before an open fire, I read their father's letter, and remarked that
perhaps I should be able to accompany them to San Francisco, and, if
the colonel consented to their request to go to the military school
with me, we might take the same steamer for Panama and New York.
"Oh, won't that be too fine for anything!" exclaimed the younger
sergeant. "Then I'll not have to leave Vicky here, after all."
Vic, upon hearing her name called, left her rug at my feet and placed
her nose on Henry's knee, and the boy stroked and patted her in his
usual affectionate manner.
"Then you have been dreading to leave the doggie?" I asked.
"Yes; I dream all sorts of uncomfortable things about her. She's in
trouble, or I am, and I cannot rescue her and she cannot help me.
Usually we are parting, and I see her far off, looking sadly back at
me."
"Henry is not the only one who dreads to part with Vic," said Frank.
"We boys can never forget the scenes at Los Valles Grandes, Laguna,
and the Rio Carizo. She saved our lives, helped recover Chiquita, and
she helped rescue Manuel, Sapoya, and Henry from the Navajos."
"Yes; but for her I might have lost my brother at La Roca Grande,"
remarked Henry. "That was probably her greatest feat. Nice little
doggie--good little Vicky--are you really to go to San Francisco and
the East with us?"
"I believe if I only had Sancho back, and Henry had Chiquita, I should
be perfectly happy," observed the elder brother.
After a slight pause, during which the boy seemed to have relapsed
into his former depression, Henry asked:
"Do they have cavalry drill at that school?"
"Yes, the superintendent keeps twenty light horses, and allows some of
the cadets to keep private animals. All are used in drill."
"And if we get our ponies back, I suppose we shall have to leave them
here. Do you think, sir, there is any chance of our seeing them
again?" asked Frank.
"Not unless some one can go to La Paz for them. Captain Bayard is
going to see me after supper about a plan of his to retake them."
"I wonder what officer he will send?"
"Perhaps I shall go."
"Father could never stand the expense of sending them to the States, I
suppose," said Henry, despondently.
"They could easily be sent to the Missouri River without cost," I
observed.
"How, please?"
"There is a quartermaster's train due here in a few weeks. It would
cost nothing to send the ponies by the wagon-master to Fort Union, and
then they could be transferred to another train to Fort Leavenworth."
"Frank, I've a scheme!" exclaimed the younger boy.
"What is it?"
"If Mr. Duncan finds Sancho and Chiquita, let's send them to Manuel
Perea and Sapoya on the Rio Grande. When they go to the military
school they can take our horses and theirs, and we'll join the
cavalry."
"That's so," said Frank. "Manuel wrote that if he went to school he
should cross the plains with his uncle, Miguel Otero, who is a
freighter. He could take the whole outfit East for nothing. There
would remain only the cost of shipping them from Kansas City to the
school."
"Yes, but before you cook a hare you must catch him," said I.
"And our two hares are on the other side of the Xuacaxélla[1] Desert,"
said Frank, despondently. "I suppose there is small chance of our ever
seeing them again."
[Footnote 1: Pronounced Hwar-car-hál-yar.]
Our two boy sergeants had found life in Arizona scarcely monotonous,
for the hostile Apaches made it lively enough, compelling us to build
a defensible post and look well to the protection of our stock. A few
years later a large force, occupying many posts, found it difficult to
maintain themselves against those Indians, so it cannot seem strange
to the reader that our small garrison of a hundred soldiers should
find it difficult to do much more than act on the defensive. Close
confinement to the reservation chafed the boys.
A ride to Prescott, two miles distant, was the longest the boys had
taken alone. Two weeks before this chapter opens they had been invited
to dine with Governor Goodwin, the Governor of the Territory, and he
had made their call exceedingly pleasant. When, at an advanced hour in
the evening, the boys took leave of their host and went to the stable
for their horses, they found them gone, with their saddles and
bridles.
Inquiries made next day in town elicited the information that two
notorious frontier scamps, Texas Dick and Juan Brincos, an American
and Mexican, were missing, and it was the opinion of civil and
military authorities that they had stolen the ponies. The boys took
Vic to the Governor's, and, showing her the tracks of her equine
friends, she followed them several miles on the Skull Valley trail. It
was plainly evident that the thieves had gone towards the Rio
Colorado.
