Produced by Al Haines
THE RED-BLOODED
HEROES OF THE FRONTIER
BY
EDGAR BEECHER BRONSON
Author of "Reminiscences of a Ranchman"
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON ---- NEW YORK ---- TORONTO
COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1910
Published September 10, 1910
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
_The author acknowledges his indebtedness to the
editors of periodicals in which some of this material
has appeared, for permission to use the same in this
volume._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
LOVING'S BEND
CHAPTER II
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
CHAPTER III
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
CHAPTER IV
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
CHAPTER V
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
CHAPTER VI
AM AERIAL BIVOUAC
CHAPTER VII
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
CHAPTER VIII
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
CHAPTER IX
ACROSS THE BORDER
CHAPTER X
THE THREE-LEGGED DOE AND THE BLIND BUCK
CHAPTER XI
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
CHAPTER XII
EL TIGRE
CHAPTER XIII
BUNKERED
CHAPTER XIV
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
CHAPTER XV
DJAMA AOUT'S HEROISM
CHAPTER XVI
A MODERN COEUR-DE-LION
CHAPTER I
LOVING'S BEND
From San Antonio to Fort Griffin, Joe Loving's was a name to conjure
with in the middle sixties. His tragic story is still told and retold
around camp-fires on the Plains.
One of the thriftiest of the pioneer cow-hunters, he was the first to
realize that if he would profit by the fruits of his labor he must push
out to the north in search of a market for his cattle. The Indian
agencies and mining camps of northern New Mexico and Colorado, and the
Mormon settlements of Utah, were the first markets to attract
attention. The problem of reaching them seemed almost hopeless of
solution. Immediately to the north of them the country was trackless
and practically unknown. The only thing certain about it was that it
swarmed with hostile Indians. What were the conditions as to water and
grass, two prime essentials to moving herds, no one knew. To be sure,
the old overland mail road to El Paso, Chihuahua, and Los Angeles led
out west from the head of the Concho to the Pecos; and once on the
Pecos, which they knew had its source indefinitely in the north, a
practicable route to market should be possible.
But the trouble was to reach the Pecos across the ninety intervening
miles of waterless plateau called the _Llano Estacado_, or Staked
Plain. This plain was christened by the early Spanish explorers who,
looking out across its vast stretches, could note no landmark, and left
behind them driven stakes to guide their return. An elevated tableland
averaging about one hundred miles wide and extending four hundred miles
north and south, it presents, approaching anywhere from the east or the
west, an endless line of sharply escarped bluffs from one hundred to
two hundred feet high that with their buttresses and re-entrant angles
look at a distance like the walls of an enormous fortified town. And
indeed it possesses riches well worth fortifying.
While without a single surface spring or stream from Devil's River in
the south to Yellow House Cañon in the north, this great mesa is
nevertheless the source of the entire stream system of central and
south Texas. Absorbing thirstily every drop of moisture that falls
upon its surface, from its deep bosom pours a vitalizing flood that
makes fertile and has enriched an empire,--a flood without which Texas,
now producing one-third of the cotton grown in the United States, would
be an arid waste. Bountiful to the south and east, it is niggardly
elsewhere, and only two small springs, Grierson and Mescalero, escape
from its western escarpment.
A driven herd normally travels only twelve to seventeen miles a day,
and even less than this in the early Spring when herds usually are
started. It therefore seemed a desperate undertaking to enter upon the
ninety-mile "dry drive," from the head of the Concho to the Horsehead
Crossing of the Pecos, wherein two-thirds of one's cattle were likely
to perish for want of water.
Joe Loving was the first man to venture it, and he succeeded. He
traversed the Plain, fought his way up the Pecos, reached a good
market, and returned home in the Autumn, bringing a load of gold and
stories of hungry markets in the north that meant fortunes for Texas
ranchmen. This was in 1866. It was the beginning of the great "Texas
trail drive," which during the next twenty years poured six million
cattle into the plains and mountains of the Northwest. Of this great
industrial movement, Joe Loving was the pioneer.
