BY PYE POD.
Then, looking down at the great dog, he cried, with a kind of
daft glee:
"_Up an' waur them a', Quharrie_,
Up an' waur them a', man;
There's no a Dutchman i' the pack
That's ony guid ava, man--Hooch!"
--_The Raiders._
Never before was I in such a desperate plight, nor was I ever more
frightened than now. I knew not where, but believed we were in the
De Satoyta Mountains, possibly on the trail to pass between Indian
Peak and Mt. Atry. We had kindled a fire, warmed our hands, and
were about to unpack when Coonskin exclaimed, "For God's sake!
Pod, the donks are gone!"
Often had I exercised the importance of Coonskin's picketing the
beasts before leaving them, but now was no time to scold. I
directed him to take matches and examine the ascending trail,
while I retraced our steps and did likewise. Luckily our revolvers
were in our belts, and it was agreed that the first to discover
traces of the deserters should shoot until hearing a shot in
answer. Don went with Coonskin. The lighted lantern was left by
the unreliable fire.
It was difficult in the wind to keep a match lighted long enough
to be of value, even when protecting it with my hat, as I knelt on
the hard trail or on the softer earth in the sage, and strained
my eyes to detect the shoe prints of my runaways. Every few steps
I stopped to listen for a signal shot, and deplored our dire
predicament without food or water.
I had about concluded that the only resort left us was an
all-night tramp over the pass, perhaps to be followed by an
all-day hunt in the next valley for a habitation and spring, when
I heard the welcome signal from Coonskin. Presently through the
still air came the sound of Don's barking, then I knew the
fugitives were captured. With a lighter heart I now gathered sage
preparatory to cooking, for we had traveled all day without a
bite.
Our animals that night were securely roped both to the iron
tent-pins and the tent, so that they could not slip away during
the night without taking us with them.
When I opened my eyes next morning, Mac stood with his head inside
the tent-door, wistfully eyeing the canteen by my pillow. My heart
was touched, but I thought, "Self-preservation is the first law,"
and knew that, if turned loose, all five donkeys would have the
asinine instinct to find a spring in time to save themselves,
whereas a man might fall a hundred feet from a spring and die in
ignorance of it.
One hour after sunrise the breakfast dishes had been cleaned with
a rag, in the absence of water, and the donkeys were standing to
be packed for the disheartening journey. A heap of ashes smothered
some fragile hot coals of sage, which, from all appearances, were
most inviting to any donkey to roll in. While cinching the pack on
Coxey, I observed Mac to steal to the ash heap, look at it
wistfully a moment, circle round it two or three times, and,
kneeling down, flop over on his side, plumb in the middle of the
warm, gray ashes, and still warmer coals. It was his custom to
roll over several times, but he didn't do so this morning. He
didn't roll at all. If he had fallen on a huge rubber ball, he
couldn't have bounded on to his feet with more alacrity.
When Mac once had his balance, he shook himself vigorously and
brayed, then eyed the ash heap as if it were a nest of rattlesnakes.
The air smelled of singed hair. The donkey reached around and licked
his side a moment, then he backed away. When one donkey rolls and
his fellows do not follow suit, you can mark it as most significant.
Two hours later my caravan had crossed the summit and were
marching down the western slope of the range.
Nevada is the home of the wild horse, and now we saw bunches of
these wary creatures grazing in the distance, or running like deer
for the hills at the sight of my outfit, although five and more
miles away.
It was 2 o'clock when, rounding a bend, my searching eye discerned
across the valley, close to the base of the Augusta range, a
building or hay-stack. My heart leaped with joy. Our canteens were
empty, but ere long we might slake our thirst at a ranch well and
give our faithful animals a treat.
On we pressed until, passing the stack, we reached a trail leading
into the canyon. A few moments more, and I saw a wreath of smoke
ascending not far up the pass. My intuition told me it was the
Maestratti ranch. And it was.
We received a hearty welcome. Don, poor thing, was so weak from a
prolonged siege of dysentery that he could scarcely creep to the
house; but, while Coonskin and I unpacked and watered the donkeys,
my faithful dog was fed scalded bread and milk by our hostess, who
ordered a hearty meal for us men.
Mr. Maestratti invited us to a bed in his house, but I declined
it, preferring my own blankets; and now, as I strode wearily to
it, I called affectionately to my dog. Something told me I was
going to lose him, my devoted friend during three thousand miles
and many months of travel. I missed the loving pressure of his
face against mine, his warm tongue on the back of my hand, his gay
antics and playful bark when in his happier moods, and anticipated
the grief I should soon feel. I paused at the tent door and
whistled.
"Don has stolen away to die," said Coonskin, feelingly. "That's
just what dogs do. Let's take the lantern and try and find him."
So saying, the man lighted up, and we began the search.
We found him. He was lying beside a stalk of sage a hundred feet
from camp, uncomplaining, weak, and breathing irregularly. The
flare of the lantern aroused him, and he turned his bloodshot eyes
to mine, as much as to say, "Leave me, kind master, I shall soon
be out of misery. Do not mourn."
Then I thought of his identification of the outlaws at Thirty
Mile, and of his attack on the cowboy in Nebraska who had
playfully lassoed me at my request. I remembered the chill nights
in Iowa barns when he crept over and nestled against me in the hay
that the heat from his great, warm body might keep me comfortable.
