touched the earth. I am confident this must have sent some sand and
gravel into the eyes of the rollers, if it did no other damage.
Two of the trigging-stones we had dropped were soon undermined and
sunk, and the log had stopped at the third, less than a hundred yards
away. As it came on, the sergeant climbed to the top of the chimney,
and shortly afterwards returned with the report that he had seen the
prostrate body of a warrior revealed beyond--good evidence that his
first shot had been fatal. If the next two stones should be as rapidly
removed as the others, we feared the Indians would reach us, unless
the rescuing party prevented, at about half-past twelve.
Marked by our periodical shots at the log, the time hurried all too
rapidly on, the Indians slowly and surely approaching the cabin.
The third stone disappeared, and the log moved with a louder grating
over the gravelly soil to the fourth and last obstacle, about thirty
yards away, and paused.
"I believe, lieutenant," said Cunningham, "I could hit those fellows'
legs now from the chimney."
"All right, sergeant. Close your door and go up and try it," I
replied. "A redskin with a broken leg can do us as little injury as
one with a broken head."
The words were hardly spoken and the sergeant had barely reached the
fireplace, when, as if in anticipation of this movement, two figures
leaped over the end of the log nearest the perpendicular rock, ran to
the corner formed by the cabin and the wall, and by the aid of the
dovetailed ends of the logs clambered quickly to the roof. I sent a
shot at them, but it had no effect.
No sooner had they reached the roof than they threw the flaming brands
and coal of our bonfire down the chimney, where they broke into
fragments and rolled over the floor, setting fire to the scattered
straw and plumes.
Busy putting stops into the windows, and fastening them and the doors,
we could do nothing to extinguish the fire before it got well under
way.
A blanket was thrown over the top of the chimney to prevent a draught,
and soon the whole interior was thick with stifling smoke.
The horses plunged frantically, sending the fire in every direction.
Our eyes began to smart painfully, and we felt ourselves suffocating
and choking in the thick and poisonous atmosphere.
To remain in the house was to be burned alive; to leave it was to
perish, perhaps, in a still more horrible way. Just as I was on the
brink of despair, the sergeant gasped rather than spoke:
"They are here, lieutenant. Hark! Hark!"
Ping! Ping! We heard the sound of rifle-shots, accompanied by a good,
honest, Anglo-Saxon cheer. Was there ever sweeter music?
The war-whoops ceased, the blanket was quickly withdrawn from the
chimney-top, and two thuds on the east side of the cabin showed the
Indians had left the roof. A general scurrying of feet and other thuds
down the perpendicular wall back of the spring were evidence that the
besiegers were in full and demoralized flight.
We threw the doors open, and our friends rushed in, and before a
greeting was uttered feet and butts of rifles were sweeping brands and
straw into the fireplace, and the roaring draught was fast clearing
the air.
Before I had fairly recovered my sight, and while still engaged in
wiping away the tears the smoke had excited to copious flow, I heard a
sobbing voice near me say:
"Oh, Franky, brother, if it had not been for dear little Vicky what
would have happened to you?"
Blinking my eyes open, I saw the boy corporals with their right arms
about each other's neck, holding their Spencers by the muzzles in
their left hands.
"Why, Henry," I said, "you did not make that march with the men?"
"Couldn't keep him back, sir," answered Corporal Coffey. "Said his
place was with his brother. Made the march like a man, and fired the
first shot when we turned the bluff."
We shook hands all round, and then went out to see whether the volleys
of the rescuing party had inflicted any punishment upon the Navajos.
Two dead Indians lay near the cabin, and farther away the one that
had fallen when attempting to remove the obstacle before the log.
There were traces of others having been wounded.
A fire was promptly kindled outside the cabin, and we sat about it for
a time to rest and enjoy a lunch. The horses had been somewhat singed
about the legs, but were not disabled. An hour afterwards Sergeant
Cunningham placed Corporal Henry on his pony, Chiquita, and we started
for the valleys.
At daybreak the day after we left Jemez we reached camp, and on the
evening of the same day the detachment we had left behind for a rest
also arrived, without adventure on the march. Cordova and his son at
once set out on the trail of the Navajos, whom we reported to be in
possession of their animals, to ascertain why they were in our
vicinity.