At this time Fort Sumner, situated on the Pecos about four hundred
miles above Horsehead Crossing, was a large Government post, and the
agency of the Navajo Indians, or such of them as were not on the
war-path. Here, on his drive in the Summer of 1867, Loving made a
contract for the delivery at the post the ensuing season of two herds
of beeves. His partner in this contract was Charles Goodnight, later
for many years the proprietor of the Palo Duro ranch in the Pan Handle.
Loving and Goodnight were young then; they had helped to repel many a
Comanche assault upon the settlements, had participated in many a
bloody raid of reprisal, had more than once from the slight shelter of
a buffalo-wallow successfully defended their lives, and so they entered
upon their work with little thought of disaster.
Beginning their round-up early in March as soon as green grass began to
rise, selecting and cutting out cattle of fit age and condition, by the
end of the month they reached the head of the Concho with two herds,
each numbering about two thousand head. Loving was in charge of one
herd and Goodnight of the other.
Each outfit was composed of eight picked cowboys, well drilled in the
rude school of the Plains, a "horse wrangler," and a cook. To each
rider was assigned a mount of five horses, and the loose horses were
driven with the herd by day and guarded by the "horse wrangler" by
night. The cook drove a team of six small Spanish mules hitched to a
mess wagon. In the wagon were carried provisions, consisting
principally of bacon and jerked beef, flour, beans, and coffee; the
men's blankets and "war sacks," and the simple cooking equipment.
Beneath the wagon was always swung a "rawhide"--a dried, untanned,
unscraped cow's hide, fastened by its four corners beneath the wagon
bed. This rawhide served a double purpose: first, as a carryall for
odds and ends; and second, as furnishing repair material for saddles
and wagons. In it were carried pots and kettles, extra horseshoes,
farriers' tools, and firewood; for often long journeys had to be made
across country which did not furnish enough fuel to boil a pot of
coffee. On the sides of the wagon, outside the wagon box, were
securely lashed the two great water barrels, each supplied with a
spigot, which are indispensable in trail driving. Where, as in this
instance, exceptionally long dry drives were to be made other water
kegs were carried in the wagons.
Such wagons were rude affairs, great prairie schooners, hooded in
canvas to keep out the rain. Some of them were miracles of patchwork,
racked and strained and broken till scarcely a sound bit of iron or
wood remained, but, all splinted and bound with strips of the cowboy's
indispensable rawhide, they wabbled crazily along, with many a shriek
and groan, threatening every moment to collapse, but always holding
together until some extraordinary accident required the application of
new rawhide bandages. I have no doubt there are wagons of this sort in
use in Texas to-day that went over the trail in 1868.
The men need little description, for the cowboy type has been made
familiar by Buffalo Bill's most truthful exhibitions of plains life.
Lean, wiry, bronzed men, their legs cased in leather chaparejos, with
small boots, high heels, and great spurs, they were, despite their
loose, slouchy seat, the best rough-riders in the world.
Cowboy character is not well understood. Its most distinguishing trait
was absolute fidelity. As long as he liked you well enough to take
your pay and eat your grub, you could, except in very rare instances,
rely implicitly upon his faithfulness and honesty. To be sure, if he
got the least idea he was being misused he might begin throwing lead at
you out of the business end of a gun at any time; but so long as he
liked you, he was just as ready with his weapons in your defence, no
matter what the odds or who the enemy. Another characteristic trait
was his profound respect for womanhood. I never heard of a cowboy
insulting a woman, and I don't believe any real cowboy ever did. Men
whose nightly talk around the camp-fire is of home and "mammy" are apt
to be a pretty good sort. And yet another quality for which he was
remarkable was his patient, uncomplaining endurance of a life of
hardship and privation equalled only among seafarers. Drenched by rain
or bitten by snow, scorched by heat or stiffened by cold, he passed it
all off with a jest. Of a bitterly cold night he might casually remark
about the quilts that composed his bed: "These here durned huldys ain't
much thicker 'n hen skin!" Or of a hot night: "Reckon ole mammy must
'a stuffed a hull bale of cotton inter this yere ole huldy." Or in a
pouring rain: "'Pears like ole Mahster's got a durned fool idee we'uns
is web-footed." Or in a driving snow storm: "Ef ole Mahster had to
_git rid_ o' this yere damn cold stuff, he might 'a dumped it on
fellers what 's got more firewood handy."
