caused us to glance towards the west. There we saw a mass of dark
clouds rolling down upon us. Bolt after bolt of lightning zigzagged
across the sky and from sky to earth, and peal after peal of thunder
crashed upon our ears.
VII
A SWOLLEN STREAM AND STOLEN PONY
It was our custom at all camps to park the supply-train in the form of
an oval, with the tongues of the wagons outward and the wheels locked.
An entrance, the width of a wagon, was left at one end.
When, therefore, it became certain that a tempest was about to break
upon us, using the boy corporals as messengers, the chief wagon-master
received orders from me to drive up the mules and corral them within
the circle of wagons, and the commissary stock was hurried under the
shelter of a rocky mesa west of the camp. All this was to prevent a
stampede should the coming tempest be accompanied by wind and hail.
Tent-pins were driven in deeper, guys tightened, cavalry horses driven
up, hobbled, and secured to picket ropes, loose articles thrown into
wagons, and every precaution taken to be in readiness for the storm.
We had not long to wait before the rain came down in torrents. In an
incredibly short time the water was flowing swiftly down the slope to
the river. It gathered against our tent, and finding the frail
structure must go, we seized everything portable, dashed into the
furious downpour, and climbed to the tops of surrounding bowlders.
Through the sheets of rain we could dimly see the cavalry horses
standing knee-deep in water, men looking out of the covered wagons,
into which they had crawled for shelter, or standing, like ourselves,
on the bowlders, their bodies covered with ponchos and gum blankets.
Wall-tents, the sides of which had been looped up when pitched, stood
with the flood flowing through them; cranes, upon which hung lines of
kettles in preparation for dinner, standing alone, their fires and
firewood swept away. The whole country as far as we could see was one
broad sheet of rushing water, and the river, which was little more
than a rill when we crossed it a few hours before, now rolled and
boomed, a torrent several fathoms deep and dirtier than ever.
The storm continued little over half an hour, and with the return of
sunlight the surface water rapidly disappeared. Demoralized tents were
then set up, baggage and bedding examined, and the wet articles
exposed to the sun; and before night, except for the booming of the
river, little remained to remind us that we had been through a storm.
Just before retreat, Frank, Henry, and I stood on the bank of the
river watching the trunks and branches of trees rush past, and the
occasional plunge of a mass of earth undermined by the current.
"Well," said Frank, after silently contemplating the scene a few
moments, "what you told us about crossing a stream before camping upon
it has proved true, sir, and very quickly, too."
"Yes; I think even the paymaster and surgeon must be congratulating
themselves they are on this side of that flood," I replied.
Next morning we resumed our march at the usual hour, and passed over
23.28 miles to a deserted Mexican town and Indian pueblo.
On the following day we crossed a chain of hills into the valley of
the Rio Gallo. As we debouched from a deep ravine we caught sight of
the pueblo of Laguna, illuminated by the sun, just rising, behind us.
The town stands upon a rocky eminence overlooking the river, which
waters, by irrigation, its large and well-cultivated valley.
When within four miles of it I proposed to the boys that we should
hasten forward in advance of the wagons and visit the town. We
galloped on, and were hospitably received by the Indian governor, who
did the honors of the community in person. He showed us the interior
of the terraced buildings, and conducted us through the subterranean
_estufa_ where, for centuries before the invention of the
friction-match, the Indians kept their sacred fire--fire made sacred
through the difficulty of obtaining it or rekindling it when once
extinguished--and so watched day and night by sleepless sentinels.
When we entered the town we left our horses hitched to the willows on
the bank of the irrigating ditch, near the wall of the first house,
and I ordered the dog Vic to remain with them. Three-quarters of an
hour afterwards Vic looked into the _estufa_ from above, gave three
sharp barks, and dashed away.
We were so deeply interested in the examination of a lot of scalps,
quaint pottery, weapons of warfare, etc., that we paid no attention to
her. Presently she appeared a second time, repeated her barking, and
ran off again. A few moments later the dog again showed herself at the
sky-light, and thrusting her head downward continued to bark until I
approached the foot of the ladder. As I did so she uttered a sound of
anxiety, or distress, and disappeared.
