PHIL'S LETTER
Now began the great march. The whole train was filled with an
extraordinary animation. South to Taylor! South to the Rio Grande!
South to join the forlorn hope against the Mexican masses! It appealed
to them more than Santa Fe had ever appealed. Wild spirits, thrilling
with the love of adventure and the hope of battle, they had before them
the story of Texas and its gallant and victorious stand against
overwhelming numbers. They knew every detail of that desperate and
successful struggle, and they felt that they could do as well. Indeed,
among them were some who had been mere boys at San Jacinto, and they
began to talk of Sam Houston and that glorious war, of Goliad and of the
Alamo, when the last man fell.
But while they talked they worked. In their zeal and enthusiasm they
forgot that not one man in ten had closed his eyes the night before,
and, a half hour after the brief breakfast was finished, they started
again. It was a long journey, but they were prepared for it, and they
moved steadily onward all through the day. Two or three times single
horsemen were seen through the field glasses, but they were so far away
none could tell whether they were Indians or Mexicans. Middleton,
however, was firmly convinced that they would not be attacked again, at
least not by the same forces which had been making so much trouble for
them.
"There isn't much profit in hunting us," he said, "we are too difficult
game, and the hunter has suffered more damage than the hunted.
Moreover, de Armijo will want to join the main Mexican army near the Rio
Grande. More glory is to be won there, and, if I mistake not, he is an
exceedingly ambitious man. But the Comanches will leave so formidable a
foe to snap up wandering hunters or small parties."
Middleton's theory seemed probable, but they did not relax the watch.
That night half the men stood guard until midnight, and the other half
until morning. The whole night passed in complete peace. There was not
a single shot at the sentinels. The only sounds they heard were the
lonesome howls of coyotes far out on the plain. Phil, Breakstone, and
Arenberg were in the first watch, and they walked back and forth
together in a little segment of the circle about thirty yards from the
wagons. They talked more than usual, as they shared in the general
belief that there would be no further attack, at least, not yet.
The night, in truth, was in sharp contrast with the one that had
preceded it. There was no rain and no wind, the sky was just a peaceful
blue, cut by the white belt of the Milky Way, and with the great stars
dancing in myriad pools of light. Strife and battle seemed far away and
forgotten.
"It will take us a long time to reach General Taylor on the Rio Grande
or beyond, where he iss likely to be," said Arenberg.
"A couple of months, maybe," said Breakstone.
"And then," continued Arenberg, "we do not know how long we will have to
stay there. We do not know what great battles we will have to fight,
and if we live through it all it may be a year, two years, until we can
come back into the North."
"Not so long as that, I think," replied Breakstone.
Phil noticed Arenberg's melancholy tone, and once more he wondered what
this man's quest might be. Evidently it did not lie to the south, for to
him alone the turning from the old course had caused pain. He could not
keep from showing sympathy.
"I feel that all of us will come back sooner or later, Mr. Arenberg," he
said, "and we will go on in the way we chose first, and to success."
The German put his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
"There are no prophets in these days," he said, "but now and then there
iss a prophecy that comes true, and it may be that our God puts it in
the mouth of a boy like you, instead of that of an older man. You
strengthen my weak faith, Philip."
His tone was so solemn and heartfelt that the other two were silent.
Surely the motive that drew Arenberg into the wilderness was a most
powerful one! They could not doubt it. They walked without saying more
until it was twelve when Bill Breakstone dropped his rifle from his
shoulder with a great sigh of relief.
"It's just occurred to me that I haven't slept a wink for thirty-six
hours," he said, "and I'm going to make up for lost time as soon as I
can."
"Me, too," said Phil.
"Much sleep iss meant by me, also," said Arenberg.
Phil concluded to sleep in a wagon that night, and, in order to enjoy
the full luxury of rest, he undressed for the first time in several
days. Then he found a soft place in some bags of meal, covered himself
with a blanket, and shut his eyes.