After supper I accompanied the commanding officer to his quarters. He
told me that the express had brought him a communication from the
department commander, stating that, since Arizona had been transferred
to the Department of the Pacific, our stores would hereafter be
shipped from San Francisco to the mouth of the Rio Colorado, and up
that stream by the boats of the Colorado Steam Navigation Company to
La Paz. He said he had decided to send me to La Paz to make
arrangements with a freighter for the transportation of the supplies
from the company's landing to Fort Whipple.
"And while you are in La Paz," said the captain, "look after those
horse-thieves, and turn them over to the civil authorities; but,
whether you capture them or not, be sure to bring back the boys'
ponies."
"What do you think about allowing the boys to go with me?"
"No doubt they would like it, for life has been rather monotonous to
them for some time, especially since they lost their horses. Think it
would be safe?"
"No Indians have been seen on the route for some time."
"The 'calm before the storm,' I fear."
"The mail-rider, Hudson, has seen no signs for a long time."
"So he told me. The excursion would be a big treat to the lads, and,
with a good escort and you in command, Duncan, I think they will be
in no danger. Tell the adjutant to detail a corporal and any twelve
men you may select, and take an ambulance and driver."
"Shall I go by Bill Williams Fork or across the Xuacaxélla?"
"The desert route is the shortest, and the courier says there is water
in the Hole-in-the-Plain. There was a rainfall there last week. That
will give you water at the end of each day's drive."
I returned to my rooms and looked over an itinerary of the route, with
a schedule of the distances, and other useful information. After
making myself familiar with all its peculiarities, I told Frank and
Henry that if they desired to do so they might accompany me.
They were overjoyed at the prospect. Henry caught Vic by the forepaws
and began to waltz about the room. Then, sitting down, he held her
head up between his palms and informed her that she was going to bring
back Sancho and Chiquita.
"I do not intend to take Vic, Henry," I said.
"Not take Vic? Why not, sir?"
"The road is long and weary--six days going and six returning, over a
rough and dry region--and she will be in the way and a constant care
to us."
"But how are we going to find our horses without her? She always helps
whenever we are in trouble, and she will be sure to assist us in this
if we take her," said Sergeant Henry, emphatically.
"She need be no care to you, sir," said the elder boy; "Henry and I
will look after her."
"I am sorry to disappoint you, boys, but I cannot take the dog. She
will be left with Captain Bayard."
This decision made the boys somewhat miserable for a time. They
commiserated the dog over her misfortune, and then turned their
attention to preparations for the journey.
"Have you ever been to La Paz?" asked Frank.
"I have never been beyond Date Creek in that direction," I replied.
"Is the Xuacaxélla really a desert?"
"Only in the rainless season. Grasses, cacti, and shrubbery not
needing much moisture grow there. One of the geological surveys calls
it Cactus Plain. It is one hundred miles long. There is water in a
fissure of a mountain-spur on one side called the Cisternas Negras,
or Black Tanks, but for the rest of the distance there was formerly no
water except in depressions after a rainfall, a supply that quickly
evaporated under a hot sun and in a dry atmosphere. A man named Tyson
has lately sunk a well thirty miles this side of La Paz."
"It was at Black Tanks the expressman saw Texas Dick and Juan Brincos
with our ponies," said Henry. "What a queer name that is!--Juan
Brincos, John Jumper, or Jumping Jack, as nearly every one calls him."
"He is well named; he has been jumping stock for some years."
"I thought Western people always hanged horse-thieves?"
"Not when they steal from government. Western people are too apt to
consider army mules and horses common property, and they suppose your
ponies belong to Uncle Sam."
"Frank," said Henry, just before the boys fell asleep that night, "I
felt almost sure we should recapture the ponies when I thought Vic was
going, but now I'm afraid we never shall see them again."
XII
INDIANS ON THE WAR-PATH
The following day we were so delayed by several minor affairs that we
did not begin our journey until the middle of the afternoon.
At the time of which I write there were but two wagon-roads out of
Prescott--one through Fort Whipple, which, several miles to the north,
divided into a road to the west, the one over which we had marched
from New Mexico, and a second which left in a northwesterly direction.
We took the latter, pursuing it along the east side of Granite Range
for eight miles, when we passed through a notch in the range to Mint
Creek, where the road made an acute angle and followed a generally
southwesterly course to La Paz.