I could not restrain my tears. My best friend must not die in the
brush alone. We persuaded him to return with us, and made him a
comfortable bed in a corner of the tent, patted his head, and
retired. But soon the poor fellow stole out into the frosty night.
It was not the rising sun or a donkey's bray that awoke me, but a
woman calling, "Breakfast!" I intended first before answering the
demands of my stomach, to look at my dead friend's face, but to my
surprise and delight I saw the dog lying in the sun, his head up
and his tail wagging, very much alive. He had passed the crisis of
his illness during the night; I had hopes that he would soon be
well.
A fortunate circumstance threw us in the company of a stranger
journeying westward in a wagon. Like everybody else, he showed
great interest in my travels, and when he saw the condition of my
dog, he offered to convey him over the mountains.
We arrived at the summit of the pass by ten o'clock. There we
rested an hour and fed our animals. The journey down the western
slope, while apparently as trying to the donkeys as the ascent had
been, was more inviting to the convalescing dog, and he on the way
surprised us by leaping out of the wagon and making after a
jackrabbit.
At two o'clock Don's Good Samaritan drove away to the south, and
at four we arrived at the Donaldson Ranch. Many courtesies were
extended us here and we were half persuaded to remain over night
with these hospitable people. We cooked dinner early, gave our
animals a liberal mess of barley, filled our canteens, packed and
departed at seven with the well-wishes of all and a fifty-pound
bag of grain, which was donated to Mac A'Rony.
Darkness had set in. Although cautioned about two diverging trails
which we would reach before ascending the mountain, before an hour
had passed I realized we were going in the wrong direction. The
night was chill and pitch dark. Quickly changing the saddle from
Mac to my fleet-footed Skates, I rode back to the ranch. No light
shone through the windows of the house, and I knew that every one
had retired. I could see no expedient left me other than to arouse
somebody to set me straight. Feeling my way to the house, I
shouted with all my might, and soon awoke Mr. Donaldson, Jr., who
came good-naturedly to my relief, saddled a horse, and insisted
on guiding my party to the summit. We did not arrive there until
midnight.
The noonday saw me at Horse Creek, and midnight, at Sand Spring,
where we camped. At dawn, a sweeping glance from my tent door
revealed the most desolate of surroundings. To the west was a
great barren desert, while on every hand were massive sand dunes,
some of them towering a hundred feet.
A breeze had sprung up during the night. After purchasing a peck
of pine nuts from some Piute Indians who had camped close by for
the night, and were now starting out on the home trail, I tied the
door flaps as tightly as possible to keep out the drifting sand,
then went back to bed. In spite of my precautions the sand forced
an entrance, coated our blankets an inch thick, and scattered
seeds of unkindness in our nostrils, ears and hair. When I awoke
and saw the sides of the tent bended inward and half way up the
walls an uneven horizon, where, through the canvas, the sand and
sunshine met, I roused my companion and we dressed. In a few
moments more we might have been buried alive.
How we were to cook breakfast was a serious question. On
unfastening the door, we were immediately blinded with sand and
alkali dust; and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I
could find the ruins of the old restaurant of '49, which at early
dawn I had discovered only two hundred feet away. The floor of
this structure had long since gone to provide camp-fires for many
a traveler, but I kicked off a piece of siding. Then I tried to
find the tent. I groped and stumbled in the blinding storm, and
only by calling to Coonskin and keeping him constantly answering
did I hold to my bearings and succeed in reaching camp.
Saturating a few sticks with coal oil, I got them a-blazing, and
then under cover of our water-pail I ventured out of the tent and
built a fire sufficient to boil coffee. Our bread when buttered
looked as if veneered with sand-paper. Coonskin, gulping down a
half cup of coffee, echoed my sentiments when he remarked, "It
takes plenty of grit to cross these plains."
How we ever packed and drove our half-crazed animals out of that
sandy hurricane is beyond my power to describe. Blinded and choked
with the sand themselves, they could scarcely be made to walk to
the well. Having washed out their throats, Skates was persuaded to
move, and the others followed reluctantly out of range of the
warring elements.
As soon as we were clear of the sand belt, we stopped and made our
toilet. All day long while crossing that broad desert my eyes
smarted and swelled, and they did not cease paining me until we
reached the first habitation, where I procured witch-hazel.
Grimes' ranch at seven o'clock saw my whole party in better
spirits. I declined both the invitation to remain over night and
to stop for supper. Mr. Grimes telephoned to Mr. Len A----n, of
Sinclair, advising him that I was on my way there and expected to
arrive by nine. It was much after that time, however, when my
outfit reached the ranch. When still three miles away and a full
hour's march, we could see a lantern swinging, and when we got
within a half mile the sound of cheers and calls of welcome
greeted our ears. We answered the signals with our lantern and
cheered so lustily that Mac A'Rony paused to bray and led the
donkey quintette in a heartrending chorus.
The day's thirty-mile jaunt thus came to a happy end in marked
contrast with its beginning. A stalwart, broad-shouldered man,
with a smiling face half hidden by a beard streaked with gray,
lifted his sombrero as he grasped my hand and shook it heartily.
"Welcome, welcome, my boy! Now make yourself at home," said Len
A----n.
[Illustration: "_Some Piute Indians who had camped close by._"]
[Illustration: "_Playing Solitaire on Damfino's broad back._"]