Vices? Well, such as the cowboy had, some one who loves him less will
have to describe. Perhaps he was a bit too frolicsome in town, and too
quick to settle a trifling dispute with weapons; but these things were
inevitable results of the life he led.
In driving a herd over a known trail where water and grass are
abundant, an experienced trail boss conforms the movement of his herd
as near as possible to the habit of wild cattle on the range. At dawn
the herd rises from the bed ground and is "drifted" or grazed, without
pushing, in the desired direction. By nine or ten o'clock they have
eaten their fill, and then they are "strung out on the trail" to water.
They step out smartly, two men--one at either side--"pointing" the
leaders; and "swing" riders along the sides push in the flanks, until
the herd is strung out for a mile or more, a narrow, bright,
particolored ribbon of moving color winding over the dark green of hill
and plain. In this way they easily march off six to nine miles by
noon. When they reach water they are scattered along the stream, drink
their fill and lie down. Dinner is then eaten, and the boys not on
herd doze in the shade of the wagon, until, a little after two o'clock,
the herd rise of their own accord and move away, guided by the riders.
Rather less distance is made in the afternoon. At twilight the herd is
rounded up into a close circular compact mass and "bedded down" for the
night; the first relief of the night guard riding slowly round, singing
softly and turning back stragglers. If properly grazed, in less than a
half-hour the herd is quiet and at rest; and, barring an occasional
wild or hungry beast trying to steal away into the darkness, so they
lie till dawn unless stampeded by some untoward incident.
Every two or three hours a new "relief" is called and the night guard
changed. Round and round all night ride the guards, jingling their
spurs and droning some low monotonous song, recounting through endless
stanzas the fearless deeds of some frontier hero, or humming some love
ditty rather too passionate for gentle ears.
But when a ninety-mile drive across the Staked Plain is to be done, all
this easy system is changed. In order to make the journey at all the
pace must be forced to the utmost, and the cattle kept on their legs
and moving as long as they can stand.
Therefore, when Loving and Goodnight reached the head of the Concho,
two full days' rest were taken to recuperate the "drags," or weaker
cattle. Then, late one afternoon, after the herd had been well grazed
and watered, the water barrels and kegs filled, the herd was thrown on
the trail and driven away into the west, without halt or rest,
throughout the night. Thus, driving in the cool of the night and of
the early morning and late evening, resting through the heat of midday
when travel would be most exhausting, the herd was pushed on westward
for three nights and four days.
On these dry drives the horses suffer most, for every rider is forced,
in his necessary daily work, to cover many times the distance travelled
by the herd, and therefore the horses, doing the heaviest work, are
refreshed by an occasional sip of the precious contents of the water
barrels--as long as it lasts. By night of the second day of this drive
every drop of water is consumed, and thereafter, with tongues parched
and swollen by the clouds of dust raised by the moving multitude, thin,
drawn, and famished for water, men, horses, and cattle push madly ahead.
Come at last within fifteen miles of the Pecos, even the leaders, the
strongest of the herd, are staggering along with dull eyes and drooping
heads, apparently ready to fall in their tracks. Suddenly the whole
appearance of the cattle changes; heads are eagerly raised, ears
pricked up, eyes brighten; the leaders step briskly forward and break
into a trot. Cow-hunters say they smell the water. Perhaps they do,
or perhaps it is the last desperate struggle for existence. Anyway,
the tide is resistless. Nothing can check them, and four men gallop in
the lead to control and handle them as much as possible when they reach
the stream. Behind, the weaker cattle follow at the best pace they
can. In this way over the last stage a single herd is strung out over
a length of four or five miles.
Great care is needed when the stream is reached to turn them in at easy
waterings, for in their maddened state they would bowl over one another
down a bluff of any height; and they often do so, for men and horses
are almost equally wild to reach the water, and indifferent how they
get there.
However, the Pecos was reached and the herds watered with comparatively
small losses, and both Loving's and Goodnight's outfits lay at rest for
three days to recuperate at Horsehead Crossing. Then the drive up the
wide, level valley of the Pecos was begun, through thickets of
_tornilla_ and _mesquite_, horses and cattle grazing belly-deep in the
tall, juicy _zacaton_.
