The rifle was sheathed in a saddle scabbard and Hank took it, looked from it to his own, weighing them both. "Heavy as all git out," he remarked. "Wall, 'twon't weigh nothin' when it's slung ter a saddle. Might be handy purty soon. Much obliged, friends. How we goin' ter git th' powder an' lead ter ye?"
"I've arranged fer that," said Tom, picking up his rifle. "Wall, good luck, boys. Remember us at Bent's if ye git thar."
"Reckon it's you boys that need th' good luck," grimly replied the leader. He watched the two visitors until they were lost to sight in the brush and then turned to his men, his eyes flaming again. "Break camp, boys; we're crossin' th' river close by, ter circle back ag'in farther up."
Tom and Hank, moving silently back toward the encampment, had covered about half of the distance when they heard a sudden burst of shots, yells, and the thunder of hoofs. Running up the side of a littlehill they peered over the top and flung themselves down. Less than two hundred paces away a little party of tenderfeet, with Patience Cooper in the center, fought frightened horses as a band of nearly a dozen Indians came charging straight for them across the little clearing. As they looked one of the tenderfeet's horse went down, spilling its rider, and throwing the group into still greater confusion.
"'Rapahoes!" snorted Hank, and his rifle spoke. "Onefer my cache!"
The double-barreled rifle of his companion roared twice and another warrior plunged from his horse, while the third fought madly to keep his seat, but his weakening grasp loosened and he rolled over and over across the grass. Tom dropped the empty rifle and started to rise, his hand leaping to the Colt revolver at his belt; but Hank, who had slipped the newly-acquired repeating rifle from its sheath, poked it into his friend's hand and fell to re-loading his Hawken. "She's yore gal. Give 'em hell!" he grunted.
The deadly and unexpected attack from the little hilltop created a diversion which for the moment turned the thoughts of the savages from the tenderfeet in the open, and the charging line split to pass the forlorn group and give its full attention to the real menace; but as it hesitated the heavy, regular crashes of the revolving rifle rolled from the hill, its lead always selecting the warrior nearest to the panic-stricken group. Here an Indian went down, there a horse; and with the cry "Tejanos!" the rest of the savage band wheeled and dashed over the route theyhad come. The last warrior to reach the edge of the pasture was for one instant silhouetted against the sky on the edge of a ravine, and at that moment Hank's rifle cracked. Throwing both arms up over his head, he turned a backward flip from the horse and sprawled inertly in a currant bush. Re-loading as quickly as they could while on the run the two plainsmen hastened to the group, and Tom, pulling Dr. Whiting from his horse, was within an inch of strangling him when Patience's hands on his wrists checked him.
"Six trusty knights!" sneered the enraged plainsman, hurling the doctor from him. "Isaidyou were six flashes. Ask a woman to go riding with you in a country as broken as this, and as over-run with Indians!" He took a step forward, seething with rage, and ran his eyes over the speechless tenderfeet. "Git back to camp, all of you! Miss Cooper goes with us!" Poised, tense, and enraged he watched them go and did not know that Hank had run to the little hilltop for the double-barreled rifle until the old hunter returned with it, loaded its two barrels, capped them and threw the weapon under his arm. At that moment a burst of firing sounded from the north and Hank cocked his head.
"Sounds like them Colt rifles," he remarked, and then kicked himself figuratively, for at his words, his two companions, almost in each other's arms, started, stiffened, and stepped apart. Seeing that the damage already was done, Hank placidly continued. "Is thar another passel o' Texans loose 'round hyar, or has our friends hit th' trail already?"
"Yes," said Tom, quivering like a leaf.
Patience closed her eyes. "Yes," she sighed.
Hank scratched his head and frowned, very much puzzled. "Shucks! thar ain't no doubt 'bout it, a-tall. Course it is—an' I'm a danged old fool!"
"You're one of the four best men I ever knew," said Patience, resting her hand on his arm.
Hank felt of the disgraceful, stubby beard on his face, scowled at his blackened hands, and furtively brushed at a bloodstain on his shirt. Then he wheeled abruptly and strode off to look over the victims of the little affray. When he turned again he saw Patience and Tom going toward camp, Patience on her horse and Tom striding at her side. Fixing the strap to his own rifle he slung the weapon over his shoulder and, with the double-barreled weapon balanced expertly in his hands, slowly followed after to act as a badly needed protector to them both.
Back in camp Tom handed Patience into her uncle's care, looked at her in a way she would remember to the end of her days, and hastened on to report to the captain of the caravan. When he reached Woodson he found Hank there before him, laughingly recounting the fight. As Tom came up Hank stepped back and slipped away, heading straight for the excited group of tenderfeet at the other end of the encampment, and roughly pushed in among them.
"Look hyar, ye sick pups," he blurted. "My pardner dassn't thrash any o' ye, or he'll mebby lose his gal. Anybody hyar wantin' ter take advantage o' an old man? Huh! Then open yer dumb ears ter this: If I ketch airy one o' ye hangin' 'round Cooper'swaggins, or even sayin' 'how-de-do' to that gal, I'll git ye if I has ter chase ye all the way back ter Missoury!" He spat at the doctor's feet, turned his back and rambled over to where his trade goods were piled. On the way he met Zeb, who scowled at him.
Hank pulled some black mops out of his pocket, showed them, and shoved them back again.
"Hell!" said Zeb, enviously. "Whar ye git 'em?"
"Found one on a currant bush," chuckled Hank, and went on again.
Zeb placed his fists on his hips and scowled in earnest. "I didn't know what that shootin' war, with all th' hunters runnin' 'round. Dang him! He allusdidhave more luck ner brains!"
Up at the captain's wagon Woodson nodded as his companion finished speaking. "I reckon ye kin have 'most anythin' in this hyar camp, Boyd. Two bars o' lead off'n th' cannon carriages, an' a keg o' powder? Shore, I'll put th' powder in Cooper's little waggin, an' ye kin help yerself ter th' lead when ye git th' time."
THE PASSING OF PEDRO
After supper that night Hank and Tom sat around their fire and soon were joined by Pedro, who paid them effusive compliments about their defeat of the Arapahoes. They squirmed under his heavy flattery and finally, in desperation, spoke of the secret trail to Taos. His face beamed in the firelight and he leaned eagerly forward.
"You have decide?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Tom. "Whar we goin' ter meet, and what time?"
"Ah?" breathed Pedro. "To that have I geevemuchothought. Eet should be ear-rly, so we be far away by thee coming of thee sun. Ees eet not so?"
"Naw," growled Hank. "Folks air not sleepin' sound enough then. Nobody's goin' ter foller us. Thar'll be lots o' 'em leavin' camp at night from now on, tryin' ter beat each other ter th' customs fellers. Two hours afore dawn is time enough. But we got lots o' time ter figger that; we won't be ter th' Upper Spring fer two more days. Time enough then ter talk about it."
