heart to his throat, for it seemed as if he heard a woman's voice, borne
upward from around the point to his right, and yet it was far more
likely to be the almost human cry of a mountain lion, or even the
childish yell of some lone coyote, either of which could readily be
mistaken for a female voice in distress. As Cameron stood there, fairly
holding his breath in his eagerness to catch the faintest sound from
below, one moment assuring himself that his ears were at fault and the
next so certain that it was a woman's voice that he could scarcely wait
for its repetition in order that he could be sure which way to go, once
again there came faintly and yet more definitely than before the cry of
distress. The voice was Miss Steele's, and before he was really sure
from which quarter it came, there burst into sight around the point of
the mesa, not a quarter of a mile away from him but down in the valley,
the figure of a girl on horseback leaning low over her pony's neck, and
urging him to his utmost speed on the road leading up to the cliff,
while some forty or fifty feet behind her, riding as hard as she was the
Navajo Chatto, his red head-band gone, his long black hair streaming out
in the wind, and whirling over his head in a great loop his rawhide
reata.
It took Cameron but an instant to grasp the situation and see that the
Indian had tried to overtake the girl, and failing, meant to rope and
drag her from her horse. He quickly saw also that busied with his reata,
and not having a chance to use the quirt, his pony was falling slightly
behind, for the Navajos seldom wear spurs, and the girl was not sparing
her pony's flanks, but was using her quirt at every jump. Cameron's
first impulse was to spring down the cliff, and run to her aid, but
with a groan he realized that it would take him too long to do this, for
it was only by careful climbing that one could get down the first forty
or fifty feet of the wall, and then the rest would be slow traveling at
the very best. The race below him was in plain view now, and in a few
rods more they would pass out of his sight in the little side cañon
through which the road led up to the top of the cliff. To ride back to
that place would take too long, also, and the man quickly realized that
it was no time to delay.
To kill a Navajo meant trouble for everybody around, for the whole tribe
would take it up, and wreak vengeance upon any white settlers they could
find, hence that was not to be thought of except in the last extremity.
But Cameron knew that he could kill the Navajo's pony and save the girl.
Throwing his Winchester over a rock for a rest, with a mental estimate
of five hundred yards' distance to his mark, he took careful aim at the
shoulder of the Indian's pony and sent a shot which sped fair and true
to its mark, the animal rolling headlong in the dirt, and the rider
sprawling fully twenty feet away, but unharmed.
For an instant the Indian was stunned, then, evidently thinking his pony
had fallen by accident, arose and started toward him. Cameron, however,
was ready for this move. Presuming the Navajo would try to get his
rifle, which was slung in its holster underneath the dead horse, he sent
a second shot, before Chatto could get half way to the body, striking
the ground close enough to him to convince him as to the cause of the
pony's fall. With true Indian instinct he turned and, to disconcert
Cameron's aim, ran in a zig-zag way to a deep ditch, or wash, near the
road, into which he threw himself and crawled and wormed his way down to
where the sides were high enough to shelter his body.
Meantime Cameron, not daring to leave his place until he knew the girl
was safely up the cliff, forced the Navajo to keep to cover by firing an
occasional shot in his direction, until, with a sigh of relief, he saw
the girl "raise the hill" at his left, and stood up and waved his hat to
her. Up to this time she had scarcely known to what cause she owed her
deliverance. All she knew was that a shot had been fired, and she heard
no more thunder of horse's hoofs behind her, but not being too sure of
what it all meant, she never drew rein nor spared her pony until she saw
Cameron's figure on the cliff and knew that she was safe.
A few moments later an hysterical, sobbing girl threw herself from her
saddle straight into the arms of the man who loved her, and whom, she
now knew, she loved.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AN ARIZONA ETUDE
"Las' time I was in Fo't Worth," drawled Peg Leg Russel who was
industriously working away, with marlin spike and leather strings, on a
new quirt, "I seen a circus band there a-ridin' hosses an' a-playin' at
the same time."
"Makin' sure enuff music?" queried one of the boys.
"They sure was," replied Peg Leg; "an' what's more, them ole white
hosses they was a-ridin' never batted an eye, but jist tromped along
like a bunch of hearse horses.
"I'd sure love to see 'em try any such funny business with these yere
little ole diggers we're a-ridin'," he continued, "Lordy, but wouldn't
they git up an' rag when the first toot come off."
"If ye'd been wid me in the good old 'gallopin' Sixth Cavalry,' ye'd
sure had a chanst to observe jist such a performance," said Pat the
cook, who was busy at the mess box with supper preparations.