The perils of the _Llano Estacado_ were behind them, but they were now
in the domain of the Comanche and in hourly danger of ambush or open
attack. They found a great deal of Indian "sign," their trails and
camps; but the "sign" was ten days or two weeks old, which left ground
for hope that the war parties might be out on raids in the east or
south. After travelling four days up the Pecos without encountering
any fresh "sign," they concluded that the Indians were off on some
foray; therefore it was decided that Loving might with reasonable
safety proceed ahead of the herds to make arrangements at Fort Sumner
for their delivery, provided he travelled only by night, and lay in
concealment during the day.
In Loving's outfit were two brothers, Jim and Bill Scott, who had
accompanied his two previous Pecos drives, and were his most
experienced and trusted men. He chose Jim Scott for his companion on
the dash through to Fort Sumner. When dark came, Loving mounted a
favourite mule, and Jim his best horse; then, each well armed with a
Henry rifle and two six-shooters, with a brief "So long, boys!" to
Goodnight and the men, they trotted off up the trail. Riding rapidly
all night, they hid themselves just before dawn in the rough hills
below Pope's Crossing, ate a snack, and then slept undisturbed till
nightfall. As soon as it was good dusk they slipped down a ravine to
the river, watered their mounts, and resumed the trail to the north.
This night also was uneventful, except that they rode into, and roused,
a great herd of sleeping buffalo, which ran thundering away over the
Plain.
Dawn came upon them riding through a level country about fifteen miles
below the present town of Carlsbad, without cover of any sort to serve
for their concealment through the day. They therefore decided to push
on to the hills above the mouth of Dark Cañon. Here was their mistake.
Had they ridden a mile or two to the west of the trail and dismounted
before daylight, they probably would not have been discovered. It was
madness for two men to travel by day in that country, whether fresh
sign had been seen or not. But, anxious to reach a hiding place where
both might venture to sleep through the day, they pressed on up the
trail. And they paid dearly the penalty of their foolhardiness.
Other riders were out that morning, riders with eyes keen as a hawk's,
eyes that never rested for a moment, eyes set in heads cunning as foxes
and cruel as wolves. A war party of Comanches was out and on the move
early, and, as is the crafty Indian custom, was riding out of sight in
the narrow valley below the well-rounded hills that lined the river.
But while hid themselves, their scouts were out far ahead, creeping
along just beneath the edge of the Plain, scanning keenly its broad
stretches, alert for quarry. And they soon found it.
Loving and Jim hove in sight!
To be sure they were only two specks in the distance, but the trained
eyes of these savage sleuths quickly made them out as horsemen, and
white men.
Halting for the main war party to come up, they held a brief council of
war, which decided that the attack should be delivered two or three
miles farther up the river, where the trail swerved in to within a few
hundred yards of the stream. So the scouts mounted, and the war party
jogged leisurely northward and took stand opposite the bend in the
trail.
On came Loving and Jim, unwarned and unsuspecting, their animals jaded
from the long night's ride. They reached the bend. And just as Jim,
pointing to a low round hill a quarter of a mile to the west of them,
remarked, "Thar'd be a blame good place to stan' off a bunch o'
Injuns," they were startled by the sound of thundering hoofs off on
their right to the east. Looking quickly round they saw a sight to
make the bravest tremble.
Racing up out of the valley and out upon them, barely four hundred
yards away, came a band of forty or fifty Comanche warriors, crouching
low on their horses' withers, madly plying quirt and heel to urge their
mounts to their utmost speed.
Their own animals worn out, escape by running was hopeless. Cover must
be sought where a stand could be made, so they whirled about and
spurred away for the hill Jim had noted. Their pace was slow at the
best. The Indians were gaining at every jump and had opened fire, and
before half the distance to the hill was covered a ball broke Loving's
thigh and killed his mule. As the mule pitched over dead,
providentially he fell on the bank of a buffalo-wallow--a circular
depression in the prairie two or three feet deep and eight or ten feet
in diameter, made by buffalo wallowing in a muddy pool during the rains.
Instantly Jim sprang to the ground, gave his bridle to Loving, who lay
helpless under his horse, and turned and poured a stream of lead out of
his Henry rifle that bowled over two Comanches, knocked down one horse,
and stopped the charge.