"But, eet ees tonight!" exclaimed Pedro. "Madre de Dios!You teenk I mean near thee Upper Spreeng? No! No!"
"Mebby not; but that's wharwemean," said Tom."Think we're goin' pokin' along through this Injun country fer two nights an' a day by ourselves? Th' caravan gits ter Willer Bar tomorrow night, an' camps at th' Upper Spring, or Cold Spring, th' next night. That puts us near fifty miles further on in th' protection of th' caravan."
"No! No!" argued Pedro in despair. "Eet ees toomuchoreesk!"
"Of what?" demanded Tom, in surprise.
"Eet may be that Armijo sendsoldatsto meet thee tr-rain, lak other times. Señores, eet mus' be tonight! Tonight eet mus' be!" He looked around suddenly. "But where ar-re theecargas, thee packs? I do not see them. What ees eet you do?"
"We put 'em outside th' corral," chuckled Tom knowingly, "so folks will git used ter seeing 'em thar. Tomorrow night we'll do th' same, an' do it ag'in at th' Upper Spring. Somebody shore would see us if we had ter pack 'em here an' sneak 'em through th' camp. Ye should tell yer friends ter put thar packs outside th' waggins, too. How we goin' ter git through th' guards around th' camp?"
"By my fr-riends," answered Pedro. "But eet may be too late at Cold Spreeng!" he expostulated. "Eef theesoldatsar-re there—ah, señores! Eet ees ver' bad, Cold Spreeng!"
"We ain't botherin' 'bout that," said Tom reassuringly. "Hank kin scout on ahead o' us, an' if thar camped up thar we kin drop out o' th' train behind any bend on th' way, an' take ter th' brush."
Pedro begged and pleaded, but to no avail. He still was arguing when his two companions rolled upin their blankets and settled down to go to sleep. Sadly he walked away, hiding his anger until well out of their sight, and then hastened to his own fire and sent three of his compatriots to watch the sleeping pair. They had their watch for nothing, and while they doggedly kept their eyes on the two plainsmen, Uncle Joe and his two wagoners were busy on the other side of the camp, stowing merchandise in the wagons and making false packs. This they found easy to do without calling upon many buffalo rugs, for the goods had been packed in light boxes, over which had been thrown skins and canvas. By taking out the contents of the boxes and putting the containers back into their original wrappings the shapes of the packs did not change. The pigs of lead, a keg of powder and bundles of stones were wrapped in pieces of old skins to give weight to the packs to keep them from flopping at every step of the mules. They did not start to work until Zeb Houghton and Jim Ogden returned from their tour of guard duty and took up another kind of guard duty near the wagons; and long before daylight awakened the encampment the work was done and no one the wiser. Alonzo Webb and Enoch Birdsall had taken care of the packs belonging to Ogden and Houghton and everything was in shape for quick action.
On the march again after an early breakfast the caravan plodded along the trail to reach Willow Bar in good time for the next night camp. As the wagons rolled along the road following the course of the Cimarron, Uncle Joe and Patience dropped back to the rear guard, where Hank Marshall scowled atJim Ogden, but refrained from open hostilities. Hank was glad to see them and entertained them mile after mile with accounts of his life and experiences in the great West. At times his imagination set a hard pace for his vocabulary, but the latter managed to keep up. The men exchanged tobacco off and on and no one gave a second thought to what they were doing. When Uncle Joe and Patience rode forward again as the train drew near to the noon camping place, Uncle Joe was poorer and lighter by the loss of a goodly sum in minted gold, while Hank was richer and heavier. The balance was obtainable in Santa Fe in the warehouse of a mutual friend.
The wagons hardly had left the noon camp when a heavy rain storm burst upon them, with a blast of cold air that quickly turned the rain into driving sheets of hail. These storms were common along the Cimarron and at times raged for two or three days. The animals became frantic with fear and pain, and the train was a scene of great confusion from one end to the other. Alternate downpours of rain, sleet, and heavy hailstones continued all the rest of the day and the encampment at Willow Bar was one of sullenness and discontent. The wind rose during the early part of the night and sent the rain driving into the wagons through every crack and crevice, and the flapping and slapping and booming of wagon covers, added to the fury of the wind and the swish of the downpour, filled the night with a tumult of noise. The guards around the camp either crawled under skins or crept back to their wagons, not able to see three feet in the blackness.
Tom and Hank had taken refuge under a great Pittsburg wagon owned by Haviland and had fastened buffalo rugs to its sides to shed some of the rain. As soon as darkness set in and Pedro's spies found that they could not see an arm's length from them and were drenched and half frozen by the steady downpour, they fled from their posts and sought refuge from the storm. It took very little to convince them that the men they were to watch would stay where they were until dawn or later, and they did not let Pedro know of their deflection.
"Nine, ten, eleven," muttered the first of two men leading packmules as they felt their way from wagon to wagon. "This oughter be Haviland's, Zeb. Yep, I kin feel thar skin walls." He bent down and raised the lower edge of a skin. "Hank! Tom!"
"All right, Jim," came the low answer, and the two partners, bundled in skins until they looked like nothing human, crawled from their snug shelter and stood up, their one and constant thought being for the covers of the hammers of their heavy rifles. Hank pushed ahead and the night swallowed up the little party.
Uncle Joe raised himself on one elbow and peered through a small opening in the canvas at the rear end of his first huge wagon, and got a faceful of cold rain before he could close the opening again. He had done this a dozen times since dark. Muttering sleepily he rolled up in his blankets and rugs and dozed again, squirming down into the warm bed as vague thoughts sped through his mind of what his friends were going to face.
Suddenly the soft whinny of a horse sounded squarely under him, and he bounced from the blankets and crept to a crack where the canvas was nailed to the tailboard of the wagon. "Hello!" he called. "Hello!"
A low voice answered him and he shivered as a trickle of cold rain rolled down his face. "Thought you had given it up till tomorrow night. This is a hell of a night, boys, to go wandering off from the camp. Sure you won't get lost among th' hills?" He chuckled at the reply and shivered again. "Sure I'll tell her Bent's. Yes. No, she won't. What? Look here, young man; she's plumb cured of tenderfeet. Yes, I remember everything. All right; good luck, boys. God knows you'll need it!" He listened for a moment, heard no sounds of movement, and called again. "What's th' matter?" There came no answer and he crept back to his blankets, his teeth chattering, and lay awake the rest of the night, worrying.
Between the wagons and the road the little pack train waited, kept together by soft bird calls instead of by sight. A plaintive, disheartened snipe whistled close by and was answered in kind. Hank almost bumped into Ogden before he saw him. They both looked like drowned rats, the water slipping from the buffalo hair and pouring from them in little rills.
