Yes, it was a life and death race between the emigrants and the Apaches
for the San Juan. Positions of defence were all along the road, but not
one of them could be held for a day, all being destitute of grass and
water.
"There is no need of telling the ladies at once," said Thurstane to
Coronado, as they rode side by side in rear of the caravan. "Let them be
quiet as long as they can be. Their trouble will come soon enough."
"How many were there, do you think?" was the reply of a man who was much
occupied with his own chances. "Were there a hundred?"
"It's hard to estimate a mere black line like that. Yes, there must be a
hundred, besides stragglers. Their beasts have suffered, of course, as
well as ours. They have come fast, and there must be a lot in the rear.
Probably both bands are along."
"The devils!" muttered Coronado. "I hope to God they will all perish of
thirst and hunger. The stubborn, stupid devils! Why should they follow us
_here_?" he demanded, looking furiously around upon the accursed
landscape.
"Indian revenge. We killed too many of them."
"Yes," said Coronado, remembering anew the son of the chief. "Damn them! I
wish we could have killed them all."
"That is just what we must try to do," returned Thurstane deliberately.
"The question is," he resumed after a moment of business-like calculation
of chances--"the question is mainly this, whether we can go twenty-five
miles quicker than they can go thirty-five. We must be the first to reach
the river."
"We can spare a few beasts," said Coronado. "We must leave the weakest
behind."
"We must not give up provisions."
"We can eat mules."
"Not till the last moment. We shall need them to take us back."
Coronado inwardly cursed himself for venturing into this inferno, the
haunting place of devils in human shape. Then his mind wandered to
Saratoga, New York, Newport, and the other earthly heavens that were known
to him. He hummed an air; it was the _brindisi_ of Lucrezia Borgia; it
reminded him of pleasures which now seemed lost forever; he stopped in the
middle of it. Between the associations which it excited--the images of
gayety and splendor, real or feigned--a commingling of kid gloves,
bouquets, velvet cloaks, and noble names--between these glories which so
attracted his hungry soul and the present environment of hideous deserts
and savage pursuers, what a contrast there was! There, far away, was the
success for which he longed; here, close at hand, was the peril which must
purchase it. At that moment he was willing to deny his bargain with Garcia
and the devil. His boldest desire was, "Oh that I were in Santa Fé!"
By Coronado's side rode a man who had not a thought for himself. A person
who has not passed years in the army can hardly imagine the sense of
_responsibility_ which is ground into the character of an officer. He is a
despot, but a despot who is constantly accountable for the welfare of his
subjects, and who never passes a day without many grave thoughts of the
despots above him. Superior officers are in a manner his deities, and the
Army Regulations have for him the weight of Scripture. He never forgets by
what solemn rules of duty and honor he will be judged if he falls short of
his obligations. This professional conscience becomes a destiny to him,
and guides his life to an extent inconceivable by most civilians. He
acquires a habit of watching and caring for others; he cannot help
assuming a charge which falls in his way. When he is not governed by the
rule of obedience, he is governed by the rule of responsibility. The two
make up his duty, and to do his duty is his existence.
At this moment our young West Pointer, only twenty-three or four years
old, was gravely and grimly anxious for his four soldiers, for all these
people whom circumstance had placed under his protection, and even for his
army mules, provisions, and ammunition. His only other sentiment was a
passionate desire to prevent harm or even fear from approaching Clara Van
Diemen. These two sentiments might be said to make up for the present his
entire character. As we have already observed, he had not a thought for
himself.
Presently it occurred to the youngster that he ought to cheer on his
fellow-travellers.
Trotting up with a smile to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, he asked, "How do you
bear it?"
"Oh, I am almost dead," groaned Aunt Maria. "I shall have to be tied on
before long."
The poor woman, no longer youthful, it must be remembered, was indeed
badly jaded. Her face was haggard; her general get-up was in something
like scarecrow disorder; she didn't even care how she looked. So fagged
was she that she had once or twice dozed in the saddle and come near
falling.
"It was outrageous to bring us here," she went on pettishly. "Ladies
shouldn't be dragged into such hardships."
Thurstane wanted to say that he was not responsible for the journey; but
he would not, because it did not seem manly to shift all the blame upon
Coronado.
"I am very, very sorry," was his reply. "It is a frightful journey."
"Oh, frightful, frightful!" sighed Aunt Maria, twisting her aching back.
"But it will soon be over," added the officer. "Only twenty miles more to
the river."
"The river! It seems to me that I could live if I could see a river. Oh,
this desert! These perpetual rocks! Not a green thing to cool one's eyes.