While the Indians temporarily drew back out of range, Jim pulled Loving
from beneath his fallen mule, and, using his neckerchief, applied a
tourniquet to the wounded leg which abated the hemorrhage, and then
placed him in as easy a position as possible within the shelter of the
wallow, and behind the fallen carcass of the mule. Then Jim led his
own horse to the opposite bank of the wallow, drew his bowie knife and
cut the poor beast's throat: they were in for a fight to the death,
and, outnumbered twenty to one, must have breastworks. As the horse
fell on the low bank and Jim dropped down behind him, Loving called out
cheerily:
"Reckon we're all right now, Jim, and can down half o' them before they
get us. Hell! Here they come again!"
A brief "Bet yer life, ole man. We'll make 'em settle now," was the
only reply.
Stripped naked to their waist-cloths and moccasins, with faces painted
black and bronze, bodies striped with vermilion, with curling buffalo
horns and streaming eagle feathers for their war bonnets, no warriors
ever presented a more ferocious appearance than these charging
Comanches. Their horses, too, were naked except for the bridle and a
hair rope loosely knotted round the barrel over the withers.
On they came at top speed until within range, when with that wonderful
dexterity no other race has quite equalled, each pushed his bent right
knee into the slack of the hair rope, seized bridle and horse's mane in
the left hand, curled his left heel tightly into the horse's flank, and
dropped down on the animal's right side, leaving only a hand and a foot
in view from the left. Then, breaking the line of their charge, the
whole band began to race round Loving's entrenchment in single file,
firing beneath their horses' necks and gradually drawing nearer as they
circled.
Loving and Jim wasted no lead. Lying low behind their breastworks
until the enemy were well within range, they opened a fire that knocked
over six horses and wounded three Indians. Balls and arrows were
flying all about them, but, well sheltered, they remained untouched.
The fire was too hot for the Comanches and they again withdrew.
Twice again during the day the Indians tried the same tactics with no
better result. Later they tried sharpshooting at long range, to which
Loving and Jim did not even reply. At last, late in the afternoon,
they resorted to the desperate measure of a direct charge, hoping to
ride over and shoot down the two white men. Up they came at a dead run
five or six abreast, the front rank firing as they ran. But, badly
exposed in their own persons, the fire from the buffalo-wallow made
such havoc in their front ranks that the savage column swerved, broke,
and retreated.
Night shut down. Loving and Jim ate the few biscuits they had baked
and some raw bacon. Then they counselled with one another. Their
thirst was so great, it was agreed they must have water at any cost.
They knew the Indians were unlikely to attempt another attack until
dawn, and so they decided to attempt to reach the stream shortly after
midnight. Although it was scarcely more than fifteen hundred yards,
that was a terrible journey for Loving. Compelled to crawl noiselessly
to avoid alarming the enemy, Jim could give him little assistance. But
going slowly, dragging his shattered leg behind him without a murmur,
Loving followed Jim, and they reached the river safely and drank.
It was now necessary to find new cover. For long distances the banks
of the Pecos are nearly perpendicular, and ten to twenty feet high. At
flood the swift current cuts deep holes and recesses in these banks.
Prowling along the margin of the stream, Jim found one of these
recesses wide enough to hold them both, and deep enough to afford good
defence against a fire from the opposite shore, Above them the bank
rose straight for twenty feet. Thus they could not be attacked by
firing, except from the other side of the river; and while the stream
was only thirty yards wide, the opposite bank afforded no shelter for
the enemy.
In the gray dawn the Indians crept in on the first entrenchment and
sprang inside the breastworks with upraised weapons, only to find it
deserted. However, the trail of Loving's dragging leg was plain, and
they followed it down to the river, where, coming unexpectedly in range
of the new defences, two of their number were killed outright.
Throughout the day they exhausted every device of their savage cunning
to dislodge Loving, but without avail. They soon found the opposite
bank too exposed and dangerous for attack from that direction. Burning
brush dropped from above failed to lodge before the recess, as they had
hoped it might. The position seemed impregnable, so they surrounded
the spot, resolved to starve the white men out.
Loving and Jim had leisure to discuss their situation. Loving was
losing strength from his wound. They had no food but a little raw
bacon. Without relief they must inevitably be starved out. It was
therefore agreed that Jim should try to reach Goodnight and bring aid.