"Ain't a guard in sight, or ruther feelin', fifty feet each side o' th' road," Hank reported. "Bet every blasted one o' 'em is back in camp. Mules all tied together? Everybody hyar? All right. Off we go."
All night long the littleatejoslopped down thestreaming road, kept to it by the uncanny instinct and the oft repeated cheeping and twittering of the adopted son of the Blackfeet, who could perfectly imitate any night bird he ever had heard; and he had heard them all. Horses whinnied, mules brayed, wolves and coyotes howled, foxes squalled, chipmunks scolded, squirrels chattered and several other animals performed solos in the dark at the head of the little pack train, to be answered from the rear. Anyone unfortunate enough to be camped at the edge of the trail would have thought himself surrounded by a menagerie.
With the first sullen sign of dawn Tom pushed on ahead, reconnoitered the Upper Spring, found it deserted and went on, riding some hundreds of yards from, but parallel to, the trail and soon came to Cold Spring. Here he saw quantities of camp and riding gear, abandoned firelocks, personal belongings, and other things "forgotten" by the brave Armijo and his army in their precipitate retreat from the Texans, while the latter were still one hundred and fifty miles away. Scouting in the vicinity for awhile he rode back and met the littleatejo, which had been plodding steadily on at its pace of three miles an hour; and all the urging of which the men were capable would not increase that speed.
At the Upper Spring, which poured into a ravine and flowed toward the Cimarron a few miles to the north, the wagon road drew farther from the river and ran toward the Canadian; and here the little party left it to turn and twist over and around hills, ravines, pastures and woods, and then slopped down themiddle of a storm-swollen rivulet. They turned up one of its small feeders and followed it for half a mile and then, crossing a little divide, struck another small brook and splashed down it until they came to the Cimarron. Here they threw into the river the useless contents of the false packs, distributed the supplies among the mules, and pushed on again upstream along the bank.
They now were well up on the headwaters of the river and its width was negligible, although its storm-fed torrent boiled and seethed and gave to it a false fierceness. Their doubling and the hiding of their trail in the streams had not been done so much for the purpose of throwing the Mexicans off their track, as to make their pursuers think they were trying to throw them off. They knew that the Mexicans, upon losing the tracks, would strike straight for the old and now almost abandoned Indian trail for Bent's Fort.
"We got about a ten-hour start on 'em," growled Tom, "but they'll cut that down quick, once they git goin'. Reckon I'll lay back a-ways an' slow 'em up if they git hyar too soon."
Zeb and Jim wheeled their horses and without a word accompanied him to the rear.
Hank, leading the bell mule, pushed on, looking for the site of his old cache and for a good place to cross the swollen stream, and he soon stopped at the water's edge and howled like a wolf. In a few minutes his companions came up, reported no Mexicans in sight, and unpacked the more perishable supplies. These they carried across to the other bank, theirhorses swimming strongly and soon the mules were ready to follow. Tom led off, entering the stream with the picket rope of the bell mule fastened to his saddle, and with his weapons, powder horn and "possible" sack high above his head. His horse breasted the current strongly, quartering against it, and the bell mule followed. After her, with a slight show of hesitation, came the others, the three remaining hunters bringing up the rear.
As theatejoformed again and started forward Hank hung back, peering into the stunted trees and brush on the other side of the stream.
"Come on, Hank," said Tom. "What ye lookin' fer? They warn't in sight."
"I war sorta hankerin' fer 'em ter show up," growled Hank with deep regret. "That's plumb center range from hyar, over thar. Wouldn't mind takin' a couple o' cracks at 'em, out hyar by ourselves, us four. Allus hate ter turn my tail ter yaller-bellies like them varmints. I hate 'em next ter Crows!" He slowly turned his horse and fell in behind the last mule, glancing back sorrowfully. Then he looked ahead. "Thar's my ol' cache," he chuckled.
Before them on the right was an eroded hill with steep sides, its flat top covered with a thick mass of brush, berry bushes and scrub timber, and on its right was a swamp, filled with pools and rank with vegetation. The dry wash marking the end of the great buffalo trail was dry no longer, but poured out a roiled, yellow-brown stream into the dirty waters of the Cimarron.
Rounding the hill they stopped and exchangedgrins, for in a little horseshoe hollow two horses, with pack saddles on their backs, stopped their grazing, pulled to the end of their picket-ropes, and looked inquiringly at the invaders.
"Thar's jest no understandin' th' ways o' Providence," chuckled Hank as he dismounted. "Hyar we been a-wishin' an' a-wishin' fer a couple o' hosses to take th' place o' these cold-'lasses mules, an' danged if hyar they ain't, saddles an' all, right under our noses."
While he went along the back trail on foot to a point from where he could see the river, his companions became busy. They pooled their supplies and packed them securely on the Providence-provided horses, put the rest on their own animals, picketed the mules and removed the bell from the old mare, tossing it aside so its warning tinkle would be stilled. Signalling Hank, in a few minutes they were on their way again along the faint and in many places totally effaced trail leading over the wastes to the distant trading post on the Arkansas. Coming to a rainwater rivulet Hank sent them westward down its middle while he rode splashingly upstream. Soon coming to a tangle of brush he forced his horse to take a few steps around it on the bank, returned to the stream and then, holding squarely to its middle, picked his way through the tangle and rode back to rejoin his friends, having left behind him a sign of his upward passing. In case Providence went to sleep and took no more interest in his affairs, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had done what he could to hide their trail.
He found his friends waiting for him and he shook his head as he joined them. "Danged if I like this hyar hidin'," he growled, coming back to his pet grievance. "I most gen'rally 'd ruther do it myself."
"But it ain't a question o' fighting," retorted Tom. "We got ter hide our trail from now on in case some greaser gits away, like they did from them Texans back nigh th' Crossin', an' takes th' news in ter th' settlements that we didn't go ter Bent's after we left th' wagon road. Ye'll git all th' danged fightin' yer lookin' fer afore ye puts Santa Fe behind ye—an' I'm bettin' we'll all show our trails a hull lot worse afore we git through ter Bent's. Come on; Turley's ranch is a long ways off. If yer itchin' ter try that repeatin' rifle ye'll shore git th' chance ter, later."
Hank grinned guiltily and while he was not thoroughly convinced of the soundness of their flight, so far as his outward appearances showed, he grunted a little but pushed on and joined his partner. In a few minutes he grinned again.
"I ain't never had th' chanct ter try fer six plumb-centers without takin' th' rifle from my shoulder," he remarked. "Jest wait till I take this hyar Colt up in th' Crow country!" He chuckled with anticipated pleasures and then glanced sidewise at his partner. "Say, Tom," he said, reminiscently; "who air th' three other best men yer gal was thinkin' of, back thar in that little clearin'?"
"What you mean?" demanded Tom, whirling in his saddle, his face flushing under its tan. "An' she ain't my gal, neither."
