"COVERED WITH MUD AND GLORY."
As "Billy" Brackett predicted they would, the two boys did return to
camp in about fifteen minutes, covered with mud and glory. At least
Binney Gibbs was covered with mud, and they brought the glorious news
that there were several large though shallow pools of water not more
than half a mile away. Binney's mule having scented it, there was no
stopping him until he had rushed to it, and, as usual, flung his rider
over his head into the very middle of one of the shallow ponds. Glen had
reached the place just in time to witness this catastrophe, and to roar
with laughter at the comical sight presented by his companion, as the
latter waded ruefully from the pond, dripping mud and water from every
point.
"You take to water as naturally as a young duck, Binney!" he shouted, as
soon as his laughter gave him a chance for words.
"No, indeed, I don't," sputtered poor Binney. "But somehow water always
seems to take to me, and I can get nearly drowned when nobody else can
find a drop to drink. As for that mule, I believe he thinks I wouldn't
know how to get off his back if he didn't pitch me off."
In less than a minute after the boys got back with their report of
water, half the men in camp were hastening towards it, and the entire
herd of animals, in charge of a couple of teamsters, was galloping madly
in the same direction. The ponds were the result of a heavy local rain
of the night before; and, within a couple of days, would disappear in
the sandy soil as completely as though they had never existed; but they
served an admirable purpose, and the whole party was grateful to Binney
Gibbs's mule for discovering them.
So refreshed were the men by their unexpected bath, and so strengthened
were the animals by having plenty of water with both their evening and
morning meals, that the survey of the following day covered twenty-four
miles. It was the biggest day's work of transit and level on record, and
could only have been accomplished under extraordinary circumstances.
This was the hardest day of the three to bear. The heat of the sun,
shining from an unclouded sky, was intolerable. As far as the eye could
reach there was no shadow, nor any object to break the terrible monotony
of its glare. A hot wind from the south whirled the light soil aloft in
suffocating clouds of dust. The men of the three divisions were becoming
desperate. They knew that this killing pace could not be maintained much
longer, and the twenty-four mile run was the result of a tremendous
effort to reach the Arkansas River that day.
From each eminence, as they crossed it, telescope, field-glasses, and
straining eyes swept the sky-line in the hope of sighting the longed-for
river. Late in the afternoon some far away trees and a ribbon of light
were lifted to view against the horizon by the shimmering heat waves;
but this was at once pronounced to be only the tantalizing vision of the
mirage.
So, in a dry camp, the exhausted men and thirsty animals passed the
night. The latter, refusing to touch the parched grass or even their
rations of corn, made the hours hideous with their cries, and spent
their time in vain efforts to break their fastenings that they might
escape and seek to quench their burning thirst.
But even this night came to an end; and, with the first eastern streaks
of pink and gold so exquisitely beautiful through the rarefied
atmosphere of this region, the surveyors were once more in the field.
There was no merriment now, nor life in the work. It went on amid a
dogged silence. The transit and level were lifted slowly, as though they
were made of lead. The chain was dragged wearily along at a walk. It was
evident that the limit of endurance was nearly reached. Scouts were sent
out on both sides to search for water. There was no use sending anybody
ahead to hunt up that mirage, or at least so thought General Lyle. His
maps showed the river to be miles away; but they also showed a large
creek, not far to the westward; and towards this the hopes of the party
were turned. On the maps it was called "Sand Creek," a name made
infamous forever by a massacre of Indians, mostly women and children,
that took place on its banks in November, 1864. Then it had contained
water; but now it was true to its name, and the dispirited scouts,
returning from it, reported that its bed was but a level expanse of dry,
glistening sand.
As this report was being made, there came a quick succession of shots
from the front, and a thrill of new life instantly pervaded the whole
party. What could they indicate, if not good news of some kind. The
first division had completed its two miles, and the second was running
the line. "Billy" Brackett was preparing for one of his famous mile
sights at the front flag, with which Glen Eddy, riding beside Mr.
Hobart, was wearily toiling up a distant slope. Gazing at them through
his fine telescope, the transit-man could not at first understand their
extraordinary actions as they reached the top. He saw Glen fling up his
hat, and Mr. Hobart fire his pistol into the air. Then Glen waved his
flag, while the division engineer seemed to be pointing to something in
front of them.
"Well, quit your fooling and give me a sight, can't you?" growled
"Billy" Brackett to himself, but directly afterwards he shouted to those
near him, "I believe they've found water, and shouldn't wonder if they'd
located the Arkansas itself." Then he got his "sight," waved "all right,"
mounted his mule, shouldered the transit, and galloped away.