Not a drop of water. I seem to be drying up, like a worm in the sunshine."
"Is there no water in the flasks?" asked Thurstane.
"Yes," said Clara. "But my aunt is feverish with fatigue."
"What I want is the sight of it--and rest," almost whimpered the elder
lady.
"Will our horses last?" asked Clara. "Mine seems to suffer a great deal."
"They _must_ last," replied Thurstane, grinding his teeth quite privately.
"Oh, yes, they will last," he immediately added. "Even if they don't, we
have mules enough."
"But how they moan! It makes me cringe to hear them."
"Twenty miles more," said Thurstane. "Only six hours at the longest. Only
half a day."
"It takes less than half a day for a woman to die," muttered the nearly
desperate Aunt Maria.
"Yes, when she sets about it," returned the officer. "But we haven't set
about it, Mrs. Stanley. And we are not going to."
The weary lady had no response ready for words of cheer; she leaned
heavily over the pommel of her saddle and rode on in silence.
"Ain't the same man she was," slyly observed Phineas Glover with a twist
of his queer physiognomy.
Thurstane, though not fond of Mrs. Stanley, would not now laugh at her
expense, and took no notice of the sarcasm. Glover, fearful lest he had
offended, doubled the gravity of his expression and tacked over to a fresh
subject.
"Shouldn't know whether to feel proud 'f myself or not, 'f I'd made this
country, Capm. Depends on what 'twas meant for. If 'twas meant to live in,
it's the poorest outfit I ever did see. If 'twas meant to scare folks,
it's jest up to the mark. 'Nuff to frighten a crow into fits. Capm, it
fairly seems more than airthly; puts me in mind 'f things in the Pilgrim's
Progress--only worse. Sh'd say it was like five thousin' Valleys 'f the
Shadow 'f Death tangled together. Tell ye, believe Christian 'd 'a' backed
out 'f he'd had to travel through here. Think Mr. Coronado 's all right in
his top hamper, Capm? Do, hey? Wal, then I'm all wrong; guess I'm 's
crazy's a bedbug. Wouldn't 'a'ketched me steerin' this course of my own
free will 'n' foreknowledge. Jest look at the land now. Don't it look like
the bottomless pit blowed up 'n' gone to smash? Tell ye, 'f the Old Boy
himself sh'd ride up alongside, shouldn't be a mite s'prised to see him.
Sh'd reckon he had a much bigger right to be s'prised to ketch me here."
After some further riding, shaking his sandy head, staring about him and
whistling, he broke out again.
"Tell ye, Capm, this beats my imagination. Used to think I c'd yarn it
pooty consid'able. But never can tell this. Never can do no manner 'f
jestice to it. Look a there now. There's a nateral bridge, or 'n unnateral
one. There's a hole blowed through a forty foot rock 's clean 's though
'twas done with Satan's own field-piece, sech 's Milton tells about. An'
there's a steeple higher 'n our big one in Fair Haven. An' there's a
church, 'n' a haystack. If the devil hain't done his biggest celebratin'
'n' carpenterin' 'n' farmin' round here, d'no 's I know where he has done
it. Beats _me_, Capm; cleans me out. Can't do no jestice to it. Can't talk
about it. Seems to me 's though I was a fool."
Yes, even Phineas Glover's small and sinewy soul (a psyche of the size,
muscular force, and agility of a flea) had been seized, oppressed, and in
a manner smashed by the hideous sublimity of this wilderness of sandstone,
basalt, and granite.
Two hours passed, during which, from the nature of the ground, the
travellers could neither see nor be seen by their pursuers. Then came a
breathless ascent up another of the monstrous sandstone terraces.
Thurstane ordered every man to dismount, so as to spare the beasts as much
as possible. He walked by the side of Clara, patting, coaxing, and
cheering her suffering horse, and occasionally giving a heave of his solid
shoulder against the trembling haunches.
"Let me walk," the girl presently said. "I can't bear to see the poor
beast so worried."
"It would be better, if you can do it," he replied, remembering that she
might soon have to call upon the animal for speed.
She dismounted, clasped her hands over his arm, and clambered thus. From
time to time, when some rocky step was to be surmounted, he lifted her
bodily up it.
"How can you be so strong?" she said, looking at him wonderingly and
gratefully.
"Miss Van Diemen, you give me strength," he could not help responding.
At last they were at the summit of the rugged slope. The animals were
trembling and covered with sweat; some of them uttered piteous whinnyings,
or rather bleatings, like distressed sheep; five or six lay down with
hollow moans and rumblings. It was absolutely necessary to take a short
rest.