Hank chirped and twittered a bit. "Then who's is she?"
"Don't know; but she won't like bein' called mine. Ye oughtn't call her that."
"Not even atween us two?"
"Not never, a-tall."
"That so?" muttered Hank, a vague plan presenting itself to his mind, to be considered and used later. "Huh! I must be gittin' old an' worthless," he mourned. "I been readin' signs fer more'n thirty year, an' I ain't never read none that war airy plainer, arter them thievin' 'Rapahoes turned tail an' lit out. Anyhow, I reckon mebby yer safe if ye keep onthinkin'that she's yer gal." He scratched his chin. "But who war th' other three?"
"Why, I do remember her saying something like that," confessed Tom slowly, tingling as his memory hurled the whole scene before him. "Reckon she meant Uncle Joe an' her father."
"That accounts fer two o' 'em," said Hank, nodding heavily; "but who in tarnation is th' third?"
"Don't know," grunted Tom.
"Huh! Bet he's that stuck-up, no-'count doctor feller. Yeah; that's who it is." He glanced slyly at his frowning friend. "Told ye I war gettin' old an' worthless. Gosh! an' she's goin' all th' rest o' th' way ter Santer Fe with him!" He slapped his horse and growled in mock anxiety. "We better git a-goin' an' not loaf like we air. Santer Fe's a long ways off!"
Two miles further on they turned up a little branch of the stream and Hank, stopping his horse, threw up his hand. "Listen!" he cried.
Four pairs of keen ears sifted the noises of the intermittent wind and three pairs of eyes turned to regard their companion.
"What ye reckon ye heard?" curiously asked Zeb.
"I'd take my oath I heard rifle shots—a little bust o' 'em," replied Hank. "Thar ain't no questionin' it; Iamgittin' old. Come along; we'll keep ter th' water fur's we kin, anyhow."
Back at the encampment of the caravan dawn found the animals stampeded, and considerable time elapsed before they were collected and before the absence of Tom and his friends was noticed. Then, with many maledictions, Pedro rallied his friends and set out along the wagon road, following a trail easily seen notwithstanding the rain which had beaten at the telltale tracks all night. Mile after mile unrolled behind them, saturated with Spanish curses; miles covered with all the vengeful ferocity and eagerness of Apaches. The score of Mexicans were well-armed, having spent the winter in the Missouri settlements and procured the best weapons to be had there. The Upper Spring came near and was put behind in a shower of hoof-thrown mud, and without pause they followed the tracks leading into the rough country, like hounds unleashed. They were five to one, and these odds were deemed sufficient in a sudden night attack. There would be satisfaction, glory, and profits for them all. The Governor had demanded Tom Boyd's ears, on him if possible, without him if they could be obtained in no other way; the Governor was powerful and would reward loyal and zealous service.They followed the trail of theatejoaround hills, through ravines, and past woods, an advance guard of three men feeling the way. Then the tracks ceased at the side of a creek; but they did not pause. Choosing the straightest practical route to the Cimarron at the beginning of the old Indian trail running northward to the Arkansas, they kept on. At last they saw the muddy flood of the river and as they reached its banks and read them at a glance they sent up an exultant shout. Holding their weapons and powder well above the backs of their swimming horses they reached the further side and took up the trail again.
Pedro dashed forward and flung up an arm and as his followers stopped in answer he cheered them with a Spanish oration, in which Pedro played no minor part. "Pedro never loses!" he boasted. "Before noon we will be on the heels of the gringo dogs and our scouts will find their camp in the night. Before another sun rises in the heavens we will have their ears at our belts and their trade goods on the way to the Valley of Taos! Forward, my braves! Forward, my warriors! Pedro leads you to glory!"
They snapped forward in their saddles as the spurs went home, their rifles at the ready, their advance guard steadily forging ahead, and thundered along the tracks of the fleeingatejo. Rounding the little hill with its frowsy cap of brush and scrub timber, they received a stunning surprise; for dropping down the steep bank as if from the sky charged twenty-odd vengeful Texans, their repeating rifles cracking like the roll of a drum. Pedro's exultant face became a sickly yellow, his burning eyes in an instantchanged to glass, and his boasting words were slashed across by the death rattle in his throat. Volley after volley crashed and roared as the charging Texans wheeled to charge back again, and as they turned once more on the hillside they pulled up sharply and viewed the havoc of their deadly work. No man was left to carry tales, and Pedro had spoken with prophetic vision, for he had indeed led his warriors to glory—and oblivion.
"'SPRESS FROM BENT'S"
Circling back to the river so as not to lose its guidance nor stray too far out of the direct course, they reached its desolate banks at nightfall and camped at the base of a low hill on the top of which grew dense masses of greasewood. Zeb had shot a black-tailed deer on their way to the river and their supper that night, so far as the meat was concerned, would have delighted the palate of an epicure. Cooked over the hot, sputtering, short-lived greasewood, which constantly was added, and kept on the windward side of the blaze, the flavor of the meat was very little affected and they gorged, hunter-like, until they could eat no more; and partly smoked some of the remaining meat to have against some pressing need.
As the stream dwindled the nature of its banks and of the surrounding country changed, the vegetation steadily becoming more desert-like. White chalk cliffs arose like painted eyebrows from the tops of the banks, where erosion had revealed them; loose and disintegrating sandstone lay about the broken plain in myriads of shapes. Stunted and dead cottonwoods added their touch to the general scene, leaning this way and that, weird, uncanny, ghostlike. The drab sagebrush and the green fan of the palmetto becamesteadily more common, the latter figuring largely in the daily life of the Mexicans, for its mashed, saponaceous roots provided them with their pulpyamole, which was an excellent substitute for soap. Prickly pears, Spanish bayonets, masses of greasewood bushes and scattering fringes of short grama grass completed the carpeting of the desolate plain.
Doggedly they pushed on, thankful for the heavy rains of the last two days, which had reached even here and left little pools of bad-tasting water for themselves and their beasts. At noon they stopped and built a fire of stunted cedar, for in daylight its telltale flames told nothing. They cooked another black-tailed deer, smoked some of the meat, and ran bullets until they had all of the latter they could possibly use. On again toward the Canadian until nightfall, lighting no fire, but eating the meat they had cooked at noon. They arranged a four-shift watch and passed a peaceful night. In their range of vision were Raton Peak, Pike's Peak, and the Wet Mountain, that paradise for hunters; the twin Spanish Peaks with their caps of snow, and behind these towering sentries loomed the sullen bulk of a great mountain range under a thin streak of glittering white.