It was a forlorn hope, but the only one. The herds must be at least
sixty miles back down the trail. Jim was reluctant to leave, but
Loving urged it as the only chance.
As soon as it was dark, Jim removed all but his under-clothing, hung
his boots round his neck, slid softly into the river, and floated and
swam down stream for more than a quarter of a mile. Then he crept out
on the bank. On the way he had lost his boots, which more than doubled
the difficulty and hardship of his journey. Still he struck bravely
out for the trail, through cactus and over stones. He travelled all
night, rested a few hours in the morning, resumed his tramp in the
afternoon, and continued it well-nigh through the second night.
Near morning, famished and weak, with feet raw and bleeding, totally
unable to go farther, Jim lay down in a rocky recess two or three
hundred yards from the trail, and went to sleep.
It chanced that the two outfits lay camped scarcely a mile farther down
the trail. At dawn they were again _en route_, and both passed Jim
without rousing or discovering him. Then a strange thing happened.
Three or four horses had strayed away from the "horse wrangler" during
the night, and Jim's brother Bill was left behind to hunt them.
Circling for their trail, he found and followed it, followed it until
it brought him almost upon the figure of a prostrate man, nearly naked,
bleeding, and apparently dead. Dismounting and turning the body over,
Bill was startled to find it to be his brother Jim. With great
difficulty Jim was roused; he was then helped to mount Bill's horse,
and hurried on to overtake the outfit. Coffee and a little food
revived him so that he could tell his story.
Neither danger nor property was considered where help was needed, in
those days. Goodnight instantly ordered six men to shift saddles to
their strongest horses, left the outfits to get on as best they might,
and spurred away with his little band to his partner's relief.
Loving had a close call the day after Jim left. The Comanches had
other plans to carry out, or perhaps they were grown impatient. In any
event, they crossed the river and raced up and down the bluff, firing
beneath their horses' necks. It was a miracle Loving was not hit; but,
lying low and watching his chance, he returned such a destructive fire
that the Comanches were forced to draw off. The afternoon passed
without alarm. As a matter of fact, the remaining Comanches had given
up the siege as too dear a bargain, and had struck off southwest toward
Guadalupe Peak.
When night came, Loving grew alarmed over his situation. Jim might be
taken and killed. Then no chance would remain for him where he lay.
He must escape through the Indians and try to reach the trail at the
crossing in the big bend four miles north. Here his own outfits might
reach him in time. Therefore, he started early in the night, dragged
himself painfully up the bluff, and reached the plain. He might have
lain down by the trail near by; but supposing the Comanches still
about, he set himself the task of reaching the big bend.
Starving, weak from loss of blood, his shattered thigh compelling him
to crawl, words cannot describe the horror of this journey. But he
succeeded. Love of life carried him through. And so, late the next
afternoon, the afternoon of the day Goodnight started to his relief,
Loving reached the crossing, lay down beneath a mesquite bush near the
trail, and fell into a swoon. Ever since, this spot has been known as
Loving's Bend. It is half a mile below the present town of Carlsbad.
At dusk of the evening on which Loving reached the ford, a large party
of Mexican freighters, travelling south from Fort Sumner to Fort
Stockton, arrived and pitched their camp near where he lay But Loving
did not hear them. He was far into the dark valley and within the very
shadow of Death. Help must come to him; he could not go to it.
Luckily it came.
While some were unharnessing the teams, others wert out to fetch
firewood. In the darkness one Mexican, thinking he saw a big mesquite
root, seized it and gave a tug. It was Loving's leg. Startled and
frightened, the Mexican yelled to his mates:
"_Que vienen, hombres! Que vienen por el amor de Dios! Aqui esta un
muerto._"
Others came quickly, but it was not a dead man they found, as their
mate had called. Dragged from under the mesquite and carried to the
fire, Loving was found still breathing. The spark of life was very
low, however, and the mescal given him as a stimulant did not serve to
rouse him from his stupor. But the next morning, rested somewhat from
his terrible hardships and strengthened by more mescal, he was able to
take some food and tell his story. The Mexicans bathed and dressed his
wound as well as they could, and promised to remain in camp until his
friends should come up.