We halted for the night at the creek, eight miles from the fort. Our
ambulance was provided with four seats--one in front for the driver,
fixed front and rear seats in the interior, with a movable middle
seat, the back of which could be let down so that it fitted the
interval between the others and afforded a fairly comfortable bed. On
the rack behind were carried the mess chest, provisions, and bedding,
and inside, under the seats, were the ammunition and some articles of
personal baggage. Beneath the axle swung a ten-gallon keg and a nest
of camp kettles.
While supper was being prepared the boys wandered about the reed-grass
in a fruitless search for some ducks they had seen settle in the
creek. Private Tom Clary, who was acting as our cook, having spread
our meal of fried bacon, bread, and coffee upon a blanket to the
windward of the fire, called them to supper. While sugaring and
stirring our coffee, the cook stood by the fire holding two long rods
in his hands, upon the ends of which were slices of bacon broiling
before the glowing coals. Suddenly he exclaimed:
"Look there, sergeant laddies! look there!" raising and pointing with
both sticks and the rashers of bacon towards the reed-grass behind
us.
There in its very edge sat Mistress Vic, winking her eyes and
twitching her ears deprecatingly, plainly in doubt as to her
reception.
"Stop, boys! keep quiet!" I said, to prevent a movement in her
direction. "Vic, you bad girl, how dared you follow me?"
No reply, only a slow closing and opening of the eyes and an
accompanying forward and backward movement of the ears.
"Go home! Go!"
The setter rose, dropped her head, and, turning dejectedly,
disappeared with drooping tail into the tall grass. Both boys
exclaimed at once:
"Don't drive her off, sir! Poor little Vic!"
"Well, go and see if you can coax her back. If she returns with you
she may go to La Paz."
The boys ran eagerly into the grass, and soon I heard them soothing
and pitying the dog, telling her that it was all right, and that she
could go. But it was evident she doubted their authority to speak for
me, for Henry presently came running towards me.
"She won't come, sir. Keeps moving slowly back in the direction of the
fort. She looks so sorry and so tired. Only think how badly she feels,
and it is a long distance to Whipple! Can't she stay with us until
morning?"
"Then she will not come with you?"
"No. She is your dog, and knows it. She never disobeys you."
"But she followed me here; that looks very much like disobedience."
"But you did not tell her not to come."
"I believe you are right. I forgot to tell her to stay."
"And she did not hear you tell the corporal to tie her, sir. You told
him in your room, and she was outside."
"Then you think she is not to blame for following us?"
"Of course not. She's a military dog, and always obeys orders."
"But how guilty she looked."
"It was not guilt made her look so, sir; it was disappointment."
"Yes, I think you are right, Henry. I'll let her go with us. Let us
try an experiment, and see if she understands ordinary conversation.
You know some people think dogs do."
"Yes, sir; I know Vic does."
"I'll speak to her without altering my tone of voice. Now watch.
'Here, Vicky, little girl, it's all right; you may go with us.'"
Out of the reeds, bounding in an ecstasy of delight, came Vic. She
sprang about me, then about the boys, the soldiers, and animals, and
then approaching the fire, sat down and looked wistfully at the
rashers of bacon Clary was still broiling. It was settled in her dog
mind that she was now a recognized member of our party.
We resumed our journey with the first break of dawn and rode to Skull
Valley. The first section of the road passed through a rough,
mountainous, and wooded country; but at the end of thirteen miles it
entered a level valley, which gradually broadened into a wide plain
that had been taken up by settlers for farms and cattle ranges. Being
well acquainted, I made several calls at the log-cabins which skirted
the road. At the Arnold house we were made very welcome, and after a
generous dinner were escorted through the house and stables by the
entire family. I had visited the valley many times when on scouting
or escort duty, and had seen the Arnold cabins gradually substituted
for their tents, and their acres slowly redeemed from grazing ground
to cultivated fields; but since my last visit Mr. Arnold had adopted
an ingenious means of defence in case of an Indian attack.