The mess wagon was backed up into the shade of a great, wide-spreading
juniper, and the outfit was waiting there a few days for a bunch of
fresh saddle horses from the horse camp. Ten or a dozen punchers were
lying about in the shade, some asleep, some overhauling "war bags,"
sunning bedding, and others like Russel making quirts or hair ropes.
[Illustration: "_The mess wagon was backed up into the shade_"]
The old red-headed cook's army experiences were the butt of a great many
sly jokes among the men, but he always had something new to relate, and
the intimation, that he had seen a band mounted on western horses, was
enough to excite their curiosity.
"Tell us about it, Pat," said Tex, "them Sixth Cavalry fellers sure rode
the outpitchenest lot of bronks I ever see outside of a cow-outfit. I
reckin' I'd oughter know, fer I were a workin' fer old man White down in
the San Simon Valley clost to Fort Bowie in them days."
Any reference to the old man's former regiment warmed the cockles of the
cook's heart, and he needed no urging to start him off on the story.
"We was all a-layin' up at old Fort Tonto," he said rolling out, with an
empty beer bottle, what Russel said was the "lid" of a dried apple pie,
"the whole regiment being there after two years spent chasin' over them
hills and deserts trying to catch those divils of Apaches.
"'Twere the first time in three years we'd seen the band, an' when the
General sent word for them bandsmen to come up from Camp Lowell we sure
felt mighty pleased, for, barrin' a couple of fiddles an' Danny Hogan's
concertina, there wasn't any music worth mentioning in the whole post.
"The old general had been over in Europe the year before an' picked up a
lot of cranky idees about soldiering which didn't set well on the old
Sixth, them bein' a bunch of rough ridin' _hombres_, very divils for
fightin', but wid mighty little love for drills an' garrison duty.
"Wan day, I was the gineral's orderly, an' a standin' outside the door
to his quarters, I could hear him an' the adjutant a-wranglin' about
dress parade for next Sunday.
"The old man he was insistin' that them bandsmen could play mounted
instead of afoot. 'Why,' ses he, 'didn't I see wid me own eyes in Paris,
a army band all mounted an' a-ridin' an' a-playin' like good fellies?'
"'But, gineral,' says the adjutant, 'them there bandsmen of ours, bein'
enlisted solely for musicians, not wan of them knows anything about
ridin', an' as for ridin' an' a-playin' at the same time, on top of them
there horses of ours, sure every wan of them will git thrown off an'
hurted.'
"'So much the worse for them,' snorted the gineral, 'let them learn to
ride--that's what they've got horses for. This is no bunch of doughboys
I'm commandin', 'tis a regiment of cavalry-men, and cavalry-men we'll
make of them or kill them a-tryin'.'
"'Sure,' he ses, ses he 'didn't Custer's band use to play mounted, an'
why can't my band do the same?'
"The adjutant he tried to argufy wid the old man, tellin' him them there
furrin' mounts were jist like a bunch of old dray hosses, an' edicated
like trained pigs. But nothin' would suit the gineral but a mounted
dress parade for all hands, includin' the band.
"So the adjutant he calls to me an he ses, 'Orderly,' ses he, 'my
compliments to Mr. Schwartz, the band leader, an' ask him to report to
the office immediately.'
"Now Schwartz, he was a little old fat Dutchman, about five feet six,
an' weighin' over two hundred pounds. When I gave him me message he ses,
ses he,
"'What's up,' ses he.
"'Mounted dress parade for the band,' ses I.
"'Mein Gott, me for sick report,' ses he.
"'Mr. Schwartz,' ses the adjutant when he waddles up to the office,
''tis the orders of the commanding officer that the band attend dress
parade next Sunday afternoon, mounted an' wid their instruments ready to
play.'
"Schwartz he gasps an' tried hard to say a word, but the adjutant he
ses, ses he: 'Git your men out an' drill them every day till they can
handle their hosses an' instruments at the same time. An' mind ye,' ses
he, 'them there band instruments costs money, an' we want none of thim
unnecsarily injured.'
"Schwartz he mumbled somethin' as he went out about them bein' a sight
more anxious over not injurin' the instruments than they were the men,
men bein' a matter for the recruitin' service, while instruments must be
paid for out of the regimental funds.
"For the next four or five days the bandsmen was mighty busy a-drillin'
their hosses an' a-gettin' them usened to the sound of the instruments
by standin' on the ground in front of them an' a-playin.'
"Comes Saturday, the word goes about the post, that the band would make
the first try at playin' on the backs of their hosses that afternoon.