"Something must be the matter with our animals, boys," I remarked.
"Frank, go and see what has happened, while Henry and I take leave of
our host."
Corporal Frank climbed the ladder two rungs at a step, while Henry and
I remained to thank the governor for his kindness and bestow some
trifling gifts upon the rabble of children that had followed us
closely throughout our visit. We then ascended the ladder and started
for the place where we had left our animals.
Hurrying down the narrow alley we met Frank, who was nearly
breathless with exertion and excitement. While yet at a considerable
distance from us he shouted:
"Chiquita's gone! Can't see her anywhere!"
Hastening to the willows I found that Henry's pony was indeed missing.
I thought she had simply broken loose, and would be found somewhere in
the neighborhood, so mounted and made a hasty search. I saw our train
several miles away, toiling up a long ascent, but there was no sign of
a riderless pony on the road. On my return to the willows Henry said:
"Chiquita did not break away, sir; her halter-strap was too strong,
and I tied it with a cavalry hitch. She must have been unfastened by
some one. Perhaps these Pueblos have stolen her."
"She may have been stolen, as you suggest," I replied, "but not by the
Pueblos. We were their guests, and our property was sacred."
The Indians, seeing our trouble, gathered about us, and among them I
saw the governor. Making my way to him, I explained what had happened.
He turned to his people and addressed them in his own tongue. A young
girl approached and said something, at the same time pointing to the
southwest.
Looking in the direction indicated, over a long stretch of broken
country, bordered on the west by an irregular range of sandstone
mesas, I thought I saw a moving object near the foot of a rugged
bluff, several miles distant; but before I could adjust my field-glass
the object had turned the bluff and disappeared. One thing, however, I
did see--it was Vic, sitting on a knoll less than a mile from the
pueblo.
"I wonder we have not thought of Vic's absence all this time," I said;
"there she is, on the trail of the thief, wondering why we do not
pursue."
"The good doggie," said Henry. "She did her best to tell us Chiquita
was stolen, and she means to do her best to retake her."
Turning to the governor, I asked, "Are there any Navajos about here?"
"There is a large band in the _cienaga_, three leagues from here. The
lost pony will be found there."
I directed Henry to run after the train and report what had happened.
"Wave your handkerchief," said I, "and some one will come to meet
you. If it should be a mounted man, take his animal, overtake Captain
Bayard, tell him all you know, and say that Frank and I have gone in
pursuit, and that I request him to send a detachment of cavalry to
look us up."
Henry started off with a celerity begotten of his anxiety at the loss
of his pony and the fear that his brother might fall into danger
unless a body of troopers followed him closely.
Frank and I then galloped towards Vic. As soon as the dog saw us
approaching she sprang into the air, shook herself in an ecstasy of
delight, then put her nose to the earth, and went steadily on in
advance, threading her way through clumps of sage-brush and greasewood
and along the ravines.
The tracks of a shod pony satisfied us that we were on the trail of
Chiquita and her Navajo rider. The boy had kept well down in the
ravines and depressions, in order to screen himself from observation
and possible pursuers. We, however, were not obliged to follow his
tracks; Vic did that, and we took the general direction from her,
cutting across turnings and windings, and making much better progress
than the thief could have done.
An hour's ride brought us to the bluff behind which I had seen an
object disappear. Vic turned it and began to ascend the almost dry bed
of the stream, in the bottom of which I could see occasional
depressions at regular distances, as if made by a horse at a trot.
Soon the brook enlarged, becoming a flowing stream, and the tracks
were no longer visible.
That the brook flowed from the _cienaga_, or marsh, where the Navajos
were rendezvoused, was an easy inference. The Indian boy was
endeavoring to reach that place with the stolen pony. Directing Frank
to keep up the left side of the stream, and to look for tracks
indicating that Chiquita had left its bed, I took the right side and
hastened on.
Willows now began to appear along the banks, showing that we had
reached a permanent flow of water. Twice we came to masses of bowlders
which made it impossible for a horse to travel in the stream, and we
found that the pony had skirted them.
We had now reached a point where a small brook entered the larger one
from the right. We dismounted at the confluence to make an
observation. Vic suddenly began to bark furiously; then a yelp and a
continued cry of pain showed that the dog was hurt, and presently she
appeared with an arrow through the thick of her neck.