He had a wonderful sense of safety and comfort. After so much hardship
and danger, this was like a king's bed, and the royal guards were
outside to keep away harm. It was extraordinary how some sacks of flour
and an army blanket could lull one's senses into golden ease.
He heard a few noises outside, a sentinel exchanging a word with
another, the stamp of a restless horse's hoof, and then, for the last
time, the long, lonesome howl of the coyote. A minute after that he was
asleep. When he awoke the next day he felt that he was moving. He
heard the cracking of whips and the sound of many voices. He sprang up,
lifted the edge of the wagon cover, and looked out. There was the whole
train, moving along at its steady, even pace, and a yellow sun, at least
four hours high, was sailing peacefully in blue heavens. Phil, ashamed
of himself, hurried on his clothes and sprang out of his wagon at the
rear. The first man he saw was Bill Breakstone, who was walking instead
of riding.
"Bill," he exclaimed indignantly, "here I've been sleeping all the
morning, while the rest of you fellows have been up and doing!"
"Don't you worry yourself, Sir Philip of the Wagon and the Great Sleep,"
replied Bill Breakstone grinning. "A good wilderness rover rests when he
can, and doesn't rest when he can't. Now you could rest, and it was the
right thing for you to do. I haven't been up myself more than half an
hour, while Captain Middleton and Arenberg are still asleep. Now, my
merry young sir, I hope that will satisfy you."
"It does," replied Phil, his conscience satisfied, "and between you and
me, Bill, it seems to me that we have come out of our troubles so far
mighty well."
"We have," replied Bill Breakstone emphatically. "The curtain has gone
down on act one, with honest and deserving fellows like you and myself
on top. Act two hasn't begun yet, but meanwhile the winds blow softly,
the air is pure, and we'll enjoy ourselves."
"Have you seen anything of our Comanche and Mexican friends?"
"Not a peep. We're marching in looser order now, because if they came
we'd have ample time to form in battle array after we saw them."
But no enemy appeared that day nor the next day, and they rode south for
many days in peace. Although eager to reach the Rio Grande as soon as
possible, they were too wise to hurry the animals. The steady, measured
pace was never broken, and they took full rest at night. They stopped
sometimes to kill game and replenish their supplies of food. They found
plenty of buffalo, and the most skillful of the hunters also secured all
the antelope that they wished. Now and then they crossed a river that
contained fish, and they added to their stores from these, also.
They were now far into the summer, but the grass was still green,
although the heat at times was great, and rain fell but seldom. The
character of the vegetation changed as they went south. Bill Breakstone
defined it as an increase of thorns. The cactus stood up in strange
shapes on the plain, but along the banks of the creeks they found many
berries that were good to the taste. Four weeks after the turn to the
south they met two messengers coming from the direction of Santa Fe and
bound for the mouth of the Rio Grande. They were American soldiers in
civilian dress whom Middleton knew, and with whom it had evidently been
a part of his plan to communicate. He received from them important
news, over which he pondered long, but, some time after the two men had
disappeared under the horizon to the eastward, he spoke of it to Phil,
Breakstone, and Arenberg.
"They have heard much," he said, "but it comes largely through Mexican
channels. It is said that an American force from one of the Western
States is moving on Santa Fe, and that it is likely to fall into our
hands. It is said, also, that Taylor's advance into Mexico has been
stopped, and that another army under Scott is to go by sea to Vera Cruz,
and thence attempt to capture the City of Mexico. I don't know! I
don't know what it all means! Can it be possible that Taylor has been
beaten and driven back? But we shall see!"
"I know Taylor can't have been beaten," said Phil; "but I'll be mighty
glad when we reach the Rio Grande and find out for sure everything that
is going on."
"That's so," said Bill Breakstone.
"News is contrary,
But we'll go;
Our views vary,
But we'll know.
Although we'll have to wait a long time about it, as Texas runs on
forever."