"When they led their steeds out of the corral an' formed on the cavalry
prade ground, every soul in the post, officers, sogers, apache injins,
dog robbers an' laundresses was there to see the doin's.
"They led them bronks out an' played one chune, a-standin' at their
heads, an' barrin' a few of them what pulled back an' got loose from the
men, they stood the racket all right.
"Then the drum major, a-ridin' a white hoss, trots out to the front of
them, waves his baton, an' gives the command, 'Prepare to mount.'
"Ivery man, accordin' to the latest tactics, grabs a handful of mane, in
his left hand, an' his reins an' the saddle pommel wid his right, his
instruments a-hangin' to his anatemy by straps or slings.
"When they gits the word 'mount,' they all swings up into their saddles
somehow, some of them fat old musicians clamberin' up more like loadin'
a sack of bran than anything else in all the world.
"The chap what played the bass drum, he bowed up when it come to tryin'
to use his big drum, an' so they compromised on a pair of kittle drums,
wan strapped to each side of the saddle horn.
"Them kittle drums looked for all the world like a pair of twenty-gallon
water kaigs on a pack saddle.
"The horse, he eyed the load on his back sort of suspicious-like, an'
lets the drummer git settled down into his saddle wid a drumstick in
each wan of his two hands, but keepin' his ears a-workin' like a couple
of wig-wag signal flags.
"Finally, when every wan was safely on top, an' the horses standin'
fairly quiet, the drum major he waves his stick, an' wid a sweep of his
arms, gives the signal to play.
"An' right there the fun began. The first rap the drummer give wid his
drumsticks was too much for his horse, an' wid wan wild look at them
two great soup kittles a-hangin' onto his back, an' wid the roar of them
in his ears, he jist hung his head down, an' began some of the
scientifickest buckin' an' pitchin' you ever seen.
"Bustin' through the band, wid them two kittles a-wavin' an' a-thumpin'
on his back, the drummer's horse had little trouble in incitin' several
more of them to the same line of conduct, an' in about two minutes half
the horses in the outfit were a-buckin' an' a-cavortin' around like very
divils.
"The kittle drummer an' the Swiss gent, what played the tubey--an' him
a-settin' there in the middle of them great silvery coils like some
prehistoric monster--they went through that bunch of wild-eyed Dutch
musicians, like two shooting stars.
"The drummer tried hard to stay on top of his load, but what wid them
two great copper tubs a-knockin' an' a-thumpin' away on his horse's
withers, a-barkin' his shins an' knees wid every jump, an' a-floppin'
like two big buzzards' wings, 'twas no disgrace that he couldn't stay
there, him bein' no bronco buster, but jist a Dutch bandsman.
"He went up into the air wid them two drumsticks, wan in each hand,
describin' a lovely circle, an' a comin' down head first in the soft
dirt, while the hoss wid them two drums, beatin' a very divil's tattoo
on his ribs, tored off down the road an' out of sight.
"As for the tubey player, he tried hard to stay in the middle of his
bucker. But, bein' handicapped as it were, wid some thirty odd feet of
German silver tubin' wrapped about his anatemy, an' it a-bumpin' an'
a-bangin' agin his head every time the hoss struck the sod, he made
hard work of it.
"After makin' some desperate efforts to find somethin' solid to hold
onto, an' a-clawin' all the leather offen his saddle pommel in the
effort, the wind jammer gives it up for a bad job, turned all holds
loose, an' went up into the air like a musical sky rocket. The saddler
sergint of G-troop sed he was a Dutch meteor.
"Ony how, he went up, an', encircled wid them great silvery pipes, made
a fine landin' in the soft dirt, drivin' the bell of his tubey deep into
it.
"The next minute his hoss was a-folerin' the kittle drums like Tam
O'Shanter's ghost.
"Then there was a tall hungry Irishman--though what a dacent Irisher was
a-doin' in that bunch of Dutchies I dunno--but there he was. He played a
clarinet about a yard long, an' when his hoss decided 'twas time for him
to do a little stunt of his own, in the buckin' line, he made a wild
grab for his reins. But 'twas no good. Ivery time he comes down, he
jabbed the sharp pint of that clarinet mouthpiece into the horse's
withers, which didn't help matters a little bit.
"He was a-doin' some elegant reachin' for something to hold onto, but
some way he couldn't connect wid anything at all. Wan jump an' he lost
his cap, the next he landed behind the saddle, which gives his horse an
opporchunity for lettin' out a few extry holes in his performance. Back
into the saddle he goes, but not findin' conditions there to his likin',
he continued on wid a forward movement finally landin' in front of the
saddle, then a little furder forward, workin' out on the horse's neck
like some sailor lad a-climbin' out on the bowsprit of a ship.