After four days' scouting the Mexicans returned with the information
that they found the Indians had left their camp on the Jemez road
after their defeat. They had struck straight through the hills for the
Rio Grande, where they joined the main body, the same which had
attacked us the day after our arrival in the valleys, and which had
recently made several successful raids on the flocks and herds near
Peña Blanca and Galisteo.
It was the guide's opinion that the party which had besieged me in the
cabin had been to the valleys to see what chance there was of running
captured stock through there. Their report must have been favorable,
for Cordova said a detachment of forty-seven Navajos was now encamped
in Los Vallecitos, apparently intending to pass us the following night
with a large number of cattle, horses, mules, and sheep.
I began at once to make preparations to retake the stolen stock and to
capture the Navajos.
That the Navajos, if they were watching our movements, might not
surmise we knew of their presence near us, I ordered the scouting
party and huntsmen not to go out next morning, and all the men to keep
within the limits of the parade.
The next evening I marched all the company, except the guard,
including the boy corporals, by way of the reserved trail into the
valley of St. Anthony, and entered La Puerta from the western end.
This was done for fear some advance-guard of the redmen might witness
our movement if we went by the usual way, and because so large a party
might leave a trail visible to the keenly observant enemy even by
starlight, and there would be moonlight before we could cross the
valley.
It was my intention to make an ambush in La Puerta. In the narrowest
part of that cañon, where it was barely fifty yards wide, the walls
rose perpendicularly on each side. A hundred yards east and west of
this narrowest portion of the pass were good places of concealment. I
placed Sergeant Cunningham and thirteen men at the western end, and
took as many and the boys with me to the eastern.
The sergeant was instructed to keep his men perfectly quiet until the
head of the herd had passed their place of concealment, and then,
under cover of the noise made by the moving animals, to slip down into
the cañon, and when the rear of the herd came up make a dash across
the front of the Indians and begin firing, taking care not to hit us.
For myself, I intended to drop into the pass with my detachment when
the Navajo rear had passed, deploy, and bag the whole party and the
booty.
It was a long and tiresome wait before the raiders appeared. The men
had been told that they might sleep, and many of them had availed
themselves of the permission.
The moon rose soon after ten o'clock, and made our surroundings
plainly visible in the rarefied atmosphere peculiar to the arid region
of the plains and Rockies. I sat on a bowlder and watched through the
tedious hours until three o'clock, when Corporal Frank approached from
the direction of the place where his brother was sleeping.
"What sound is that, Mr. Duncan?" he whispered.
I listened intently, and presently heard the distant bleating of
sheep, and soon after the deeper low of an ox.
"The Indians must be approaching," I replied. "You may stir up the
men. Be careful that no noise is made."
I continued to listen, and after a long time noticed a sound like the
rushing of wind in a pine forest. It was the myriad feet of the
coming flocks and herds, hurrying along the grassy valley. The men
began to assemble about me, all preserving perfect silence, listening
for the approaching Indians.
Another half-hour passed, and over a roll in the surface of the
valley, revealed against the sky, looking many times their actual size
in the uncertain perspective, appeared two tall figures, whose nearer
approach showed to be mounted Indians piloting the captured stock,
which followed close behind.
"Corporal Henry," I said, "drop carefully down into the trail and
skirt closely along the wall until you come to Sergeant Cunningham's
position, and tell him the Indians are close by. Tell him also to
allow the two Indians in advance to pass unmolested."
I sent this order by the younger boy because I suspected he was
feeling that Corporal Frank's expedition to Jemez, with the adventures
of the return trip, had given him a certain prominence to be envied. I
meant Henry should divide honors with his brother hereafter.
The little corporal silently disappeared beneath the wall, and a few
minutes afterwards the two Indians entered the defile, and the goats
and sheep, which had been spread widely over the open valley,
scampered, crowded, and overleaped one another as they closed into the
narrow way. There seemed to be fully two thousand of them,
intermingled with a motley herd of horses, mules, asses, and kine of
all sizes and descriptions, numbering three hundred or more, all
driven by a party of seventy-three Indians.
