At that point we parted with our four guests, who had contributed,
by their fund of wit and humor, to render the journey pleasant, and
had added much to our merriment at meal times. It required, however,
a stronger sense of humor than I possessed to be merry at breakfast,
eaten in semi-darkness, after having been awakened with military
precision.
It was certainly not cheerful to watch the tent and its furnishings
disappear in the wagon while we sat trying to imagine ourselves
breakfasting, with the sharp morning air of February chilling, or
the March winds blowing about us. When the dreary meal was over we
scrambled into our ambulance, and by the time a few miles had been
passed I would be fairly awake and longing for lunch time.
The strangest part of those travels is that children thrive so well,
and really enjoy every moment of the journey, however monotonous.
My baby could not walk, and I was glad of it; for a more thorny,
desolate country than that it has never been my lot to traverse.
The innumerable beds of cacti were the spots most delighted in by
children, and I rejoiced that baby had no chance of being lost among
those dangerous plants.
After leaving Tucson, we passed many lonely graves dispersed over
the weird desolation of that uninhabited space, and soon learned to
discern where savage Apaches had moved. With our escort of fifty
well-mounted men we had nothing to fear; but those mounds of stones,
appealing in mute silence to the passer by, touched me deeply.
On arriving at the different stage stations we generally rested a
while, and usually found there some poor woman who was working day
and night to assist her husband, and with whom I always made it a
custom to converse. The comparison of the lives of those women with
mine caused me to feel additional sympathy for them, and gratitude on
my own account.
Notwithstanding our large escort, it was necessary to proceed with
great caution, for one never could tell what might happen when
passing through the mountainous regions of Southern Arizona. Camp
Bowie, at which we remained three days, was nestled amid high
mountains, and Indians often appeared on the bluffs above, from which
they fired recklessly and sometimes effectively. A large guard was
always detailed to watch the outposts; and yet so subtle, as is well
known, are Indians, that although close at hand they were seldom
caught.
One evening while we were at Camp Bowie an Indian crept into the
stables, and while the sentry was pacing to and fro at the farther
end, mounted a fine horse standing near the entrance, and with a
yell of victory horse and rider disappeared. He well knew that once
mounted, pursuit could be defied.
That strange little fort in the very heart of the mountain fastness
sheltered a number of women and children. As usual, we received a
hearty welcome, and were feasted and _fêted_ in true army fashion.
The post surgeon vacated his room in our honor; for which we were
very grateful, especially when one of those terrible mountain
blizzards came on, in which clouds of dust so thick are formed that
objects cannot be distinguished at a distance of ten feet. The room
we occupied was built of logs, and dust blew through the crevices
until it seemed as if we were a part of the universal grit. The tents
were simply uninhabitable, though before our destination was reached
we were compelled to occupy them through what seemed fully as severe
a storm.
Officers have the habit of beautifying their quarters all
circumstances permit; and our friend the doctor, who had incommoded
himself for us, was no exception to the general rule. The rough
mud ceiling of his room had been covered with unbleached cotton;
and shelves, mostly laden with books, were suspended from rafters
by means of the same material torn into strips. One hanging over
the open fireplace was crowded with bottles of all sizes and
descriptions, which contained every form of vermin and reptile life
to be found in that region. In the eyes of one unaccustomed to such
sights it would, indeed, have been an alarming display.
The collection embraced centipeds, scorpions, tarantulas in their
hideous blackness, and snakes of all kinds—at least those small
enough to be bottled. They were not elegant mantel ornaments, but
having been long accustomed to such sights I did not mind them. It
was, however, altogether another matter to be brought in actual
contact with the monstrosities, as happened on the second night of
the storm.
We were thoroughly worn out combating the omnipresent dust, and had
retired early, when a tremendous crash suddenly awakened us from
sound sleep. At first we thought the end of the world had come;
but soon discovered that the shelf containing bottled tenants had
fallen. It was some time before a light could be procured; for
matches and lamps, as well as clocks and watches, were all buried
under the _débris_.
No description can do justice to the scene. Everything upon the
shelf, ornamental as well as useful, formed a conglomerate mass, over
which the liberated monstrosities were scattered in every direction.
The doctor apologized for the accident, but we were none the worse,
and it added one more to the list of funny experiences that were
often afterward laughed over.
From Camp Bowie our road lay through grand and gorgeous mountain
scenery to Fort Cummings, in south-western New Mexico. A mountain
pass on that route has been the scene of more Indian atrocities than
any other spot in the entire Apache region. Magnificent Cook’s Peak
has looked down upon more outrages than time can ever efface. The
stage road wound through this pass for years, and the number of times
the Indians have brutally murdered passengers is countless. Even now
that a railroad has superseded the stage, it is a place of terror to
most travelers, and the history of its bloody battles and massacres
would fill volumes.
We remained at Fort Cummings one day, and found it indeed a wretched
place, devoid of all attractions save the kind friends who made us so
welcome.
Another day’s march brought us to Fort Selden, on the Rio Grande,
from whence we caught our first glimpse of that strange river. Rising
in Southern Colorado, a beautifully clear stream, it flows on for
hundreds and hundreds of miles, changing color as frequently as does
the famous chameleon. Now it is bright and sparkling, again dull and
sluggish, and anon disappears completely, to reappear with added
volume and intensity. How many have been deceived by that treacherous
river! Trusting to its apparently listless course, travelers have
been suddenly swept away in a mad, headlong current, which absorbed
their lives as the vampire is said to do those of his prey. Ah! if
the casualties that have occurred on the Rio Grande could be written,
each of its victims adding but one line to the record, what a strange
and fearful story would be told.
There is a tradition to the effect that any one tasting its waters
will be compelled, by some strange, subtle charm or influence,
to return, even though after the lapse of years. Certain it is
that people always long to again experience its strange and weird
fascination, which seems really to follow them, and from which there
is no respite until the mighty stream is actually revisited.
The Rio Grande, which I first saw twenty years ago, has often charmed
me since. Though not often again in the same region, I have elsewhere
followed its banks for miles, and the borders of no other river it
has ever been my fortune to gaze upon, present so many varieties
of life. Desolation and beautiful verdure are mingled; while its
fruitful produce tends to make the country, which without its
beneficent influence would indeed be a desert, a very paradise.
But I would not forestall my narrative by saying too much of this
river, to which I so often returned, and which finally became like a
familiar friend, a part of my very life itself.
We left the Rio Grande at Don Aña, and struck off into beautiful,
piney Lincoln County, New Mexico, where we had a happy home for
another year. Before reaching there we encamped for one night at
White Sands, memorable on account of the peculiarity of its soil. A
perfectly wonderful mass of pure white sand, which lay in hillocks,
extended far as the eye could reach. We climbed onward, our feet
sinking in slightly, just enough to remind us of “footsteps on the
sands of time.” Those sand hillocks had existed from time immemorial,
and will remain for ages to come, I suppose, unless some commercial
mind shall divine their value and utilize the white commodity, by
converting it into a merchantable article. I am glad to have seen
them in their spotless purity and beauty.
The remainder of our journey to dear old Fort Stanton was through
exquisite forests of mountain pines, and beside clear streams that
yielded delicious trout.