At any distance their appearance hardly would tell whether they were white hunters or Indians from Bent's, since their garb was a mixture of both and their skins so tanned, their hair so long as to cause grave doubts. More than once in that country two white men have exchanged shots, each taking the other for an Indian. At Bent's Fort on the Arkansas there were stray Indians from far-off tribes, and theydressed in what they could get; and at The Pueblo, that little trading post farther up on the Arkansas, Indians and whites lived together and intermarried. Not one of the four but could speak more than one savage dialect; and Tom's three companions possessed an Indian vocabulary which left little to be desired. If it came to a test which might prove too severe for him he could be dumb, and fall back on the sign language.
At last the Canadian was reached and passed, and Hank led them unerringly up the valley of a little feeding stream which poured its crystal flood down the gorges of a mountain range now almost over their heads. Coming to a rocky bowl scooped out of the sheer, overhanging wall at a bend, he built a fire of dry wood that was safely screened, and from his "possible" sack he took various leaves and stems and roots he had collected on the way. Four white men looking more like Indians had entered that little valley just before dusk. In the morning at dawn two white men, a Blackfoot and a Delaware, a hunting party from Bent's Fort with messages for Bent's little Vermajo ranch, located in a mountain valley, left the ravine and followed a little-used Ute trail that their leader knew well. Hank wore the Blackfoot distinctive double part in his hair just above the forehead, the isolated tuft pulled down to the bridge of his nose, and fastened to his buckskin trousers were thin strips of beadwork made by Blackfoot squaws.
The Mexican herder working for Bent uneasily watched them as they rode up to his makeshift lean-to and demanded a change of horses, a report of hisstewardship, and the use of his fire. They were not bad fellows and were generous with their heavenly tobacco, and finally his uneasiness wore away and he gossiped with them while the night more and more shut in his lavish fire and seemed to soften the guttural polyglot of the two Indians. The white men did most of the talking, as was usual, and could make themselves understood in the herder's bastard Spanish and they answered sociably his numerous questions. Had they heard of the greatTejanoarmy marching to avenge the terrible defeat inflicted by the brave Armijo on their swaggering vanguard? It was the great subject from the upper end of the Valley of Taos to the last settlement along the Rio Grande and the Pecos. The ignoble dogs ofTejanoshad basely murdered the brave Mexican scouting party near the Cimarron Crossing of the Arkansas. What could thesoldatsof Mexico do, attacked in their sleep? Most of the murderedsoldatshad come from the Valley of Taos, which always had been friendly to Texas. Was it true that theTejanosspit fire on dry nights and could kill a full-grown bull buffalo with their bare hands? Ah, they were devils and the sons of devils, thoseTejanos; and at night all doors were tightly barred in the settlements and strange Americans regarded with suspicion.
Some nights later, down the rough, steep sides of the Arroyo Hondo, through which trickled a ribbon of water from a recent rain, four Indians rode carefully, leading two pack animals. They were two Arapahoes, a Blackfoot, and a Delaware, and they followed the ravine and soon came in sight of the littlemountain pasture, dotted with cedar bushes and sparsely covered with grass, which sloped gently down the mountain side. In the fading twilight the so-called ranch stood vaguely outlined, the nature of its log and adobe walls indiscernible, its mill and the still house looming vaguely over the main building against the darker background of the slope. The faint smell of sour mash almost hid the mealy odor of the grist mill; hogs grunted in the little corral by the fenced-in garden, while an occasional bleating of sheep came from the same enclosure. Dark shapes moved over the cedar-brush pasture and the frequent stamping of hoofs told they were either horses or mules. High up near the roof of the composite building were narrow oblongs of faint radiance, where feeble candle light shone through the little squares of gypsum, so much used in that country in place of window glass. As the four newcomers smilingly looked at the comfortable building the foot-compelling strains of a cheap violin squeaked and rasped resinously from the living quarters and a French-Canadian, far from home, burst ecstatically into song. Dreaming chickens cackled briefly and a sleepy rooster complained in restrained indignation, while the rocky mountain side relayed the distant howl of a prowling coyote.
The leader drew the flap over the ultra-modern rifle in its sheath at his leg and glanced back at his companions.
"Wall," he growled, "hyar we air; we're plumb inter it, now."
"Up ter our scalp-locks," came a grunted reply.
"Hell! 'Tain't th' fust time they've been in danger.They'll stand a lot o' takin'," chuckled another voice. He softly imitated a coyote and the sleepy inmates of the hen house burst into a frightened chorus.
"Hain't ye got no sense?" asked Hank, reprovingly.
"Wouldn't be hyar if I had. I smell sour mash. Let's go on."
Hank kneed his mount, no longer the one which had become so well known to many eyes on the long wagon trail, and led the way down to the door. At the soft confusion of guttural tongues outside the house the door opened and Turley, the proprietor, stood framed in the dim light behind him.
"'Spress from Señor Bent's," said the nearest Indian, walking forward. "It's Hank Marshall," he whispered. "Want ter palaver with ye, Turley."
"Want's more whiskey, I reckon," growled Turley. "Hobble yer hosses on th' pasture. Ye kin roll up 'most anywhar ye like. Fed yit?"
"Si, señor; muchos gracias," answered the Indian. "Señor! cary mucho aguardiente grano!"
"Oh, ye do?" sarcastically replied Turley. "Whiskey, huh? Wall, ye'll do better without it. What's Bent want o' me?"
"Aguardiente de grano, señor!"
Turley chuckled. "He does, hey? I say he picks damned poor messengers to send fer whiskey! We'll talk about that tomorrow. Roll up some'rs in yer blankets an' don't pester me." He stepped back and the door slammed in the eager, pleading face of the Blackfoot, to a chorus of disappointed grunts. The rebuffed savage timidly knocked on the door and it was flung open, Turley glaring down at him. "Yeheard what I said, an' ye savvied it! Reckon I want four drunk Injuns 'round hyar all night? We ain't a-goin' ter have no damned nonsense. Take yer animals off ter th' pasture an' camp down by th' crick!Vamoose!"
The picture of pugnacity, he stood in the door and watched them slowly, sullenly obey him, and then he slammed it again, swearing under his breath. "Quickest way ter git murdered is ter give them Injuns likker!" he growled.
"Mais, oui," said the French-Canadian, placing his fiddle back under his chin, and the stirring air went on again.
Three hours before dawn Hank awoke and without moving his body let his eyes rove over the dark pasture. Then like a flash of light his heavy pistol jammed into the dark blotch almost at his side, and he growled a throaty inquiry.
"It's me, Hank," came the soft reply. "Take that damned thing away! What's up?"
Three other pairs of eyes were turned on them and then their owners stirred a little and grunted salutations, and made slight rustlings as their hands replaced what they had held.
"Nothin', only a courtin' party," chuckled Hank.
"Wall, I've heard tell o' courtin' parties," ruminated Turley; "but never one made up like Injuns and armed to th' teeth. Might know some damned fool thing war afoot when yer mixed up in it. Who ye courtin', at yer time o' life? Somebody's wife?"