The cattle-thieves were evidently congratulating themselves upon
having run the gantlet of the military camp and being out of danger,
for they had abandoned the traditional reserve of the Indian race, and
were talking loudly and hilariously as they passed my wing of the
ambuscade. The Indians fell completely into the trap, and they and the
cattle with them were captured without any difficulty.
During the winter our supply of grain ran short, and I sent a party,
with the Cordovas as guides, to Jemez. They were unable to get through
the snow, and the elder Cordova was so badly frost-bitten that in
spite of all we could do he died in the camp.
Then I went with a larger party, and was successful. On June 1st
orders came to break up the camp, and on the 9th the accumulated
stores of nineteen months' occupation were packed, and with a train of
ten wagons we set out for Santa Fé.
VI
CROSSING THE RIVER
Two days after my arrival at the Territorial capital I was ordered to
proceed alone to Los Pinos, a town two hundred miles south, in the
valley of the Rio Grande, and report to Captain Bayard, commanding
officer of a column preparing for a march to Arizona.
On reaching Algodones, on the eastern bank of the great river, I was
visited by a Catholic priest. He told me that Manuel Perea, the
Mexican lad with whom the boy corporals were so friendly at Santa Fé,
was a prisoner in the hands of Elarnagan, a chief of the Navajos. He
begged me to assist in his release, and I promised to do all I could,
consistently with my military duty. Two days after arriving at Los
Pinos, where I found a troop of California volunteer cavalry and also
another troop of New Mexican volunteers, the boy corporals
unexpectedly arrived. Colonel Burton had changed his plans and had
allowed them to accompany me. They at once asked to be assigned to
duty, and I promised to consult with Captain Bayard.
My interview with him concluded, I returned to my tent and found the
boys busy in fitting up two cot bedsteads, spreading mats before them,
hanging a small mirror to the rear tent-pole, and arranging their
marching outfit as they proposed to set it up at every encampment
between the Rio Grande and Prescott.
"Did you have this tent pitched for our use, sir?" asked Henry.
"I did not know you were coming, corporal, so that is impossible. Your
tent was placed here some days ago by the post commander, for the
accommodation of visiting officers who have since gone. Captain Bayard
has assigned it to you."
"Then we are to have the tent to ourselves?"
"Yes."
"Isn't that just jolly, Frank?"
"Fine. To-morrow we'll place a short rail across the back for our
saddles and saddle-blankets, two pegs in the tent-pole for bridles,
and raise a box somewhere for curry-combs and brushes."
"Can't we have Vic here, too, sir?" asked Henry.
"And leave me all alone?" I replied.
"You wouldn't mind it, would you, sir?"
"Well, I'll leave it to Vic. You may make a bed for her, and we'll see
which she will occupy--yours, or her old bed near mine."
"All right, sir; we'll try it to-night."
"Now something about yourselves, boys. Your tent is to be always
pitched on the left of mine; you are to take your meals with the
officers, and your ponies will be taken care of by one of the men
who--"
"That will not do, sir," interrupted Frank. "Father has always
required us to take care of our arms, clothing, and horses like other
soldiers, just as we always did in the valleys, you know. He says an
officer who rides on a march, particularly an infantry officer, should
not require a soldier who has marched on foot to wait upon him."
"Very well; do as you choose."
I returned to my own tent and went to bed. Placing two candles on a
support near my pillow, I tucked the lower edge of the mosquito-bar
under the edge of my mattress, and, settling back comfortably,
proceeded to read the last instalment of news from "the States"--news
which had been fifteen days on the way from the Missouri. As I read of
battle, siege, and march I was conscious that the boys were having
some difficulty in inducing Vic to remain with them. When at last all
was quiet, except their regular and restful breathing, a soft nose was
thrust up to my pillow, and I opened an aperture in the netting large
enough to exchange affectionate greetings, and Vic cuddled down on her
bed beside mine and went to sleep. This was always her custom
thereafter. While she was very fond of the boys, and spent most of her
waking hours with them, no persuasion or blandishments could prevent
her, when she knew the boys had dropped into unconsciousness, from
returning to my tent, offering me a good-night assurance of her
unchanged affection, and going to sleep upon her old bed.