The tenor of the messages soon spread through the train, and increased
the desire to push on; yet neither Middleton nor Woodfall deemed it wise
to give the animals too great a task for fear of breaking them down.
Instead, they resolutely maintained their even pace, and bearing now to
the eastward, still sought that Great River of the North which is
greater in history and political importance than it is in water.
The time, despite the anxieties that they all shared, was not unpleasant
to Phil. He enjoyed the free life of the wilderness and the vast
plains. He saw how men were knitted together by common hardship and
common danger. He knew every man and liked them all; hence, all liked
him. He could never meet one of them in after life without a throb of
emotion, a sense of great fellowship, and a sudden vivid picture of
those days rising before him. He also learned many things that were of
value. He knew how to mend any part of a wagon, he understood the
troubles of horses, and he could handle a mule with a tact and skill
that were almost uncanny.
"I suppose that mules, being by nature contrary animals, _like_ Phil,"
said Bill Breakstone. "I've always behaved decently toward them, but I
never knew one yet to like me."
"You want to treat a mule not like an animal but like a human being,"
said Arenberg. "They know more than most men, anyhow. It iss all in
the way you approach them. I know how it ought to be done, although I
can't always do it."
Many such talks beguiled the way. Meanwhile Phil could fairly feel
himself growing in size and strength, and he longed like the others for
the sight of Taylor and his army. The idea of taking part in a great
war thrilled him, and it might also help him in his search. Meanwhile,
the summer waned, and they were still in Texas. It seemed that they
might ride on forever and yet not reach that famous Rio Grande. The
grass turned brown on the plains, the nights grew cooler, and two
northers chilled them to the bone. Several times they saw Comanches
hovering like tiny black figures against the horizon, but they never
came near enough for a rifle shot. Twice they met hunters and scouts who
confirmed the earlier news obtained from the two messengers from the
westward. Taylor, beyond a doubt, had halted a hundred and fifty or two
hundred miles beyond the Rio Grande. There was even a rumor that he had
been captured. This might or might not be true, but there was no doubt
of the fact that an advance on the City of Mexico, due southward by
land, was no longer intended. The report that Scott was to lead the army
by way of Vera Cruz was confirmed. Middleton was troubled greatly, as
Phil could see.
"I don't like the looks of this," he confided to his three most intimate
associates, who, of course, were Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg.
"I can't believe that Taylor has been taken--he isn't that kind of a
man--but this stripping him of his forces to strengthen Scott will leave
him almost unarmed before a powerful enemy."
Phil saw the cogency of his reasoning. Deeply patriotic, his private
motives could not rule him wholly in the face of such an emergency. He
longed with a most intense longing now for a sight of the Rio Grande. A
great battle often hung in such an even balance that a few men might
turn the scale. The brave and resolute two hundred with the train were
a force not to be despised, even where thousands were gathered. The
leaders, also felt the impulse. Despite caution and calculation, the
speed of the train was increased. They started a little earlier every
morning, and they stopped a little later every evening. Yet there were
delays. Once they had a smart skirmish with Mexican guerillas, and once
a Comanche force, which did little but distant firing, held them three
days. Then a large number of their animals, spent by the long march,
fell sick, and they were compelled to delay again.
The summer waned and passed. The grass was quite dead above ground,
although the roots flourished below. The cactus increased in quantity.
Often it pointed long melancholy arms southward as if to indicate that
misfortune lay that way. The great silence settled about them again.
There were no Indians, no Mexicans, no scouts, no hunters. Phil's
thoughts reverted to his original quest. One day as he sat in the wagon
he took the worn paper from the inside pocket of his waistcoat and read
it for the thousandth time. He was about to hold it up and put it back
in its resting place, when Bill Breakstone, seeking an hour or so of
rest, sprang into the wagon, also. It was Phil's first impulse to
thrust the paper quickly out of sight, and Bill Breakstone, with innate
delicacy, pretended not to see, merely settling himself, with a cheerful
word or two, into a comfortable seat. But Phil's second thought was the
exact opposite. He withheld his hand and opened the worn and soiled
paper.