Advancing cautiously I caught sight of Chiquita in a cleft of the rock
at my left, and an Indian boy standing behind her and aiming an arrow
over the saddle. A sharp twang, and the missile flew through my hair
between my right ear and my hat-rim. The boy then sprang forward, and
raised a knife as if to hamstring the pony. But it was not to be, for
a carbine spoke, and the raised arm of the Indian fell at his side.
"Well done, Frank!" I called.
We ran forward to capture the young Navajo, but he quickly disappeared
behind a large rock and was seen no more. Returning to the main brook
with Chiquita, we tied the horses to the willows and began a search
for Vic. I called her by all the pet names to which she was
accustomed, but received no response. I searched over as great a
distance as I dared, with a consciousness that a band of Navajos was
not far distant.
Reluctantly abandoning our search, we were preparing to return to the
train and escort when we descried a large war-party of Indians riding
towards us from the direction of the _cienaga_. It was at once evident
they saw us, for, raising a terrific war-whoop, their irregular mass
broke for us in a furious charge.
Death certainly awaited us if captured, and this thought prompted us
to leave our exposed position instantly. Leading Chiquita, and telling
Frank to follow, I dashed down the stream in the direction of the Fort
Wingate road.
As we flew along, feeling positive that the Indians would overtake us,
I eagerly surveyed the rocky wall on our left, hoping to find a break
in which we could shelter ourselves and hold the enemy in check until
our friends arrived. But no opening appeared, and it seemed impossible
for us to reach Laguna alive.
On we went into the dense bushes, a hail of bullets and a rush of
arrows about our ears. But at this moment the clear notes of a cavalry
trumpet sounded "deploy," and the California cavalry crashed through
the willows and we were saved. They broke into a skirmish-line behind
us, but only a few shots were fired and the Navajos were gone.
Being an escort, we could not delay for further operations against the
enemy. Our duty was to return at once to the train. Frank and I were
both uninjured, but a bullet had raised the chevron on the boy's
sleeve, and another had shattered the ivory hilt of his revolver.
The volunteers dismounted for a rest, and I took the opportunity to
make a further search for Vic, my faithful companion and friend.
Leaving my horse with Frank, I started towards the place where I had
last seen her.
As I descended a shallow ravine to the willow-clad brook I came upon
an unexpected sight, and paused to witness it. On his knees, close to
the water, his back towards me, was Corporal Henry. Extended at his
left side was Vic, held closely under his left arm, her plumy tail
hanging dejectedly in my direction. An occasional dispirited wag
showed that she appreciated the kindness being shown her. The boy was
evidently busy at something that elicited from the animal, every now
and then, faint cries of pain. I heard something snap, and saw him lay
two parts of an arrow on the ground to his right; then he drew a
handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in the brook, and apparently
washed a wound.
All the time the boy could be heard addressing his patient in soothing
tones, occasionally leaning his face against her head caressingly.
"Poor little Vicky! Nice, brave doggie! There, there; I will not hurt
you more than I can help. They can't shoot you again, girlie, for lots
of your friends are here now. You shall ride back to the train on
Chiquita with me. We'll own Chiquita together after this."
I felt a little delicacy about breaking in upon this scene and letting
the boy know I had overheard all his fond talk to Vic, so withdrew
into a clump of bushes and began calling the dog.
Henry promptly answered: "Here she is, sir. This way. She wants to
come, but I think she had better not."
"Is she much hurt?" I asked, approaching them.
"Not dangerously, sir. This arrow passed through the top of her neck.
I notched it and broke it, so as not to be obliged to draw the barb or
plume through the wound. She is weak from her long run and loss of
blood. The wound might be bound up if her collar was off."
"I will remove it and not put it on again until the sore heals," I
answered, and, taking a key from my pocket, I took off the collar and
assisted in dressing the wound.
After petting Vic for a while, and using quite as much "baby talk" in
doing so as Henry had in dressing the wound, I asked the boy how he
came to return with the cavalry.