The time had now come for us to begin our march to Arizona. Company F
had arrived, and the boy corporals were again in possession of their
beautiful horses. Grain, hay, and careful attendance had put new
graces into the ponies' shapes, and kind treatment had developed in
each a warm attachment for its young master.
The first day of our march was spent in crossing the Rio Grande del
Norte and making camp four miles beyond the opposite landing. There
was a ferry-boat at Los Pinos, operated by the soldiers of the post,
capable of taking over four wagons at a time.
We rose at an earlier hour than usual, and by daybreak our train of
eighty-nine wagons, drawn by five hundred and thirty-four mules, was
on its way to the river. The two boy corporals joined me as I followed
the last wagon. Mounted on their handsome animals, with carbines on
their right hips, revolvers in their belts, portmanteaus behind their
saddles, and saddle-pouches on each side, they were, indeed, very
warlike in appearance.
The two detachments of cavalry and their officers, accompanied by a
paymaster and a surgeon, proceeded at once to the river, crossed and
went into camp, leaving the infantry and its officers to perform the
labor of transferring, from one shore to the other, wagons and mules,
a herd of three hundred beef cattle, and a flock of eight hundred
sheep. The boy corporals also remained behind to act as messengers,
should any be required.
Mules and oxen swam the stream, but the sheep were boated across. On
the last trip over our attention was attracted by a sudden shouting
up-stream, followed by a rapid discharge of fire-arms. In the river,
less than a quarter of a mile distant, were several objects making
their way towards the western shore. When near the bank, and in
shoaling water, we saw the objects rise, until three Indians and three
ponies stood revealed. As soon as they reached the shore the men
sprang into their saddles and rode rapidly away.
A shout from our rear caused us to look towards the shore we had just
left, and we saw the post-adjutant sitting on his horse on the
embankment. He said: "Three Navajos have escaped from the guard. Send
word to Captain Bayard to try to recapture them. If they get away they
will rouse their people against you, and your march through their
country will be difficult."
[Illustration: "MOUNTED, THE BOYS PRESENTED A WARLIKE APPEARANCE"]
I wrote a brief message, handed it to Corporal Frank, and when the
boat touched the western landing he dashed off at full speed in the
direction of camp.
The afternoon was well advanced when Henry and I, with the infantry,
entered the first camp of our march. We found Frank awaiting our
arrival, and learned from him that Captain Bayard had sent two
detachments of cavalry in pursuit of the Indians, and that they had
returned after a fruitless attempt to follow the trail.
On our first evening in camp many of the officers and civilians
gathered in groups about the fires for protection against the
mosquitoes, to smoke, to discuss the route, and to relate incidents of
other marches. Captain Bayard took from his baggage a violin, and,
retiring a little apart, sawed desperately at a difficult and
apparently unconquerable exercise. There I found him at the end of a
tour of inspection of train and animals, and obtained his sanction to
a plan for the employment of the boy corporals.
I proceeded to tell the boys what their duties would be. Corporal
Frank was to see to the providing of wood, water, and grass while we
were on the march. He was further instructed that he was to conform
his movements to mine, and act as my messenger between the train, the
main body, and the rear guard. These were to be his regular duties,
but he was to hold himself in readiness for other service, and be on
the alert for any emergency.
The odometer with which to measure the distance to Prescott was placed
in charge of Corporal Henry, and he was told to strap this to the
spokes near the hub of the right hind wheel of the last wagon in the
train, taking care that the wagon should start from the same point
where it had turned from the main road into camp the previous day. He
was to report the distance we had marched to the commanding officer at
guard-mounting, which, on the march, always takes place in the evening
instead of morning, as at posts and permanent camps. After reaching
Fort Wingate, and taking up the march beyond, he would ride with the
advance, and act as messenger of communication with the rear; but
until then he would ride with his brother and me.
The next morning found all ready for a start at three o'clock. The boy
corporals found it a hardship to be wakened out of a sound sleep to
wash and dress by starlight and sit down to a breakfast-table lighted
by dim lanterns. There was little conversation. All stood about the
camp-fires in light overcoats or capes, for Western nights are always
cool.
When the boys and I started to ride out of camp we were, for a few
moments, on the flank of the infantry company. It was noticeable that
although the men were marching at "route step," when they are not
required to preserve silence, few of them spoke, and very rarely, and
they moved quite slowly. Corporal Henry, at the end of a prolonged
yawn, asked, "Are we going to start at this hour every morning, sir?"
