Fort Mojave, at that time a mere collection of adobe buildings with
no special pretensions to comfort, stood on the eastern bank of the
Colorado River. It seemed to me, except for the extreme heat which
made it an uncomfortable sleeping-place, a very haven of rest. The
muddy river sluggishly wound its way to the gulf many miles below,
and nine months of the year the temperature of every place on its
banks was torrid. Fort Yuma, at its mouth, was noted for being a
veritable Tophet.
A yarn illustrative of the general opinion of its climate is told of
a soldier who ventured out in the middle of a July day, and never
returned. Diligent search served only to discover a huge grease-spot
and pile of bones on the parade ground.
Another tradition, very hackneyed to army ears, is that of a soldier
famous for his wickedness, who, having died, reappeared, and was seen
hunting for his blankets; the inference being that the warm place to
which he had been assigned was not hot enough for one accustomed to
Fort Yuma’s climate.
All ladies who have lived there supplement these ridiculous tales
with more credible ones. It is quite true that eggs, if not gathered
as soon as laid, were sure to be roasted if the sun shone on them.
It is also a fact that those who had leisure to do so spent the
greater part of their time in the bath, and Indians would remain in
the stream for hours at a time, their heads covered with mud as a
protection from the sun’s rays.
I soon realized that not being obliged to remain in so warm a climate
was a favor, and rejoiced greatly when once more fairly _en route_,
although the two days had been very pleasantly passed. We were
furnished with a pair of mules, so our poor little mare could be led
the remainder of the way, and we had as escort two men who were sent
into Arizona with the weekly mails.
Our first day’s travel was pleasant; but when night came on we were
alarmed at the number of signal fires on all sides, which indicated
the near presence of hostile Indians. I shall never forget the shock
experienced when I first realized that we were in danger from such a
source. The past year had so accustomed me to Indians, that it seemed
as if all tribes were harmless; yet the constant wariness of our
escort soon convinced me of the contrary.
The part of Arizona through which we were then passing was such an
agreeable contrast to our weary desert journey that I thoroughly
enjoyed the beautiful pine lands; and the change, as we ascended
daily into more mountainous regions, was delightful. Our second day
from Fort Mojave, and the twelfth of that long journey, however,
considerably dampened my ardor.
The road had been rough from the start, but nothing to be compared
with what we then experienced. After a tedious ascent a long hill
was reached, seemingly miles in length, and which must be descended
amid boulders strewn all over the road. I was compelled to walk, with
baby in my arms, picking my way as best I could from one rock to
another. The time occupied in making the descent was three hours. My
fatigue can hardly be imagined.
The wagon wheels were lashed together by ropes, which were held by
men on either side; and even then the vehicle fairly bounded onward,
each leap almost wrenching it asunder. I expected every moment to see
it lying in ruins. That such was not its fate was entirely due to the
care Mr. Boyd and the men took in guiding it safely between and over
the boulders.
No hill I have ever since seen was like that, and no words are
adequate to give any idea of its horrors. I felt every moment as if
a single mis-step would launch my infant and self into eternity,
and wondered if I could survive the fatigue, even if successful in
placing my feet carefully enough to escape the greater danger. When
finally our little company at the foot of the hill was reached, I
sank, completely exhausted. Many days passed before I could step
without feeling the effects of that terrible scramble in mid-air.
We had hoped to reach our destination in four days after leaving Fort
Mojave; but each day seemed longer than its predecessor, especially
as dangers increased. Our second night was spent in a military camp,
and a detachment of troops guarded the highway. I could no longer
doubt the necessity of exercising constant vigilance against hostile
foes.
Every animal in the temporary stables had been maimed in some manner
by Indians, who would steal in under cover of darkness and shoot
whatever living thing they saw. The men were always in peril, even in
their tents; and the officer in charge did not lessen in any degree
my uneasiness when he showed me how his tent had been riddled in many
places by bullets. He was then recovering from the effects of a
wound received while pursuing Indians.
We had breakfasted, and were about ready to start next morning,
when our attention was called to Indians’ footprints all over the
garden spot which the troops had prepared for their hoped-for supply
of vegetables. Alas for the poor people who in those days thought
to make fortunes out West! No amount of energy, perseverance, or
endurance, to say nothing of hardships bravely borne, could ward off
the cruel Indians.
Although it may be justly said that our dealings with the red men
were the primary cause of all the suffering, yet could the hundreds
of settlers who lost their lives while endeavoring to make homes for
themselves in the West be avenged, not an Indian would be left to
tell the tale. My heart was wrung during those travels, when, every
hour of the day, we passed a pile of stones that marked a grave.
Arizona seemed to me a very burying-ground—a huge cemetery—for men
and women killed by Indians.