Before noon Goodnight and his six men galloped in. They had reached
his entrenchment that morning, guided by the Indian sign around about
it, and had discovered and followed his trail. Goodnight hired a party
of the Mexicans to take one of their _carretas_ and convey Loving
through to Fort Sumner. With the Fort still more than two hundred
miles away, there was small hope he could survive the journey, but it
must be tried. A rude hammock was improvised and slung beneath the
canvas cover of the carreta, and, placed within it, Loving was made as
comfortable as possible. After a nine days' forced march, made chiefly
by night, the Mexicans brought their crazy old carreta safely into the
post.
While with rest and food Loving had been gaining in strength, the heat
and the lack of proper care were telling badly on his wound. Goodnight
had returned to the outfits, and, after staying with them a week, he
had brought them through as far as the Rio Penasco without further
mishap. Then placing the two herds in charge of the Scott brothers, he
himself made a forced ride that brought him into Sumner only one day
behind Loving.
Goodnight found his partner's condition critical. Gangrene had
attacked the wound. It was apparent that nothing but amputation of the
wounded leg could save him. The medical officer of the post was out
with a scouting cavalry detail, and only a hospital steward was
available for the operation. To trust the case to this man's
inexperience seemed murder. Therefore, Goodnight decided to send a
rider through to Las Vegas, the nearest point where a surgeon could be
obtained.
Here arose what seemed insuperable difficulties. From Fort Sumner to
Las Vegas the distance is one hundred and thirty miles. Much travelled
by freight teams carrying government supplies, the road was infested
throughout with hostile Navajos, for whom the freight trains were the
richest spoils they could have. Offer what he would, Goodnight could
find no one at the Fort bold enough to ride through alone and fetch a
surgeon. He finally raised his offer to a thousand dollars for any one
who would make the trip. It was a great prize, but the danger was
greater than the prize. No one responded. To go himself was
impossible; their contract must be fulfilled.
At this juncture a hero appeared. His name was Scot Moore. Moore was
the contractor then furnishing wood and hay to the post. Coming in
from one of his camps and learning of the dilemma, himself a friend of
Loving, he instantly went to Goodnight.
"Charlie," he said, "why in the world did you not send for me before?
Joe shall not die here like a dog if I can save him. I've got a young
Kentucky saddle mare here that's the fastest thing on the Pecos. I'll
be in Vegas by sun-up to-morrow morning, and I'll be back here sometime
to-morrow night with a doctor, if the Navajos don't get us. Pay? Pay
be damned. I'm doin' it for old Joe; he'd go for me in a minute. If
I'm not back by nine o'clock to-morrow night, Charlie, send another
messenger and just tell old Joe that Scot did his best."
"It's mighty good of you, Scot," replied Goodnight, "I never will
forget it, nor will Joe. You know I'd go myself if I could."
"That's all right, pardner," said Scot. "Just come over to my camp a
spell and look over some papers I want you to attend to if I don't show
up."
And they strolled away. Officers and other bystanders shook their
heads sadly.
"Devilish pity old Scot had to come in."
"Might 'a known nobody could hold him from goin'."
"He'll make Vegas all right in a night run if the mare don't give out,
but God help him when he starts back with a doctor in a wagon; ain't
one chance in a thousand he'll got through."
"Well, if any man on earth can make it, bet your _alce_ Scot will."
These were some of the comments. Scot Moore was known and loved from
Chihuahua to Fort Lyon. One of the biggest-hearted, most amiable and
generous of men, ha was known as the coolest and most utterly fearless
in a country where few men were cowards.
At nightfall, the mare well fed and groomed and lightly saddled, Scot
mounted, bearing no arms but his two pistols, called a careless "_Hasta
luego, amigos_" to his friends, and trotted off up the road. For two
hours he jogged along easily over the sandy stretches beyond the Bosque
Redondo. Then getting out on firmer ground, the mare well warmed, he
gave her the rein and let her out into a long, low, easy lope that
scored the miles off famously. And so he swept on throughout the
night, with only brief halts to cool the mare and give her a mouthful
of water, through Puerta de Luna, past the Cañon Pintado, up the Rio
Gallinas, past sleeping freighters' camps and Mexican _placitas_.
Twice he was fired upon by alarmed campers who mistook him for a savage
marauder, but luckily the shots flew wild.