"Yes, usually," I replied.
"How far do we go to-day, Frank?"
"Eighteen miles is the scheduled distance," answered Frank.
"How fast do men march?"
"Three miles an hour," said I.
"Then we shall be in camp by ten o'clock. I don't see the sense of
yanking a fellow out of bed in the night."
"Of course, Henry, there's a good reason for everything done in the
army," observed Frank, with soldierly loyalty.
"Where's the sense of marching in the dark when the whole distance can
be done in six hours, and the sun rises at five and sets at seven? I
prefer daylight."
Evidently our youngest corporal had not had his sleep out, and was out
of humor.
"Will you please explain, sir?" asked Frank.
"With pleasure," I answered. "It is more comfortable to march in the
early morning, when it is cool. Marches rarely exceed fifteen or
twenty miles a day, except where the distance between watering-places
is more than that. Sometimes we are obliged to march forty miles a
day."
"Seems to me the officers are very tender of the men," observed the
sleepy Henry. "Fifteen and twenty miles a day, and five or six hours
on the road, can't tire them much."
"Why not try a march on foot, Henry?" suggested his brother. "It might
prove a useful experience."
"Let me suggest something better," said I. "Tie your pony to the back
of that wagon, and crawl in on top of the bedding and have your nap
out."
Henry disdained to reply, but with a long and shivering yawn relapsed
into silence.
In a little more than six hours we reached the Rio Puerco, and forded
its roily, brackish current to a camping-place on the other side.
Harry, who with daylight and warmth had recovered his good-humor,
examined the odometer and reported the distance travelled to be 18.65
miles. He entered in his note-book that the Spanish name Puerco meant,
as a noun, hog, and as an adjective, dirty. He thought the river well
named. He also mentioned that on the eastern side of the stream there
was an excellent camping-place, but that much pains had been taken to
ford it to a very poor one. After pondering this apparently
unreasonable movement he asked: "Why did we not camp on that grassy
park on the opposite side?"
"I suppose it appears to you there can be no good reason for crossing
to this side?" I asked, in reply.
"It does seem even more absurd than starting on a march just after
midnight--something like going into a wood-shed to rest on a wood-pile
when one could as well go into a parlor and rest on a divan."
"And certainly," added Frank, "we have gained nothing in distance in
crossing. The march is to be short to-morrow."
"Still, boys, there is quite as good a reason for doing this as for
starting early to avoid the heat of the day. These Far Western streams
have a trick of rising suddenly; very rarely, to be sure, but
frequently enough to cause commanding officers to be on their guard. A
rainfall fifty or seventy-five miles up-stream might send down a
volume of water that would make it impassable for several hours or
several days, according as the fall is large or small; so the rule in
the army is, 'cross a stream before camping.'"
"Have you ever been caught by a rise, sir?"
"Twice. Once on this very stream, near its mouth. I was in command of
a small escort to a train. The wagon-master advised me to cross, but I
was tempted by a fine meadow on the lower side, in contrast to a rough
place on the opposite side, to take my chances. I was compelled to
remain there five days. The other delay was on the Gallina; but that
was rising when we approached and we had no choice about crossing. We
were delayed that time but two days."
"I heard the paymaster and surgeon grumbling about the folly of
crossing just now," said Frank.
"Very likely; this is their first march in the Far West."
"The captain and lieutenants heard them, but did not explain, as you
have. Why was that?"
"There are two reasons. One is that in the army, as well as out of it,
'tenderfeet' are left to learn by experience; the other is that our
surgeon resents being cautioned or advised. Now, boys, after dinner
you had better take a _siesta_. By doing so you will find it less
difficult to make an early start to-morrow morning."
"Thank you," replied Frank. "Tom Clary and George Hoey have told us
that a nap is the correct thing after dinner on the march. Henry and I
are going to try it."
"I am sorry, sir," added Henry, "that I was so ill-humored this
morning. I will try to do as the soldiers do when they first start
out--say nothing till day breaks."
"The early start was a surprise to you; you will be prepared for it
hereafter."