"This is a letter, Bill," he said, "and you've seen it."
"At a distance," replied Bill Breakstone with assumed carelessness.
"Too far for me to read a word of it. Love letter of yours, Phil?
You're rather young for that sort of thing. Still, I suppose I'll have
to call you Sir Philip of the Lost Lady and the Broken Heart."
"It's not that," said Phil. "This letter tells why I came into the
Southwest. Somehow, I've wanted to keep it to myself, but I don't now.
Will you read it, Bill? It's hard to make out some of the words, but if
you look close you can tell."
He reached out the worn piece of paper.
"Not unless you feel that you really want me to read it," said
Breakstone.
"I really want you to do so," said Phil.
Breakstone took the paper in his hands and smoothed it out. Then he
held it up to the light, because the writing was faded and indistinct,
and deciphered:
"I'm here, Phil, in this stone prison--it must be some sort of an old
Spanish castle, I think, in the Mexican mountains. We were blindfolded
and we traveled for days, so I can't tell you where I am. But I do know
that we went upward and upward, and, when my shoes wore out, rocks sharp
like steel cut into my feet. We also crossed many deep gulleys and
ravines. I think we went through a pass. Then we came down into ground
more nearly level. My feet were bleeding. We passed through a town and
we stopped by a well. Then a woman gave me a cup of water. My throat
was parched with dust. I knew it was a woman by her voice and her words
of pity, spoken in Mexican. Then we came here. I have been shut up in a
cell. I don't know how long, because I've lost count of time. But I'm
here, Phil, between four narrow walls, with a narrow window that looks
out on a mountainside, where I can see scrub pines and the thorny
cactus. You're growing up now, Phil, and you may be able to come with
friends for me. There's one here that's kind to me, the old woman who
brings me my food, and she's loaned me a pencil and paper to write this.
I've written the letter, and she's going to smuggle it away somehow
northward into Texas, and then it may be passed on to you. I'm hoping,
Phil, that it will reach you, wherever you are. If it does I know that
you will try to come. JOHN BEDFORD."
"Look on the other side," said Phil.
Bill Breakstone turned it over and read the inscription:
"_To Philip Bedford, Esquire,_
"_Paris,_
"_Kentucky._"
Tears stood in the boy's eyes, and his hands were trembling. Breakstone
waited quietly.
"As you see," said Phil, when he felt that his voice was steady, "the
letter came. It's my brother, John, who wrote it. A man riding across
the country from Frankfort gave it to me in Paris last year. A
flatboatman had brought it up the Kentucky River from its mouth at the
Ohio, and when he came to Frankfort he asked if anybody would take it to
Paris. A dozen were ready to do it. The flatboatman--his name was
Simmons, a mountaineer--knew nothing about the letter. He said it had
been given to him at the mouth of the Ohio by a man on a steamer from
New Orleans. The other man said it had been dropped in front of him on
his table at an inn in New Orleans by a fellow who looked like a
Mexican. He thought at first it was just a scrap of paper, but when he
read it and looked around for the man, he was gone. He resolved to send
the letter on to me if he could, but he doesn't know how many hands it
had passed through before it reached him. But it's John's handwriting.
I could never mistake it."
The boy's voice trembled now, and the tears rose in his eyes again.
Breakstone looked at the paper, turning it over and over.
"The old woman that your brother writes about was faithful," he said at
last. "Likely a dozen men or women had it before it was dropped on that
table in New Orleans. What was your brother doing in Texas, Phil?"
"He was older than I, and he went to Texas to help in the fighting
against Mexico. You know there were raids on both sides long after San
Jacinto. You remember the Mier expedition of the Texans, and there were
others like it. John and his comrades were taken in one of these, but I
don't know exactly which. I have written letters to all the Texas
officials, but none of them know anything."
"And of course you started at once," said Bill Breakstone.