"We're aimin' fer Santer Fe," said Hank. "Got ter have help ter git thar th' way we wants. ThemTexans has made it hard fer us, a-stirrin' up everythin' like they has."
"Whar'd ye git yer hosses?" anxiously demanded Turley.
"Inderpendence, Missoury," innocently answered Hank, his grin lost in the darkness.
"Then ye come over th' wagon trail, an' up th' Arkansas?"
"Over th' wagon trail an' up th' Cimarron, with th' second caravan o' traders. Come nigh straight acrost from Cold Spring."
"Wall, I'll be damned!" muttered Turley. Then he snorted. "Ain't ye got no sense, ye Root Digger? Everybody in th' train'll know them hosses!"
"We swapped 'em at Bent's rancho on th' Vermajo—good gosh! Two o' 'em come from them Texans!"
"They didn't have no brands," said Tom. "I heard 'em say somethin' about gettin' some at Bent's. We got ter risk it, anyhow. It'll be like addin' a spoonful o' freight ter a wagon load."
Hank's mind was running in a groove that he had been gouging deeper and longer hour after hour and he refused to be sidetracked by any question concerning the horses they had changed. "We want ter swap hosses ag'in an' borry some rags fer clothes; an' before daylight, too."
Tom arose on one elbow. "That's all right, fur's it goes; only it don't go no-whar," he declared. "We want ter git rid o' these hosses, an' we want th' clothes; but that ain't all. We want a job, Turley. Need any mule wranglers ter take some freight inter Santer Fe?"
"Day after tomorrow," answered Turley. "We got ter git rid o' these animals afore then, ye got ter git shet o' 'em afore mornin'. I'll send Jacques out ter take 'em away as soon as I go back ter th' house. Arter he leaves with 'em I'll bring ye some ol' clothes so ye'll look a little different from them four fools that swapped hosses at Bent's rancho. Th' peon up thar won't git away, nor mebby see nobody fer weeks; but we better take th' pelt afore th' meat spiles under it. I got some hosses th' Utes stole from th' 'Rapahoes. We stole 'em from th' Utes. They ain't marked, an' they ain't knowed down in th' valley."
"But we'll still be four," commented Tom, thoughtfully.
"That's shore a plain trail," said Jim Ogden. "Here: You an' Hank take a mule apiece an' go back th' way we come, fur a spell. Me an' Zeb kin freight whiskey with Turley'satejo, an' meet ye along th' trail some'rs, or in Santer Fe, at th' warehouse. Ye kin load yer mules with faggots ter be sold in town, an' tag onter our mule train fer society an' pertection. Yer rifles kin be hid under th' faggots."
"We'll be unpackin' th' mules noon an' night," replied Tom. "How 'bout our rifles then?"
"Can't be did," grunted Hank.
"We got ter risk that peon seein' anybody ter talk to," said Tom. "Anyhow, 'tain't nothin' unusual fer him ter see fellers from th' fort. We'll go on with th'atejo, after we make a few changes in our clothes, an' ride Turley's hosses 'stead o' Bent's. But wecan't jine that mule train as no party o' four. We got ter lose that danged number, that's flat."
"You an' Hank," offered Zeb, "bein' Blackfoot an' Delaware, kin be hunters from Bent's; me an' Jim, bein' 'Rapahoes turned friendly, kin come from St. Vrain's post. Th' South Platte, up thar, is th' 'Rapahoe stampin' ground an' we both know it from one end to t'other. That'll count fer all o' us havin' first-class weapons. Somebody's shore goin' ter notice them."
Turley nodded. "Yes; hyar's whar ye lose that cussed four. You two 'Rapahoes git scarce afore daylight, goin' on foot an' leavin' no trail. Come back from th' way o' th' old Ute trail from th' Bayou Salade. I'm runnin' a little herdin' up o' my hosses on th' side o' th' mounting; they're scatterin' in th' brush too much. Fer that I'll be needin' all my men that ain't goin' as muleteers. I'll hire you boys, two at a time, ter go 'long with th'atejoas guards. Thar's thieves atween hyar an' Santer Fe that likes Turley's whiskey an' ground meal. I'll give ye a writin' ter my agent in town to pay ye off, an' ye'll git through, all right. Do ye reckon ye'll have ter git outer Santer Fe on th' jump? Seein' as how yer so danged careful how ye git inter th' town, it may be that ye ain't welcome a hull lot. Knowin' Hank like I do, makes me suspicious."
"We'll mebby git out quicker'n scat," answered Tom, chuckling. "They'll mebby be touchy about strangers, with them Texans prowlin' 'round. If we git ter goin' strong as a Texan raid an' they find out that it's only four no-'count Injuns full o' Taoslightnin', they'll mebby move fast. We may make quite a ruckus afore we git through, if they find out who we air."
"What th' hell ye aimin' ter do? Capture th' town?" demanded Turley, unable to longer hold down his curiosity.
"Aimin' ter git our trade goods money, see a young lady, hang 'round till th' return caravan start back fer th' States, an' mebby squar up fer a few o' them Texans thatdidn'tgit ter Mexico City," answered Tom.
"This hyar's th' Tom Boyd that slapped Armijo's kiyote face," explained Hank. "We hears th' Governor is lonesome fer his company."
"Great Jehovah yes!" exclaimed Turley. "Boyd, ye better jine that thar caravan from Bent's, meetin' up with it at th' Crossin'. Armijo combed these hyar mountings fer ye, an' watched my rancho fer nigh a week. He'd 'most give his right hand ter git a-holt o' you; an' if he does, you kin guess what'll happen ter you!" He peered curiously at the young American and shook his head. "I'm bettin' yedoleave on th' jump, if yer lucky enough ter leave at all. Ye'll need fresh hosses, another change o' clothes an' a cache o' grub. Tell ye what," he said, turning to Hank. "Ye know that little mounting valley whar you an' me stopped fer two days, that time we war helpin' find th' hosses that war run off Bent's Vermajo rancho? Wall, I'll fix it so these hyar hosses will be waitin' fer ye up thar. I got some men I kin trust as long as I'm playin' agin' th' greasers. I'll cache ye some Dupont an' Galena, too," he offered, referringto powder and lead. The latter came from Galena, Illinois, and took its name from that place.
"An' forty pounds o' jerked meat a man," added Hank. "We might have ter go clean up ter th' South Park afore we dast turn fer Bent's. Hang it on that thar dead ash we used afore, or clost by if th' tree's down. We better leave ye some more bullets as will fit our own weapons without no doubt. We kin run more in th' warehouse in Santer Fe if we need 'em. Keep yer Galena, Turley, an' leave some patches, instid, along with our bullets."
"But we'll still be four arter we leave hyar," objected Jim.
