"'She is useful to us, undoubtedly,' answered Corneuse, 'but she does
us an injury by ruining us.'"
--_The Elm Tree on the Mall._
The Jornada is a high desert of tableland, east of the Rio Grande.
In design it is strikingly like a billiard table; forty-five miles
by ninety, with mountain ranges for rail at east and west, broken
highlands on the south, a lava bed on the north. At the middle of each
rail and at each corner, for pockets, there is a mountain passway and
water; there are peaks and landmarks for each diamond on the rail;
for the center and for each spot there is a railroad station and
water--Lava, Engle and Upham. Roughly speaking there is road or trail
from each spot to each pocket, each spot to each spot, each pocket to
every other pocket. In the center, where you put the pin at pin pool,
stands Engle.
Noon of the next day found Johnny nearing Moongate Pass, a deep notch
in the San Andreas Mountains; a smooth semicircle exactly filled and
fitted by the rising moon, when full and seen from Engle. Through
Moongate led the wagon road, branching at the high parks on the summit
to five springs: The Bar Cross horse camp, Bear Den, Rosebud, Good
Fortune, Grapevine.
Johnny drove his casualties slowly up the gentle valley. On either
hand a black-cedared ridge climbed eastward, each to a high black
mountain at the head of the pass. Johnny gathered up what saddle
horses were in the pass and moved them along with his cripples.
At the summit he came to a great gateway country of parks and cedar
mottes, gentle slopes and low rolling ridges, with wide smooth
valleys falling away to north and south; eastward rose a barrier of
red-sandstone hills. High in those red hills Johnny saw two horsemen.
They drove a bunch of horses of their own; they rode swiftly down a
winding backbone to intercept him. He held up his little herd; the two
riders slowed up in response. They came through a greenwood archway to
the little cove where Johnny waited. One was a boy of sixteen, Bob
Gifford, left in charge of the horse camp; the other a tall stranger
who held up his hand in salute. Young Bob reined up with a gay
flourish.
"Hello, Dinesy!" He took a swift survey of Johnny's little herd and
sized up the situation. "Looks like you done signed up with the Bar
Cross."
"Oh, _si_! Here's a list of horses Cole sent for. I don't know 'em
all, so I brought along all I saw."
Bob took the scrap of paper.
"Calabaza, Jug, Silver Dick--Oh, excuse me! Mr. Hales, this is Johnny
Dines. Mr. Hales is thinkin' some of buying that ornery Spot horse of
mine. Johnny, you got nigh all you need to make good your hospital
list. Now let's see. Um-m!--Twilight, Cyclone, Dynamite, Rebel, Sif
Sam, Cigarette, Skyrocket, Straight-edge, and so forth. Um! Your
mount, that bunch? Sweet spirits of nitre! Oh, cowboy! You sure got to
ride!"
"Last man takes the leavings," said Johnny.
"You got 'em." Bob rolled his eyes eloquently. "I'll tell a man! Two
sticks and eleven catawampouses! Well, it's your funeral. Any rush?"
"Just so I get back to Engle to-morrow night."
"Easy as silk, then. All them you ain't got here will be in to water
to-night or to-morrow morning, 'cept Bluebeard and Popcorn. They run
at Puddingstone Tanks, down the canyon. You and me will go get 'em
after dinner."
"Dinner? Let's go! Got any beef, Bobby?"
"Better'n beef. Bear meat-jerked. Make hair grow on your chest. Ever
eat any?"
"Bear meat? Who killed a bear?"
"Me. Little Bobby. All alone. Three of 'em. Killed three in the yard
the very first morning," said little Bobby proudly. "I heard them
snuffin' and millin' round out in the water pen in the night, but I
thought it was stock. Then they come up in the house yard. Soon as it
come day I got up to drive 'em out--and behold you, they was no stock,
but three whoppin' brown bears. So I fogged 'em. Killed all three
before they could get out of the yard."
"Good Lord!" said Johnny. His face drooped to troubled lines. The man
Hales glanced sharply at him.
"Heap big chief me!" prattled Bobby, unnoting. "Two bully good
skins--had to shoot the last one all to rags to kill him--and twelve
hundred pounds of good meat. Wah!" He turned to the stranger. "Well,
Mr. Hales, do you think that little old plug of mine will suit you?"
"Oh, I reckon so. Beggars mustn't be choosers--and I sure need him.
Thirty dollars, you said?"
"Wouldn't take a cent more. I'm not gougin' you. That's his price,
weekdays or Sunday. He don't look much, but he ain't such a bad little
hoss."