In after-years I agreed perfectly with the common army belief
that attempting to settle a ranch in either Arizona or New Mexico
was simply courting an inevitable fate—death at the hands of
ruthless Indians. History was ever new in those regions, and kept
ever repeating itself. I frequently heard it said, referring to a
comparatively recent settler:
“Well, his time will surely come.”
Whenever a ranch was in an exceptionally isolated region, the sequel
would be accelerated. Indian horrors were every-day occurrences;
and yet I never grew accustomed to them. Long residence among those
much-abused frontiersmen taught me to feel that the early martyrs
suffered little in comparison with the constant peril in which they
lived.
But to return to our journey and its growing dangers. A number
of soldiers escorted us through a perilous cañon outside of the
little detachment post, where, at ten o’clock, our officer friend
reluctantly bade us adieu, saying we were in great danger. Could his
post have been left with safety, he would willingly have escorted us
farther.
We rode on, feeling indeed very anxious, and soon met a Major of
the Eighth Cavalry, who with an escort of sixteen men had been
peppered by Indians’ bullets in a cañon through which we must pass
the same day. As the escort of two men with which we left Camp Cady
had not been augmented, our feelings may be imagined. There was no
alternative; go on we must.
I now see that we were then too young and inexperienced to realize
the dangers of our terrible position. It was, however, soon
understood, and before entering the cañon at six o’clock that evening
all warlike preparations possible under the circumstances had been
made. A civilian had joined our party at Fort Mojave, and thus there
were three outriders. The two sabres in our wagon overhead we took
down and unsheathed, so that, when thrust out on either side, there
seemed to be four weapons—at least we hoped the Indians would think
so, and unless they came very close, the dim light would favor our
deception. The gun was placed so it could be used at a moment’s
notice. I held one pistol, and Mr. Boyd the other. The soldiers,
with their bayonets bristling, looked as warlike as possible;
and altogether we relied upon what eventually saved our lives—an
appearance of strength which we in no wise possessed.
We had been told that the Indians, at least in that region, never
attacked unless confident of victory; and we knew that unless they
were directly beside us, the appearance our wagon presented, so
covered they could not see its interior, and seemingly full of
weapons, would indicate a well-armed party of men. Instead, there
was one man, handicapped by the care of his team and the helpless
nature of his charges—a feeble woman, an infant, and a diminutive
heathen, who on perceiving the active preparations being made for
resisting what he had so feared, became literally green with terror
and altogether useless.
The cañon was so precipitous on both sides that we seemed to be
traveling between two high walls. The rocks were of that treacherous
gray against which I had been told an Indian could so effectually
conceal himself as to seem but a part of them. The entire region
was weird and awful. The sides of the cañon towered far above us to
almost unseen heights, and as we slowly drove onward, our hearts
quivered with excitement and fear at the probability of an attack.
We had proceeded some little distance and were feeling considerably
relieved, when suddenly a fearful Indian war-whoop arose. It was so
abrupt, and seemed such a natural outcome of our fears, that only
for repeated repetitions I could have believed it imaginary. Others,
however, quickly followed, so no doubt could be entertained of their
reality. I had only sufficient consciousness to wonder when we should
die, and how. I glanced involuntarily at our Chinese servant, who was
crouched in one corner of the wagon in a most pitiable heap, and
then at our poor little baby, bundled in many wraps and sleeping in
her basket. All were silent. No word was uttered, and no sound heard
but the lashing of the whip that urged forward our mules. Although
they fairly leaped onward, yet we seemed to crawl. Cruel death was
momentarily expected.
At last, and it seemed ages, we were out of the cañon and on open
ground. Even then no time was lost. The mules were still hurried on.
I have often thought that, like Tennyson’s brook, we might have “gone
on forever” had not a large party of freighters soon been reached,
who were camping in front of a blazing wood fire. Their presence
gave us that sense of companionship and security so sorely needed.
We joined them; and while I sat in the blaze of their fire, Mr. Boyd
recounted our perilous ride. The conclusion was reached that we
had been spared only because apparently so well prepared to resist
attack. Any doubts which might have been entertained concerning the
presence of foes in the cañon were dispelled by what followed.
I crawled that night under a wagon, for my nerves were too shattered
to sleep without some kind of shelter if it could be procured, and
my last waking thought was that our companions for the night would
have to pass next morning through the same dangerous cañon, their
destination being California. They started first, and one of the
superintendents—there were two in the party—foolishly disregarded
our warning and lagged behind. His mangled body was afterwards found
horribly mutilated on the very spot where we had heard the Indians’
fearful yells.
It was a well-known fact that the savages would lurk for days in one
place, and if disappointed by any party being too numerous or well
armed, would invariably later on destroy some careless straggler.
The freighters, having escaped such dangers again and again, would
frequently become reckless, when they were almost sure to finally
fall victims to their lack of caution.