He was right; they had located the Arkansas, and the alleged mirage of
the evening before had been a reality after all. That night of suffering
had been spent within five miles of one of the largest rivers that cross
the Plains.
As Glen and Mr. Hobart reached the crest of that long slope they saw its
grassy valley outspread before them. They saw the scattered timber
lining its banks, and, best of all, they saw the broad, brown flood
itself, rolling down to join the distant Mississippi. By shots and
wavings they tried to communicate the joyful intelligence to those who
toiled so wearily behind them, and "Billy" Brackett, watching them
through his transit, had understood.
They waited on the ridge until he joined them, and then hastened away
towards the tempting river. When the next foresight was taken Glen's
flag was planted on the edge of that famous old wagon-road of the
Arkansas Valley known to generations of Plainsmen as the Santa Fe Trail.
Glen had hardly waved his "all right" to the transit, before the wagons
came tearing down the slope with their mules on the keen run. The
perishing animals had seen the life-giving waters, and it was with the
greatest difficulty that they were restrained from rushing into the
river, wagons and all. The drivers only just succeeded in casting loose
the trace-chains, when each team, with outstretched necks and husky
brayings, plunged in a body over the bank and into the river, burying
their heads up to their eyes in the cooling flood. It seemed as though
they would drink themselves to death, and when they finally, consented
to leave the river and turn their attention to the rich grasses of its
bottom-lands, they were evidently water-logged. It would be hours before
they were again fit for work.
But nobody wanted them to work. Not until the next morning would the
wagons move again. The splendid runs of the last three days had earned a
rest for men and animals alike. So it was granted them, and no
schoolboys ever enjoyed a half-holiday more. What a luxury it was to
have plenty of water again, not only to drink, but actually to wash with
and bathe in! And to lie in the shade of a tree! Could anything be more
delicious?
At sunrise the line was resumed; and, still working together, the three
divisions ran it for fifty miles up the broad valley of the Arkansas.
A few days after striking the river they passed Bent's Fort, one of the
most famous of the old Plains trading-posts built by individuals long
before troops were sent out to occupy the land.
Its usefulness as a trading-station had nearly departed, for already the
Indians were leaving that part of the country, and those who remained
were kept too busy fighting to have any time for trading. Its stout log
stockade was, however, valuable to its builder as a protection against
attacks from Indians led by one of his own sons. Their mother was a
Cheyenne squaw, and though they, together with their only sister, had
been educated in St. Louis, the same as white children, they had
preferred to follow the fortunes of their mother's people on returning
to the Plains. Now the Cheyennes had no more daring leader than George
Bent, nor was there a girl in the tribe so beautiful as his sister. The
little fort, admirably located on a high bluff overlooking the river,
was filled with a curious mixture of old Plainsmen, Indians, half-breed
children, ponies, mules, burros, and pet fawns. It was a place of noise
and confusion at once bewildering and interesting.
At the end of fifty miles from the point at which they entered the
Arkansas Valley, the explorers caught their first glimpse of the Rocky
Mountains, two white clouds that they knew to be the snow-capped summits
of the Spanish Peaks, a hundred miles away.
Here the expedition was divided. The first and third divisions were to
cross the river and proceed southwesterly, by way of the Raton Mountains
and Fort Union, to Santa Fe; while Mr. Hobart was to take the second
still farther up the Arkansas Valley, and almost due west to the famous
Sangre de Cristo Pass through the mountains, just north of the Spanish
Peaks. For two weeks longer they worked their way slowly but steadily
across the burning Plains, towards the mountains that almost seemed to
recede from them as they advanced; though each day disclosed new peaks,
while those already familiar loomed up higher and grander with every
mile. Finally they were so near at hand that the weary toilers, choked
with the alkaline dust of the Plains, and scorched with their fervent
heat, could feast their eyes on the green slopes, cool, dark valleys,
and tumbling cascades, rushing down from glittering snow-fields. How
they longed to be among them, and with what joy did they at length leave
the treeless country of which they were so tired and enter the timbered
foot-hills!
Now, how deliciously cool were the nights, and how they enjoyed the
roaring camp-fires. What breathless plunges they took in ice-cold
streams of crystal water. How good fresh venison tasted after weeks of
salt bacon and dried buffalo meat, and how eagerly they ate raw onions,
and even raw potatoes, obtained at the occasional Mexican ranches found
nestled here and there in the lower valleys.
"I tell you," said Glen to Binney Gibbs, who had by this time become his
firm friend, "it pays to go without fresh vegetables for a couple of
months, just to find out what fine things onions and potatoes are."