"Of course. There was nothing to keep me. We were only two, and I sold
what we had, came down the Kentucky into the Ohio, and then down the
Mississippi to New Orleans, where I met you and the others. I had an
idea that John had been carried westward, and that I might learn
something about him at Santa Fe, or at least that Santa Fe might be a
good point from which to undertake a search. It's all guesswork anyway,
that is, mostly, but when de Armijo told us that war had come I wasn't
altogether sorry, because I knew that would take us down into Mexico,
where I would have a better chance to look for John. What do you think
of it, Bill?"
"Let me look at the letter again," said Breakstone.
Phil handed it back to him, and he read and reread it, turned it over
and over again, looked at the inscription, "To Philip Bedford, Paris,
Kentucky," and then tried to see writing where none was.
"It's the old business of a needle in a haystack, Phil," he said.
"We're bound to confess that. We don't know where this letter was
written nor when. Your brother, as he says, had lost count of time, but
he might have made a stagger at a date."
"If he had put down any," said Phil, "it was rubbed out before it
reached me. But I don't think it likely that he even made a guess. Do
you know, Bill, I'm afraid that maybe, being shut up in a place like
that, it might, after a long time--well, touch his head just a little.
To be shut up in a cell all by yourself for a year, maybe two years, or
even more, is a terrible thing, they say."
"Don't think that! Don't think it!" said Bill Breakstone hastily. "The
letter doesn't sound as if it were written by one who was getting just a
little bit out of tune. Besides, I'm thinking it's a wonderful thing
that letter got to you."
"I've thought of that often, myself," exclaimed Phil, a sudden light
shining in his eyes. "This is a message, a call for help. It comes out
of nowhere, so to speak, out of a hidden stone castle or prison, and in
some way it reaches me, for whom it was intended. It seems to me that
the chances were a million to one against its coming, but it came. It
came! That's the wonderful, the unforgettable thing! It's an omen,
Bill, an omen and a sign. If this little paper with the few words on it
came to me through stone walls and over thousands of miles, well, I can
go back with it to the one who sent it!"
His face was transfigured, and for the time absolute confidence shone in
his eyes. Bill Breakstone, a man of sympathetic heart, caught the
enthusiasm.
"We'll find him, Phil! We'll find him," he exclaimed.
Philip Bedford, so long silent about this which lay nearest to his
heart, felt that a torrent of words was rushing to his lips.
"I can't tell you, Bill," he said, "how I felt when that letter was
handed to me. Jim Harrington, a farmer who knew us, brought it over
from Frankfort. He was on his horse when he met me coming down the
street, and he leaned over and handed it to me. Of course he had read
it, as it wasn't in an envelope, and he sat there on his horse looking
at me, while I read it, although I didn't know that until afterward.
"Bill, I was so glad I couldn't speak for awhile. We hadn't heard from
John in two or three years, and we were all sure that he was dead.
After I read the letter through, I just stood there, holding it out in
my hand and looking at it. Then I remember coming back to earth, when
Jim Harrington leaned over to me from his saddle and said: 'Phil, is it
genuine?'
"'It's real,' I replied, 'I'd know his handwriting anywhere in the
world.'
"'What are you going to do, Phil?' he asked.
"'I'm going to start for Mexico to-morrow,' I said.
"'It's a powerful risky undertaking,' he said.
"'I'm going to start for Mexico to-morrow,' I said again.
"Then from his height on the horse he put his hand on my head for a
moment and said: 'I knew you'd go, Phil. I know the breed. I was in
the War of 1812 with your father, when we were boys together. You're
only a boy yourself, but you go to Mexico, and I believe you'll find
John.'
"So you see, Bill, even at the very start there was one who believed
that I would succeed."
"The signs do point that way," admitted Bill Breakstone. "Every fact is
against you, but feeling isn't. I've lived long enough, Phil, to know
that the impossible happens sometimes, particularly when a fellow is
striving all his might and main to make it happen. What kind of a fellow
was this brother of yours, Phil?"