"I ran ahead, as you told me to, sir, and the wagon-master came to
meet me. He lent me his mule, and I rode on to Captain Bayard and made
my report. The captain sent Lieutenant Baldwin and his men, and lent
me a spare horse to come along as guide."
"Have you seen Chiquita?"
"At a distance. Is she all right?"
"Yes, but very tired. Let us join the troop, for it is time we were on
our way to the train."
Our return ride was at a walk. Henry turned his cavalry horse over to
a trooper to be led, and mounted Chiquita with Vic in his arms.
Arrived in camp he took the dog to the surgeon for treatment, and in a
few days she was as lively as ever.
VIII
OVER THE DIVIDE--A CORPORAL MISSING
Fort Wingate was reached in two more marches--six in all from the Rio
Grande--and we went into camp for two days for rest and some needed
repairs to wagons before undertaking the second and longer section of
our military journey--a section upon which at that time no white man
had set up a home.
Recalling my promise to the priest who had interviewed me in behalf of
Señora Perea, I made inquiries of the Port Wingate officers concerning
her son. None of them had heard more than she already knew, but a
scout claimed he had recently seen a Mexican boy herding ponies for
the Navajo chief Elarnagan, thirty miles north of Zuñi.
The evening before resuming our march Captain Bayard informed me that
there was an emigrant family camped half a mile to the west of Fort
Wingate, which had been awaiting our arrival in order to travel to
Arizona under our protection. He told me to assign the family a place
in the train.
I went to their camp, and found it located in a grove of cottonwoods a
short distance out, on the Arizona trail. Mr. Arnold, the head of the
family, never ceased his occupation while I was talking to him. He was
constructing a camp-table and benches of some packing-boxes he had
procured from the post trader. He was a tall, well-proportioned man,
of dark complexion and regular features, with black, unkempt hair and
restless brown eyes. He was clothed in a faded and stained butternut
suit of flannel, consisting of a loose frock and baggy trousers, the
legs of the trousers being tucked into the tops of road-worn boots.
His hat was a battered and frayed broad-brimmed felt. Mrs. Arnold sat
on a stool superintending the work, bowed forward, her elbows on her
knees, holding a long-stemmed cob-pipe to her lips with her left hand,
removing it at the end of each inspiration to emit the smoke, which
curled slowly above her thin upper lip and thin, aquiline nose. She
was a tall, angular, high-shouldered, and flat-chested woman, dark
from exposure to wind, sun, and rain, her hair brown in the neck, but
many shades lighter on the crown of her head. Her eyes were of an
expressionless gray. A brown calico of scant pattern clung in lank
folds to her thin and bony figure.
The three daughters were younger and less faded types of their mother.
Each was clad in a narrow-skirted calico dress, and each was
stockingless and shoeless. Mother and daughters were dull, slow of
speech, and ignorant.
After staying long enough to give the necessary instructions and
exchange civilities with each member of the family in sight, I was
riding slowly back to the roadway, intending to take a brisk canter to
the fort, when Corporal Henry's voice called from a clump of cedars at
the back of the Arnold family's wagons.
"Oh, Mr. Duncan, may I speak to you a moment?"
Turning my horse in the direction of the voice, I saw my young friend
approaching, switching a handsome riding-whip in his hand.
"You haven't seen all the family, sir," he said.
"I have seen Mr. and Mrs. Arnold and those the mother said were all
their children--the three barefooted girls."
"But there is one more girl, sir, a very pretty one, too--a niece.
She's back of the wagons making friends with Vic and Chiquita. You
must not go without seeing her."
I went back with Henry and saw a girl of about fourteen standing by
Chiquita, holding her by the bridle-rein and smoothing her neck, while
Vic nestled at her feet. She seemed very attractive at my first casual
glance, impressing me favorably. A blonde, possessed of abundant
flaxen tresses held in a band of blue ribbon, having a complexion
which her recent journey had tanned and sprinkled with abundant
freckles, but giving promise of rare beauty with added years and less
exposure to sun and wind. Her clothing was fashionably made and well
fitted, and her delicate feet were encased in neat boots and
stockings.
"Miss Arnold," said Henry, "permit me to introduce our quartermaster,
Lieutenant Duncan--and Mr. Duncan," continued the boy, "it gives me
pleasure to present to you Miss Brenda Arnold."