"No, ye won't," replied Turley. "Ye'll show up in pairs, ye'll jine in pairs, ye'll ride an' 'sociate in pairs, an' thar'll be a dozen more mixin' up with ye. Wall, talk it over among ye while I gits busy afore it's light," and the friendly rancher was swallowed up in the night.
A few minutes later Jacques, sleepy and grumbling, loomed up out of the darkness, collected the six horses and departed up the slope. Shortly after him came Turley with a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends of worn-out clothing and soon his friends had exchanged a garment or two with him. Tom and Hank parted with their buckskin shirts and now wore coarse garments of Pueblo make; Zeb had a Comanche leather jerkin and Jim wore a blue cotton shirt patched with threadbare red flannel. They bound bands of beadwork or soft tanned skin around their foreheads, and Hank's hair proudly displayed two iridescent bronze feathers from the tail of arooster. If Joe Cooper, himself, had come face to face with them he would have passed by without a second glance.
Silently Zeb and Jim melted into the night, while Tom and Hank arose and went around to the wall of the still house, rolled up in their newly-acquired blankets against the base of the adobe wall and slept until discovered and awakened after dawn by one of Turley's mill hands, who paid them a timid and genuine respect.
They loafed around all day, watching the still house with eager eyes. Their wordless pleading was in vain, however, for Turley, frankly scowling at their first appearance, totally ignored them thereafter. Just before dusk two half-civilized Arapahoes from St. Vrain's South Platte trading post swung down the mountain side, cast avaricious eyes on some horses in the pasture, sniffed deeply at the still house, and asked for whiskey.
"I'll give ye whiskey," said Turley after a moment's thought, a grin spreading over his face, "but I won't give it ter ye hyar. If ye want likker I'll give ye a writin' ter my agent in Santer Fe, an' he'll give ye all yer porous skins kin hold, an' a jug ter take away with ye."
"Si, señor! Si, señor! Muchos gracias!"
"Hold on thar! Hold yer hosses!" growled Turley. "Ye don't reckon I'm makin' ye no present, do ye? Ye got ter earn that likker. If ye want it bad enough ter escort myatejoter th' city, it's yourn. I'm combin' my hosses outer th' brush, an' I'm short-handed. By gosh!" he chuckled, smiling broadly.
"Thar's a couple more thirsty Injuns 'round hyar, some'rs; hey, Jacques! Go find them watch dogs o' th' still house. They won't be fur away, you kin bet. These two an' them shore will scare th' thieves plumb ter death all th' way ter town. I kin feelmyha'r move!"
Jacques returned shortly with Bent's thirsty hirelings, and after some negotiations and the promise of horses for them to ride, the Indians accepted his offer. They showed a little reluctance until he had given each of them a drink of his raw, new whiskey, which seemed to serve as fuel to feed a fire already flaming. The bargain struck, he ordered them fed and let them sleep on the softest bit of ground they could find around the rancho.
SANTA FE
After an early breakfast theatejoof nineteen mules besides themulera, or bell mule, was brought out of the pasture and theaparejos, leather bags stuffed with hay, thrown on their backs and cinched fast with wide belts of woven sea-grass, which were drawn so cruelly tight that they seemed almost to cut the animals in two; this cruelty was a necessary one and saved them greater cruelties by holding the packs from slipping and chafing them to the bone. Groaning from the tightness of the cinches they stood trembling while the huge cruppers were put into place and breast straps tightened. Then thecargawas placed on them, the whiskey carriers loaded with a cask on each side, firmly bound with rawhide ropes; the meal carriers with nearly one hundred fifty pounds in sacks on each side. While the mules winced now, after they had become warmed up and the hay of theaparejospacked to a better fit, they could travel longer and carry the heavy burdens with greater ease than if the cinches were slacked. The packing down and shaping of theaparejoso loosened the cinch and ropes that frequently it was necessary to stop and tighten them all after a mile or so had been put behind.
Theatejowas in charge of a major-domo, fivearrieros, or muleteers and a cook, or themadre, who usually went ahead and led the bell mule. All the men rode well-trained horses, and both men and horses from Turley's rancho were sleek, well fed and contented, for the proprietor was known throughout the valley, and beyond, for his kindness, honesty and generosity; and he was repaid in kind, for his employees were faithful, loyal, and courageous in standing up for his rights and in defending his property. Yet the time was to come some years hence when his sterling qualities would be forgotten and he would lose his life at the hands of the inhabitants of the valley.
Theatejoswiftly and dexterously packed, the two pairs of bloodthirsty looking Indian guards divided into advance and rear guard, themadreled the bell mule down the slope and up the trail leading over the low mountainous divide toward Ferdinand de Taos, the grunting mules following in orderly file.
The trail wandered around gorges and bowlders and among pine, cedar, and dwarf oaks and through patches of service berries with their small, grapelike fruit, and crossed numerous small rivulets carrying off the water of the rainy season. Taos, as it was improperly called, lay twelve miles distant at the foot of the other side of the divide, and it was reached shortly after noon without a stop on the way. The "noonings" observed by the caravans were not allowed in anatejo, nor were the mules permitted to stop for even a moment while on the way, for if allowed a moment's rest they promptly would lie down, and in attempting to arise under their heavyloads were likely to strain their loins so badly as to render them forever unfit for work. To remove and replace the packs would take too much time. Because of the steady traveling the day's journey rarely exceeded five or six hours nor covered more than twelve to fifteen miles.
Taos reached, the packs were removed and covered by theaparejos, each pile kept separate. Turned out to graze with the bell mule, without picket rope or hobbles, the animals would not leave her and could be counted on, under ordinary circumstances, to be found near camp and all together.
Taos, a miserable village of adobes, and the largest town in the valley, had a population of a few American and Canadian trappers who had married Mexican or Indian women; poor and ignorant Mexicans of all grades except that of pure Spanish blood, and Indians of all grades except, perhaps, those of pure Indian blood. The mixed breed Indians had the more courage of the two, having descended from the Taosas, a tribe still inhabiting the near-by pueblo, whose warlike tendencies were almost entirely displayed in defensive warfare in the holding of their enormous, pyramidal, twin pueblos located on both sides of a clear little stream. In the earlier days marauding bands of Yutaws and an occasional war-party of Cheyennes or Arapahoes had learned at a terrible cost that the Pueblo de Taos was a nut far beyond their cracking, and from these expeditions into the rich and fertile valley but few returned.
Here was a good chance to test the worth of their disguises, for the three older plainsmen were well-known to some of the Americans and Canadians in the village, having been on long trips into the mountains with a few of them. And so, after the meal offrijoles,atoleand jerked meat, the latter a great luxury to Mexicans of the grade ofarrieros, Hank and his two Arapahoe companions left the little encampment and wandered curiously about the streets, to the edification of uneasy townsfolk, whose conjectures leaned toward the unpleasant. Ceran St. Vrain, on a visit to the town, passed them close by but did not recognize the men he had seen for days at a time at his trading post on the South Platte. Simonds, a hunter from Bent's Fort, passed within a foot of Hank and did not know him; yet the two had spent a season together in the Middle Park, lying just across the mountain range west of Long's Peak.