The house and stables from the first had been provided with heavy
shutters for windows and doorways, and loop-holes for fire-arms had
been made at regular four-foot intervals. These the proprietor had not
considered ample, and had constructed, twenty yards from the house, an
ingenious earthwork which could be entered by means of a subterranean
passage from the cellar. This miniature fort was in the form of a
circular pit, sunk four feet and a half in the ground, and covered by
a nearly flat roof, the edges or eaves of which were but a foot and a
half above the surface of the earth. In the space between the surface
and the eaves were loop-holes. The roof was of heavy pine timber,
closely joined, sloping upward slightly from circumference to centre,
and covered with two feet of tamped earth. To obtain water, a second
covered way led from the earthwork to a spring fifty yards distant,
the outer entrance being concealed in a rocky nook screened in a thick
clump of willows.
As we were climbing into our ambulance, preparatory to resuming our
journey, Brenda said:
"If you had reached here three hours earlier you might have had the
company of two gentlemen who are riding to La Paz."
"Sorry I did not meet them. Who were they?"
"Mr. Sage and Mr. Bell from Prescott. They are going to purchase goods
for their stores; and that reminds me that not one of you has
mentioned the object of this journey of yours."
"That is really so," I replied. "You have made every minute of our
call so interesting in showing us your improvements and the fort, and
in doing the hospitable, that we have not thought of ourselves. Frank,
tell her about the ponies."
Sergeant Frank, aided by Sergeant Henry, told in full of the loss of
their animals, and said we intended to try to capture Texas Dick and
Juan Brincos and recover Sancho and Chiquita.
At the end of the boys' story, Brenda asked: "The thieves were a
Mexican and an American?"
"Yes."
"The American had a scar on the bridge of his nose, and the Mexican
had lost his front teeth?"
"Exactly. What do you know about them, Brenda?"
"They were here, but I did not see their ponies nearer than the
stable; they were black and cream color. The Mexican traded saddles
with uncle. You'll find the one he left in the lean-to, on a peg
beside the door."
Both boys leaped to the ground and ran round the house to the lean-to,
and presently returned with Henry's neat McClellan saddle. It had been
stripped of its pouches and small straps, but was otherwise unharmed.
"Well, when I come back with Chiquita, Mr. Arnold, I'd like to trade
saddles."
"All right, youngkett, I'll trade, or you can take it now, and
welcome," replied the ranchman.
"No; I'll leave it until I return."
The saddle was taken back to the lean-to, and after a few more words
of leave-taking we started up the valley. A few miles of rapid
travelling brought us to a steep ascent into a mountainous range to
the right. We had proceeded but a short distance through a narrow and
rugged roadway when we were overtaken by the military expressman whom
we had left at Fort Whipple. He had come from Prescott to Skull Valley
by a short cut.
"I have a letter for you, lieutenant," said he, approaching the
ambulance.
Unfastening the mail-pouch, he turned its contents upon the back seat.
A heap of loose letters and three well-worn books strewed themselves
over the cushion. Frank picked up the books and examined their titles.
"Xenophon's _Memorabilia_, Euripides' _Alcestis_ and _Medea_, and a
Greek grammar!" exclaimed the astonished youngster. "What are you
doing with these college text-books on the La Paz trail?"
"Making up conditions," replied the courier, a blush deepening the
brown of his face.
"What are conditions?" asked Henry.
"Oh, blissful ignorance! Why was I not spared the task of enlightening
it?" answered the courier. "Conditions are stumbling-blocks placed in
the way of successful trackmen, football players, and rowing men by
non-appreciative and envious professors."
"'Joseph Gould Hudson, University of Yalvard,'" read Frank from the
fly-leaf of the _Memorabilia_. "Is that your name, Mr. Hudson?"
"I'm so borne on the Yalvard catalogue."
"Please explain, Mr. Hudson," I said, "how a college boy happens to be
in Arizona running the gantlet of this mail-route and making up
conditions in Greek?"
"I was stroke in the crew that won the championship for Yalvard at New
London one year ago, and got behind in these. I was conditioned, and
being ashamed to face an angry father, struck out for myself on the
Pacific coast. I drifted about from mining-camp to cattle-range until
I was dead broke; this place offered, and I took it because I could
find nothing else. I've had lots of opportunities for reflection on
the Xuacaxélla. I'm the repentant prodigal going home to his father."
"Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Hudson," observed Henry. "We've heard
all about you; you are too brave."
"Thank you, Sergeant Henry. No, I've not wasted my substance in
riotous living, nor have I eaten husks, but I've been prodigal in
wasting opportunities."
