
almost imperiously, at least scornfully:
"Bonito take Chiquita through deep snow like big fish go through foaming
water. Wind all gone up there now."
Jack threw himself into his saddle and reined up beside the future
medicine queen of the White River Utes. She drew from her bosom a beaded
buckskin bag, from which she took a pair of beaver's jaws, the short
teeth bound with otter and a long strip of mountain-lion fur bound
firmly around a braid of her own hair. She handed them to Jack, saying
in a low, almost beseeching tone: "Will the white man Jack bring em back
Chiquita's medicine teeth when the beaver cuts the trees?"
It was a great sacrifice to part with the "medicine," to which all
Indians pin their faith. Otter and mountain-lion fur especially is woven
into the long straight braids of both buck and squaw to drive away evil
spirits, and Chiquita evidently had been to a good deal of trouble to
obtain the prescription from the head medicine man for her own use. The
beaver teeth were symbolic of the time when Chiquita expected Jack to
keep faith with her. His reply was made while the palms of both hands
were stretched toward her, the fingers pointing up.
"Jack will come," then pressing his knees against the sides of his pony,
he leaned over and, after a quick hand grasp, bid adios to the smiling
daughter of Yamanatz.
An hour later he had reached the end of his first "look." Scanning the
side of the high divide he could see "Bonito" lunging forward into the
deep drifts skirting the top of the divide. Presently the pony stopped
and turned broadside toward him. Looking intently he saw Chiquita wave a
farewell response by means of a small silk flag handkerchief which he
had given her upon the first visit to Rock Creek. Signaling a return
salute by means of his sombrero, he waited until "Bonito" disappeared
into that fortress of snow, knowing that once over the crest ten minutes
would be sufficient time to make the crossing in safety. As she did not
reappear, Jack struck boldly into the trail, which now led him by easy
stages up toward timber line, the dark rushing waters of the Grand River
hissing and seething far below him. At the entrance to the canon, where
the warmer current of air met the colder wave from the snow-covered
mountainside, huge bristling bayonets of frosted rye grass waved their
menacing blades at intruders. Lattice-worked ramparts of ice and snow
were veiled with filmy curtains bespangled with millions of
scintillating diamonds, the congealed breathings from that steaming
throat, through which ceaselessly poured the mountain torrent in its
strenuous effort to join the ocean.
Jack looked wistfully at the scene and sighed that a spectacle of such
rare beauty could not be shared by his eastern friends.
The tortuous trail often led to the edge of a precipice, where the
slightest misstep of his pony would have hurled both beast and rider
into a frightful abyss. At other times the narrow pathway meandered
serpentine fashion between pine trees so thickly interspersed that the
pack would wedge first on one side and then the other, to the imminent
destruction of Jack's belongings.