"Finally, the hoss took time enough to lift his nose from scrapin' the
ground bechune his two front feet, an' have a look about him; in doin'
which he turned the clarinet player end for end like a tumbler in a
circus. Down he comes, wid his precious clarinet grabbed in his hand
like a black-thorn shillalah, and when he lit, he bored a place in the
dirt deep enough for a post hole.
"Over on the porch of the adjutant's office, a-takin' it all in, was the
old gineral wid a bunch of ladies. When the last of the twenty or more
riderless bronks disappeared over the brow of the hill down the road
toward the creek, the old man turned to his orderly standin' near by an'
ses, ses he, 'Orderly, prisint me compliments to the adjutant an' tell
him that the band's excused from attindin' dress parade mounted till
furder orders.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
STUTTERIN' ANDY
"Oyez, oyez, o-y-e-z, the Honorable Court of the Third Judicial District
of the State of New Mexico is now in session," cried the one-armed
bailiff, and the district court in Alamo came to order for the afternoon
session.
The judge settled back in his easy chair; the twelve jurymen at his left
idly watched the crowd pour into the little courtroom. By the time the
prisoner had been escorted in by the sheriff, every inch of space was
occupied by eager spectators, both men and women; for the case of Andy
Morrow, locally known as "Stutterin' Andy," charged by the grand jury
with stealing one red yearling branded X V from Joseph Barker, had
attracted the attention of the entire community.
During the morning session, the prosecution had given their side of the
case. Old man Barker and a detective from Denver had each testified to
finding the hide of a yearling bearing Barker's well-known brand, buried
beneath a pile of brush on Morrow's "dry farm" claim.
The resurrected hide was also placed before the jury, the X V on the
left ribs being plainly visible and when court adjourned for the noon
recess, Barker was jubilant.
"We'll git him, we'll git him," he said to his foreman as they tramped
down the narrow staircase leading from the courtroom. "I'll make a
shinin' example of Mister Stutterin' Andy, what'll put the fear o' God
into a lot of them cow thieves, an' last this here community for some
time."
"I reckin' so," replied the foreman who felt that the reputation of the
X V outfit was at stake. After lunch, court having been duly opened, the
young lawyer, who owing to Morrow's poverty, had been appointed by the
court to defend him, addressed the jury with a short statement of the
case.
The poverty of the prisoner, his struggles to make a home, the
iniquitous "fence law" which forced the little farmer to fence his crops
against the wandering herds of the cattlemen, the wealth and standing of
Barker, the complaining witness, and his use of a hired detective to
hunt up evidence, was all pictured to the jury in his strongest
language.
"Say, Barker," whispered a man at his side, nudging him with the point
of his elbow, "don't you feel sort of ornery like, to be made out such a
consarned old renegade?"
"Don't you be a-feelin' sorry for me," he snapped back, "them what
laughs last laughs best, an' I reckon' we got a big ole laugh a-comin'
when this here performance is concluded."
"I swear," muttered a man in the audience to his neighbor, "ef that
there lawyer chap hopes to make anything out of Andy's testimony that
will help him, I miss my guess. Why the pore devil stutters so that
nobody kin git a word outa him scarcely, when there's nothin' excitin'
goin' on, let alone with all these here people a-settin' there
a-listenin'. I'm a-bettin' he won't be able to tell his own name to say
nothin' about explainin' how he didn't kill that there yearlin'."
But the attorney knew his business and Morrow remained quietly in his
seat beside the sheriff. Having finished his preliminary statement, the
young lawyer whispered to the bailiff, who walked across to a small jury
room opening off the main courtroom, and opened a door.
A low-spoken word, and there stepped from the room a woman--the wife of
the prisoner.
She was tall, slim and about twenty-five years of age. From the corner
of her mouth protruded the "dip-stick," that ever present solace of the
sex among her class, and without which she probably never could have
faced the crowd.
A faded blue calico dress over which she wore a small shawl, and on her
head a bedraggled hat with a few tousled roses stuck on one side, made
up a costume which only accentuated her drawn face and sorrowful eyes.
After a few moments of whispered conversation with the lawyer, she took
the witness chair.
At first her answers to his questions as to her name, age, etc., were
given in a low, scarcely audible voice, and the room was so still it was
fairly oppressive.
"You understand, do you," he asked her, "that your husband is charged
with killing a yearling belonging to Mr. Barker?"
"I shore do," was the reply.