"The finest in the world," replied Phil. "He raised me, Bill, as they
say up there in Kentucky. He is four years older than I am, and we were
left orphans, young. He taught me about everything I know, helped me at
school, and then, when I got big enough, we made traps together, and in
the fall and winter caught rabbits. Then I had a little gun, and he
showed me how to shoot squirrels. We went fishing in the Kentucky
often, and he taught me to ride, too. He was big and strong. Although
only a boy himself, he could throw anybody in all the towns about there,
but he was so good-natured about it that the men he threw liked him.
Then we began to hear about Texas. Everybody was talking about Texas.
Many were going there, too. It seemed to us the most wonderful country
on earth. John caught the fever. He was going to make fortunes for
both of us. I don't know how, but he meant to do it. I wasn't big
enough to go with him, but he would send for me later. He went down the
river to New Orleans. I had a letter from him there, and another from
San Antonio, but nothing ever came after that until this dirty, greasy
little piece of paper dropped out of the skies. It was four years
between."
"Four years between!" repeated Bill Breakstone, "and we don't know what
has happened in all that time. But it seems to me, Phil, that you're
right. If this little piece of paper has come straight out of the dark
thousands of miles to you, then it's going to be a guide to us back to
the place where it started, because, Phil, I'm going to help you in
this. I've got a secret errand of my own, and I'm not going to tell it
to you just yet, but it can wait. I'm going to see you through, Phil,
and we're going to find that brother John of yours, if we have to rip
open every prison in Mexico."
His own eyes were bright now with the light of enthusiasm, and he held
out his hand, which Phil seized. The fingers of the two were compressed
in a strong clasp.
"It's mighty good of you, Bill," said the boy, "to help me, because this
isn't going to be any easy search."
"It won't be any search at all for awhile," said Bill Breakstone,
"because a great war is shoving in between. We are approaching the Rio
Grande now, Phil."
The summer was now gone, and they were well into autumn. The train had
come a great distance, more miles than any of them could tell. Cool
winds blew across the Texas uplands, and the nights were often sharp
with cold. Then the fires of cottonwood, dry cactus, or buffalo chips
were very welcome, and it was pleasant to sit before them and speculate
upon what awaited them on the other side of the Rio Grande. They had
passed beyond the domain of the Comanches, and they were skirting along
the edge of a country that contained scattered houses of adobe or log
cabins--Mexicans in the former, and Americans in the latter. These were
not combatants, but they were full of news and gossip.
There had been a revolution or something like it in Mexico. The report
of the American successes, at the beginning, was true. Taylor had
defeated greatly superior numbers along the Rio Grande, and, after a
severe battle, had taken Monterey by storm. Then the Mexicans, wild
with rage, partly at their own leaders, had turned out Paredes, their
president, and the famous Santa Anna had seized the power. Santa Anna,
full of energy and Latin eloquence, was arousing the Mexican nation
against invasion, and great numbers were gathering to repel the little
American armies that had marched across the vast wilderness to the
Mexican border. This news made Middleton very serious, particularly
that about Santa Anna.
"He's been called a charlatan, a trickster, cruel, unscrupulous, and
many other things not good," he said one evening as they sat about a
fire, "and probably all the charges are true, but at the same time he is
a man of great ability. He has intuition, the power to divine the plans
of an opponent, something almost Napoleonic, and he also has fire and
energy. He will be a very dangerous man to us. He hates us all the
more because the Texans took him at San Jacinto. If I remember rightly,
two boys looking for stray mules found him hiding in the grass the day
after the battle, and brought him in a prisoner. Such a man as he is not
likely to forget such a humiliation as that."
"I have seen him with my own eyes," said Arenberg. "He iss a cruel man
but an able one. Much harm iss meant, and much may be done."
That ended the German's comment, and, taking his pipe, he smoked and
listened. But his face, lighted up by the flames, was sad. It was
habitually sad, although Phil believed that the man was by nature cheery
and optimistic. But Arenberg still kept his secret.