The last ten miles the noble mare nearly gave out, but, a friend's life
the stake he was riding for, Scot's quirt and spurs lifted her through.
Half an hour after sunrise, before many in the town were out of bed,
Scot rode into the plaza of Las Vegas and turned out the doctor, whom
he knew.
Dr. D---- was no coward by any means, but it took all Scot's eloquence
and persuasiveness to induce him to consent to hazard a daylight
journey through to Sumner, for he well knew its dangers. Scarcely a
week passed without news of some fearful massacre or desperate defence.
But, stirred by Scot's own heroism or perhaps tempted by the heavy fee
to be earned, he consented.
Having breakfasted and gotten the best team in town hitched to a light
buckboard, Scot and the doctor were rolling away into the south on the
Sumner trail before seven o'clock, over long stretches of level grassy
mesa and past tall black volcanic buttes.
Driving on without interruption or incident, shortly after noon they
approached the head of the Arroyo de los Enteros, down which the trail
descended to the lower levels of the great Pecos Valley. Enteros Cañon
is about three miles long, rarely more than two hundred yards wide, its
sides rocky, precipitous, and heavily timbered, through which wound the
wagon trail, exposed at every point to a perfect ambuscade. It was the
most dreaded stretch of the Vegas-Sumner road, but Scot and the doctor
drew near it without a misgiving, for no sign of the savage enemy had
they seen.
Just before reaching the head of the cañon, the road wound round a high
butte. Bowling rapidly along, Scot half dozing with fatigue, the
doctor, unused to the plains, alert and watchful, they suddenly turned
the hill and came out upon the immediate head of the cañon, when
suddenly the doctor cried, seizing Scot's arm:
"Good God, Scott, look! For God's sake, look!"
And it was time. There on either hand, to their right and to their
left, tied by their lariats to drooping _piñon_ bough, stood fifty or
sixty Navajo ponies. The ponies were bridled and saddled. Upon some
were tied lances and on others arms. All were dripping with sweat and
heaving of flank, their knife-marked ears drooping with fatigue; not
more than five minutes could have elapsed since their murderous riders
had left them. Apparently it was an ambush laid for them, and they
were already surrounded. Even the cool Scot shook himself in surprise
to find that he was still alive.
Overcome with terror, the doctor cried: "Turn, Scot! Turn, for
Heaven's sake! It's our only chance to pull for Vegas."
But Scot had been reflecting. With wits sharpened by a thousand perils
and trained in scores of desperate encounters, he answered: "Doc,
you're wrong; dead wrong. We're safe as if we were in Fort Union. If
they were laying for us we'd be dead now. No, they are after bigger
game. They have sighted a big freight outfit coming up from the Pecos,
and are laying for that in the cañon. We can slide through without
seeing a buck or hearing a shot. We'll go right on down Entoros, old
boy."
"Scot, you're crazy," said the doctor. "I will not go a step. Let's
run for Vegas. Any instant we may be attacked. Why, damn your fool
soul, they've no doubt got a bead on us this minute."
With a sharp stroke of his whip, Scot started the team into a smart
trot down into the cañon. Then he turned to the doctor and quietly
answered: "Doc, you seem to forget that Joe Loving is dying, and that I
_promised_ to fetch you. Reckon you'll have to go!" And down they
went into what seemed the very jaws of death.
But Scot was right. It was a triumph of logic. The Navajos were
indeed lying for bigger game.
And so it happened that, come safely through the cañon, out two miles
on the plain they met a train off eight freight teams travelling toward
Vegas. They stopped and gave the freighters warning, told what they
had seen, begged them to halt and corral their wagons. But it was no
use. The freighters thought themselves strong enough to repel any
attack, and drove on into the cañon.
None of them came out.
And to this day the traveller through Enteros may see pathetic evidence
of their foolhardiness in a scattered lot of weather-worn and rusted
wheel tires and hub bands.
Before midnight Scot and the doctor reached Sumner, having changed
teams twice at Mexican _placitas_. Covering two hundred and sixty
miles in less than thirty hours, Scot Moore had kept his word!
Unhappily, however, Joe Loving had become so weak that he died under
the shock of the operation.
Now Scot Moore himself is dead and gone, but the memory of his heroic
ride should live as long as noble deeds are sung.