"Will you, please, tell the jury in your own words, just what you know
about this matter," the lawyer said.
"Mought I tell it jist as I want to, jist as I done tole it to you down
to the hotel?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied very kindly, "tell the jury your story just as you
told it to me."
She carefully removed the "dip stick" from her mouth, placing it in a
little wooden box which she carried in a battered leather hand bag.
Then, turning to the jury, she began her story in a clear firm voice, as
if she realized that upon her testimony hung the fate of her husband.
"I want to tell you-all men, the truth about this here thing," she said
looking into their faces with unflinching eye, "jist how it happened,
an' don't mean to hide narry part of it from nobody.
"Andy an' me's been married now nigh onto six year. We moved into this
country about a year ago, comin' from Arkin-saw in a wagon. We had two
chillen, a boy an' a gal.
"When we gits here, Andy located down there on the claim an' tried dry
farmin'; 'kaffir korners' I reckin' some of them calls us. It tuck
mighty nigh every cent we had to git the seed an' some farmin' tools,
an' after the crap were in, Andy he gits work in a sawmill up into the
mountings, leavin' me an' the kids to make the crap.
"Andy he done built a little loghouse an' a corral, an' puts a brush
fence around the land we broke up to keep the critters out, we not
havin' any money fer to buy barbed wire fer the fence.
[Illustration: "_Andy done built a little ole log house_"]
"We had a heap o' trouble with the range stock all summer an' it kep' me
a-steppin' pretty lively to keep 'em out, but I managed to fight 'em
off, an' we done pretty well that year.
"Andy worked all winter in the sawmill and jist about spring the man
closed down, an' tole the boys a-workin' fer him that he couldn't pay
'em anything he was a-owin' 'em. Most of 'em he owed a right smart to,
because he kep' a-promisin' he'd pay every month, an' when he done
busted up he owed my man 'bout two hundred dollars.
"So Andy he come home to put in the crap, an' we both worked powerful
hard to git it in, an' as we owed the store up thar so much, we couldn't
git anything more on our account.
"So, 'bout all we had to eat was taters what we raised the year before.
Then the little gal took sick, an' we nussed her fer a time till she got
powerful weak, an' then Andy he goes to town fer a doctor, tellin' him
we ain't got no money to pay him, but fer God's sake to come an' see
her.
"'Twas twenty-five miles fer the doctor to ride, but he come along with
Andy all right, an' when he sees the little gal he ses, 'Scarlet fever,
an' a bad case too.'
"The doctor done give her some medicine he brung with him, an' said
she'd orter be carried to town where he could see her, kase he couldn't
come out that way very often, even if we done paid him fer it.
"So me an' Andy hooked up the hosses an' brung her in here, an' bein' as
it was what the doc calls a contagious disease, we couldn't git no house
to live in; so we had to camp down below town in the creek bottom under
a big cottonwood. 'Twere powerful hard to take keer of the little gal
there, an' Andy had hard work gittin' grub an' medicine, an' 'cept fer
Frank Walton, the man what keeps the 'Bucket of Blood' saloon, we'd
never a-pulled her through.
"Frank he sends down a lot of stuff fer us an' tells Andy to git all the
medicine he needed at the drug store an' he'd pay fer it hisself.
"Bimeby, the little gal gits better, an' Andy he bein' anxious to git
back an' look after the crap, we packs our traps an' goes back to the
ranch.
"The doc he ses the little gal's all rite if we git her plenty good
strengthnin' stuff, an' Frank he gits us considerable to take home.
"When we left the place we done turned the ole milk cow out on the range
till we comes back. Andy he rode three days a-lookin' fer her an'
finally meets up with her where she lays daid in a little medder up on
the mounting. Andy ses he reckoned she was pizened eatin' wild pasnip.
She had a big long-eared calf along with her, but 'twan't nowhere about,
an', as the round-up passed that-away a few days afore, Andy he 'lowed
they done picked it up fer a dogie an' put ole man Barker's brand on it.
"Andy he couldn't git no work, fer he couldn't leave me alone with the
two chillen, an' we tried to save the little handful of grub we brung
out fer the gal, an' lived mighty nigh on straight taters an' water. One
day, the little boy he come sick too an' Andy he gits on a hoss an'
rides to town to see the doctor agin'.
"The doctor he ses he reckined 'twas scarlet fever too, 'cause the
simptons was about the same an' he give him some medicine to take out
an' sed he'd come out hisself soon as he could, but he had a lot of sick
folks to look after, an' didn't like to leave 'em to make the trip, he
bein' a lunger hisself, an' not fitten to work very hard.