The quality, modulation, and refinement of the voice in which the girl
assured me of her pleasure in meeting me, confirmed my first
impression.
"But how did you make the acquaintance of Corporal Henry Burton, Miss
Arnold?" I asked.
"I was riding back from the fort, sir, where I had been to mail some
letters, and my pony, Gypsy, lost a shoe and came near falling. The
stumble caused me to drop a package, and Mr. Burton chanced to come up
and restore it to me, and he also picked up Gypsy's shoe. He
accompanied me to camp, and since we arrived has been giving me the
history of Vic, Sancho, and Chiquita."
"And that, of course, included something of the history of their
devoted attendants?"
"Yes, I have learned something of the gallant deeds of Corporals Frank
and Henry Burton and Lieutenant Duncan at Los Valles Grandes and on
the march here. When I meet Corporal Frank I shall know you all."
"He will present himself to-morrow, no doubt," I observed. "But about
that pony's shoe; do you want it reset?"
"Yes, but who can do it?"
"At our next camp, to-morrow, our soldier-blacksmith shall set it."
"But I do not belong to government, sir."
"But part of this government belongs to you," replied Henry. "I'll
lead Gypsy to the forge for you, and Private Sattler shall shoe her as
he does Chiquita, and polish the shoes, too."
The Arnold family history, gathered incidentally on the march, and at
a period later in my story, was briefly this: Brenda was the only
daughter of Mr. Arnold's only brother, and had been reared in a large
inland city of New York. Her father and mother had recently perished
in a yachting accident, and the young girl had been sent to her
paternal uncle in Colorado. There were relatives on the mother's side,
but they were scattered, two brothers being in Europe at the time of
the accident. Brenda had reached her Western uncle just as he was
starting on one of his periodical moves--this time to Arizona.
The different social status of the families of the two brothers was
unusual, but not impossible in our country. One of the brothers was
ambitious, of steady habits, and possessed of a receptive mind; the
other was idle, impatient of restraint, with a disinclination to
protracted effort of any kind.
The distance to the first camp beyond Fort Wingate where we were sure
to find water was twenty-two miles; and it being impossible for us to
leave the post before three o'clock in the afternoon, we determined to
make a dry camp five and a half miles out.
When Frank and Henry learned that the start was not to be an early one
they rode out to the Arnold camp with the information, and the former
was duly presented to Miss Brenda. Gypsy was brought into the fort and
shod, and returned to her mistress in season for the march.
The evening was well advanced when we pitched our tents at the dry
camp. Horses and mules were turned out to graze for the first time
without water, and although in this mountain region the grass was
abundant, they did not cease to whinny and bray their discontent
throughout the night.
The sun dropped behind the mountain spurs, and we drew nearer and
nearer the fires, adding a thicker garment as the twilight deepened
into night. Frank expressed the trend of thought by asking, "We now
march into the heart of the Navajo country, do we not, sir?"
"Not precisely through the heart, but along its southern border."
"They'll try to make it lively for us, I suppose?"
"They will certainly watch us closely, and will take advantage of any
carelessness on our part."
"Do you think there is any chance of our finding Manuel Perea?"
"Hardly; he is too far off our route. We cannot leave the train to
look him up."
There was a suspicious choke in the voice of the little corporal when
he said: "It is awful to think we are going so near the dear old boy
and can do nothing for him. Only think of his poor mother!"
"I was told at the fort that she has offered five thousand dollars to
the man who will bring Manuel to her," said Frank. "I wish I could
bring him in for nothing."
"Brenda says she believes we shall find him somehow," Henry said. "I
hope she is right, for I saw his mother at Algodones and promised her
to rescue him or become a prisoner with him."
"So she wrote me at Los Pinos," I replied. "Well, something may turn
up to enable us to serve his mother. Let us go to bed."
Next morning we were again on the road by starlight. A march of
sixteen miles brought us to Agua Fria--cold water. Less than a hundred
yards west of the spring was a ridge which did not rise fifty feet
above it, and that was the "backbone" of the continent. The water of
Agua Fria flowed into the Atlantic; the springs on the other side of
the ridge flowed into the Pacific.