Looking ahead, Thurstane saw that they had reached the top of the
tableland which lies south of the San Juan, and that nothing was before
them for the rest of the day but a rolling plateau seamed with meandering
fissures of undiscoverable depth. Traversable as the country was, however,
there was one reason for extreme anxiety. If they should lose the trail,
if they should get on the wrong side of one of those profound and endless
chasms, they might reach the river at a point where descent to it would be
impossible, and might die of thirst within sight of water. For undoubtedly
the San Juan flowed at the bottom of one of those amazing cañons which
gully this Mer de Glace in stone.
An error of direction once committed, the enemy would not give them time
to retrieve it, and they would be slaughtered like mad dogs with the foam
on their mouths.
Thurstane remembered that it would be his terrible duty in the last
extremity to send a bullet through the heart of the woman he worshipped,
rather than let her fall into the hands of brutes who would only grant her
a death of torture and dishonor. Even his steady soul failed for a moment,
and tears of desperation gathered in his eyes. For the first time in years
he looked up to heaven and prayed fervently.
From the unknown destiny ahead he turned to look for the fate which
pursued. Walking with Coronado to the brink of the colossal terrace, and
sheltering himself from the view of the rest of the party, he scanned the
trail with his glass. The dark line had now become a series of dark
specks, more than a hundred and fifty in number, creeping along the arid
floor of the lower plateau, and reminding him of venomous insects.
"They are not five miles from us," shuddered the Mexican. "Cursed beasts!
Devils of hell!"
"They have this hill to climb," said Thurstane, "and, if I am not
mistaken, they will have to halt here, as we have done. Their ponies must
be pretty well fagged by this time."
"They will get a last canter out of them," murmured Coronado. His soul was
giving way under his hardships, and it would have been a solace to him to
weep aloud. As it was, he relieved himself with a storm of blasphemies.
Oaths often serve to a man as tears do to a woman.
"We must trot now," he said presently.
"Not yet. Not till they are within half a mile of us. We must spare our
wind up to the last minute."
They were interrupted by a cry of surprise and alarm. Several of the
muleteers had strayed to the edge of the declivity, and had discovered
with their unaided eyesight the little cloud of death in the distance.
Texas Smith approached, looked from under his shading hand, muttered a
single curse, walked back to his horse, inspected his girths, and recapped
his rifle. In a minute it was known throughout the train that Apaches were
in the rear. Without a word of direction, and in a gloomy silence which
showed the general despair, the march was resumed. There was a disposition
to force a trot, which was promptly and sternly checked by Thurstane. His
voice was loud and firm; he had instinctively assumed responsibility and
command; no one disputed him or thought of it.
Three mules which could not rise were left where they lay, feebly
struggling to regain their feet and follow their comrades, but falling
back with hollow groanings and a kind of human despair in their faces.
Mile after mile the retreat continued, always at a walk, but without
halting. It was long before the Apaches were seen again, for the ascent of
the plateau lost them a considerable space, and after that they were
hidden for a time by its undulations. But about four in the afternoon,
while the emigrants were still at least five miles from the river, a group
of savage horsemen rose on a knoll not more than three miles behind, and
uttered a yell of triumph. There was a brief panic, and another attempt to
push the animals, which Thurstane checked with levelled pistol.
The train had already entered a gully. As this gully advanced it rapidly
broadened and deepened into a cañon. It was the track of an extinct river
which had once flowed into the San Juan on its way to the distant Pacific.
Its windings hid the desired goal; the fugitives must plunge into it
blindfold; whatever fate it brought them, they must accept it. They were
like men who should enter the cavern of unknown goblins to escape from
demons who were following visibly on their footsteps.
From time to time they heard ferocious yells in their rear, and beheld
their fiendish pursuers, now also in the cañon. It was like Christian
tracking the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and listening to the screams
and curses of devils. At every reappearance of the Apaches they had
diminished the distance between themselves and their expected prey, and at
last they were evidently not more than a mile behind. But there in sight
was the river; there, enclosed in one of its bends, was an alluvial plain;
rising from the extreme verge of the plain, and overhanging the stream,
was a bluff; and on this bluff was what seemed to be a fortress.
Thurstane sent all the horsemen to the rear of the train, took post
himself as the rearmost man, measured once more with his eye the space
between his charge and the enemy, cast an anxious glance at the reeling
beast which bore Clara, and in a firm ringing voice commanded a trot.
The order and the movement which followed it were answered by the Indians
with a yell. The monstrous and precipitous walls of the cañon clamored
back a fiendish mockery of echoes which seemed to call for the prowlers of
the air to arrive quickly and devour their carrion.