They learned, also, that there had been an armistice between the
Americans and the Mexicans, but that Santa Anna had used all the time
for preparations. Then the negotiations were broken off, and the war
was to pass into a newer and fiercer phase. Taylor was at Saltillo,
about two hundred miles beyond the line, but Scott, who had been on the
Rio Grande some time earlier, had taken most of his good officers and
troops for the invasion by way of Vera Cruz, and Taylor, with his small
remaining force, was expected to stand on the defensive, even to retreat
to the Rio Grande. Instead of that, he had advanced boldly into the
mountains. Politics, it was said, had intervened, and Taylor was to be
shelved. Middleton, usually reserved, commented on this to Phil,
Breakstone, and Arenberg, who, he knew, would not repeat his words.
"I've no doubt that this news is true," he said, "and it must be a
bitter blow to old Rough and Ready--that's what we call Taylor in the
army. He's served all his life with zeal and efficiency, and now he's
to be put aside, after beginning a successful and glorious campaign.
It's a great wrong that they're doing to Zachary Taylor."
"But we're going to join him anyhow, are we not?" asked Phil.
"Yes, that's our objective. I should have to do so, because my original
instructions were to report to him, and they have not been changed.
And, with Santa Anna leading the Mexicans, what our Government expects
to happen at one place may happen at another."
The train itself was now in splendid condition. All the wounded men had
fully recovered. The sick horses and mules were well again. The
weather had been good, game was plentiful, their diet was varied and
excellent, and there was no illness. Moreover, their zeal increased as
they drew near the seat of war, and the reports, some true, some false,
and all lurid, came thick and fast. It was hard to keep some of them
from leaving the train and going on ahead, but Middleton and Woodfall,
by strenuous efforts, held them in hand.
They shifted back now toward the east, and came at last to the Rio
Grande. Phil was riding ahead of the train, when he caught the first
view of it--low banks, an immense channel, mostly of sand, with water,
looking yellow and dangerous, flowing here and there in two or three
streams. The banks were fringed but sparsely with trees, and beyond lay
Mexico, the Mexico of Cortez and the Aztecs, the Mexico of gold and
romance, and the Mexico of the lost one whom he had come so far to find.
It was one of the most momentous events in Philip Bedford's life, this
view of Mexico, to which he had come over such a long trail. It was not
beautiful, there across the Rio Grande; it was bare, dark, and dusty,
with rolling hills and the suggestion of mountains far off to the right.
The scant foliage was deep in autumn brown. Human life there was none.
Nothing stirred in the vast expanse of desolation. The train was so far
behind him that he did not hear the rumbling of the wagon wheels, and he
sat there, horse and rider alike motionless, gazing into the misty
depths of this Mexico which held so much of mystery and which attracted
and repelled at the same time. Question after question throbbed through
his mind. Would the Americans succeed in penetrating the mountains that
lay beyond? And if so, in what direction was he to go? Which way
should he look! It seemed so vast, so inscrutable, that he was
appalled. For the first time since he had left that little Paris in
Kentucky he felt despair. Such a search as his was hopeless, doomed in
the beginning. His face turned gray, his chin sank upon his chest, but
then Bill Breakstone rode up beside him, and his loud, cheery voice
sounded in his ear.
"Well, here we are at last, Phil," he exclaimed. "We've ridden all the
way across Texas, and it must have been a hundred thousand miles. Now
we stand, or rather sit, on the shores of the Rio Grande.
"Behold the river!
But I don't quiver.
They call it grand.
It's mostly sand.
It's no Mississippi, Phil, but it's a hard stream for an outfit like
ours to cross. I'm glad that Taylor has already cleared the way. You
remember what a fight we had with the Comanches back at the crossing of
that other and smaller river."
"I do," said Phil, "but there is nothing here to oppose us, and
doubtless we can make the crossing in peace."