"Lost a whole college year, haven't you?" I asked.
"I hope not. There is a German university man at La Paz who has been
coaching me. He thinks if I keep at work until after Christmas I can
go on with my old class. This is my last trip, and if I escape the
Apaches once more I'm going to lay off and work hard for a few months,
and then return to New Havbridge for examination. There's something in
that letter that concerns me."
Opening the letter, I learned that Captain Bayard knew Mr. Hudson's
story. He said this was to be the last trip of the courier, but that
after his return to La Paz he would come out to meet me at Tyson's
Wells and report whether the horse-thieves were in town. He also
suggested that in establishing a transshipment storehouse at the
steamboat-landing I place Hudson in charge. The pay would be of use to
him while "making up."
The courier wished us a pleasant journey, and rode away at a
scrambling canter up the pass. He had been gone but a few moments when
I heard a shout, and, looking up, saw him standing on a pinnacle by
the way-side, on the summit of the ascent. He was looking in the
opposite direction, and I saw him fire three shots from his carbine in
rapid succession. Dismounting the men, I made rapid preparations to
meet an attack, and proceeded to work our way slowly up the height,
and when we reached the narrow level at the top we found Hudson and
the two soldiers that formed our advance occupying a shelter among the
rocks to the left, and gazing down the opposite slope.
"What is it, Hudson?" I asked.
"A party of Indians attempted to jump me here. There they go
now--across that opening in the sage-brush!"
A dozen Indians dashed across an open space south of the road, but too
far away for effective shooting, and then two more passed over,
supporting a third between them.
"You must have hit one of them."
"I tried to. I think another was hurt more seriously, by the way he
acknowledged my shot."
"Are you hurt?"
"A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt."
An examination of Hudson's arm proved that the scratch was not
serious, but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging
to a soldier. We then went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the
ambulance mules.
"There's something down there in the road by Ferrier's grave, sir,"
said Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man."
"Is that where Ferrier was killed?" I asked.
"Yes, sir; I was in command of the detail that came here to look him
up. He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder, and kept
the redskins off three days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we
found. He killed six of them, and might as many more, but he couldn't
live without sleep or food, and the rascals got him. They scattered
the mail in shreds for miles about here."
"Who was Ferrier?" Frank asked.
"He was a discharged California volunteer, who rode the express before
Mr. Hudson."
"Do you think Mr. Hudson knew his predecessor had been killed?"
"Yes; the incident was much talked of at the time."
We were nearing the object in the road. Suddenly the mules caught
sight of it, backed, and crushed the ten-gallon keg under the axle
against a bowlder--a serious mishap, as our after experience will
show. Walking on, we came to the mutilated bodies of two men, several
yards apart, whom we had no difficulty in recognizing to be the
tradesmen Bell and Sage. With axe, bayonets, and tin cups we dug a
shallow grave beside Ferrier's. We placed the bodies side by side, and
heaped a pyramid of stones above them.
The courier again bade us good-bye, and we went on. The rest of the
ride through the mountain-pass was accomplished without adventure, and
evening found us encamped at Willow Springs. The boys shot a few quail
here, of the variety known as the California quail, distinguished by
an elegant plume of six feathers on the top of its head. Clary broiled
them for breakfast.
The road on the following day was so rough that for much of the way
we were unable to move faster than a walk--the slow walk of draught
animals. When near a place called Soldiers' Holes, on account of some
rifle-pits sunk there, the corporal called my attention to a pool of
blood in the road.
A close examination led us to believe that two men had fallen, that
one had been wounded, and that a second party had come and taken the
wounded man away. The locality was well adapted for a surprise. On the
left was a growth of dense shrubbery extending from the road to the
foot of the mountain-range. On the opposite side was an open plain.
We were moving on again, when Frank remarked:
"There seems to have been a big gathering of Apaches along this road."
"Yes; a war-party bent on mischief. They have struck at two points,
and I fear a third--Date Creek--may have been attacked by this time.
That is where we are to pass the night." Then turning to Corporal
Duffey, I continued: "The road from here to the creek is soft and
loamy, and we are not likely to make much noise; caution the men to
be quiet and not show themselves outside the track. If the Indians are
at the ranch it will be best for us to appear there unexpectedly."
"Do Indians never stand up like white men, and fight?" asked the
younger boy.