Continuing on their way the next morning they camped in the open valley for the night, and the next day crossed a range of mountains. The next village was El Embudo, a miserable collection of mud huts at the end of a wretched trail. The Pueblo de San Juan and the squalid, poverty-stricken village of La Canada followed in turn. Everywhere they found hatred and ill-disguised fear of the Texans roaming beyond the Canadian. Next they reached the Pueblo de Ohuqui and here found snug accommodations for themselves and their animals in the little valley. From the pueblo the trail lay through an arroyo over another mountain and they camped part way down its southeast face with Santa Fe sprawled out below them.
Morning found them going down the sloping trail,the Indian escort surreptitiously examining their rifles, and in the evening they entered the collection of mud houses honored by the name of San Francisco de la Santa Fe, whose population of about three thousand souls was reputed to be the poorest in worldly wealth in the entire province of New Mexico; and, judging from the numbers of openly run gambling houses, rum shops and worse, the town might have deserved the reputation of being the poorest in morals and spiritual wealth.
Sprawled out under the side of the mountain, its mud houses of a single story, its barracks,calabozoand even the "palace" of the governor made of mud, with scarcely a pane of glass in the whole town; its narrow streets littered with garbage and rubbish; with more than two-thirds of its population barefooted and unkempt, a mixture of Spaniards and Indians for generations, in which blending the baser parts of their natures seemed singularly fitted to survive; with cringing, starving dogs everywhere; full of beggars, filthy and in most cases disgustingly diseased, with hands outstretched for alms, as ready to curse the tight of purse as to bless the generous, and both to no avail; with its domineering soldiery without a pair of shoes between them, its arrogant officers in shiny, nondescript uniforms and tarnished gilt, with huge swords and massive spurs, to lead the unshod mob of privates into cowardly retreat or leave them to be slaughtered by their Indian foes, whose lances and bows were superior in accuracy and execution to the ancient firelocks so often lacking in necessary parts; reputed to be founded on the ruins of a pueblowhich had flourished centuries before the later "city" and no doubt was its superior in everything but shameless immorality. There, under Sante Fe mountain and the pure and almost cloudless blue sky, along the little mountain stream of the same name, lay Santa Fe, the capital of the department of New Mexico, and the home of her vainglorious, pompous, good-looking, and brutal governor; Santa Fe, the greatest glass jewel in a crown of tin; Santa Fe, the customs gate and the disappointing end of a long, hard trail.
Through the even more filthy streets of the poverty-stricken outskirts of the town went the littleatejo, disputing right-of-way in the narrow, porch-crowded thoroughfares withhoja(corn husk) sellers and huge burro loads of pine and cedar faggots gathered from the near-by mountain; past the square where the mud hovels of the soldiers lay; past a mud church whose tall spire seemed ever to be stretching away from the smells below; past odorous hog stys, crude mule corrals with their scarred and mutilated creatures, and sheep pens, and groups of avid cock-fighters; past open doors through which the halfbreed women, clothed in a simple garment hanging from the shoulders, could be seen cookingfrijolesor the thin, wateryatoleand hovering around the flat stones which served for stoves; past these and worse plodded theatejo, the shrewd mules braying their delight at a hard journey almost ended. Sullen Indians, apologetic Mexicans, swaggering and too often drunken soldiers gave way to them, while a string of disputing, tail-tucking dogs followed at a distance, ever wary, ever ready to wheel and run.
Reaching thePlaza Publica, which was so bare of even a blade of grass or a solitary tree, and its ground so scored and beaten and covered with rubbish to suggest that it suffered the last stages of some earthly mange, they came to the real business section of the town, where nearly every shop was owned by foreigners. Around this public plaza stood the architectural triumphs of the city. There was thepalacioof the governor, with its mud walls and its extended roof supported on rough pine columns to form a great porch; the custom-house, with its greedy, grafting officials; the mud barracks connected to the atrocious and much dreadedcalabozo, whose inmates had abandoned hope as they crossed its threshold; the mud city hall, the military chapel, fast falling into ruin, and a few dwellings. The interest attending the passing of theatejoincreased a little as the pack train crossed this square, for the Indian guards were conspicuous by their height and by the breadth of shoulder, and the excellence of their well-kept weapons. Strangers were drawing more critical attention these days, with the Texan threat hanging over the settlements along the Pecos and the Rio Grande. Peon women and Indian squaws regarded the four with apparent approval and as they left the square and plunged into the poorer section again, compliments and invitations reached their ears. Hopelessmozos, or ill-paid servants, most of them kept in actual slavery by debts they never could pay off because of the system of accounting used against them, regarded the four enviously and yearned for their freedom.
Of the four Indians, a tall, strapping Delaware, stooping to be less conspicuous, whose face was the dirtiest in theatejo, suddenly stiffened and then forced himself to relax into his former lazy slouch. The rattle of an imported Dearborn, which at all times had to be watched closely to keep its metal parts from being stripped off and stolen, filled the street as the vehicle rocked along the ruts toward them, drawn by two good horses and driven by one Joseph Cooper, of St. Louis, Missouri. At his side sat his niece, looking with wondering and disapproving eyes about her, her pretty face improved by its coat of healthy tan, but marred somewhat by the look of worry it so plainly showed. She appeared sad and wistful, but at times her thoughts leaped far away and brought her fleeting smiles so soft, so tender, as to banish the look of worry and for an instant set a glory there.
Her glance took in the little pack train and its stalwart guards and passed carelessly over the bending Delaware, and then returned to linger on him while one might count five. Then he and theatejopassed from sight and she looked ahead again, unseeing, for her memory was racing along a wagon road, and became a blank in a frightful, all-night storm. At her sigh Uncle Joe glanced sidewise at her and took a firmer grip on his vile native cigar, and silently cursed the day she had left St. Louis.
"Load of wheat whiskey from th' rancho, I reckon," he said, and pulled sharply on the reins to keep from running over a hypnotized ring of cock-fighters. "How your paw can live all th' year 'round in this fester of a town is a puzzle to me. I'd rather be ina St. Louis jail. Cigar?" he sneered, yanking it from his mouth and regarding it with palpitant disgust. He savagely hurled it from him. "Hell!"
A tangle of arms and legs rolled out of a rum shop and fought impotently in the dust of the street, and sotted faces grinned down at them from the crowded door. A flaky-skinned beggar slouched from behind the corner of the building and held out an imploring hand, which the driver's contemptuous denial turned into a clenched fist afloat in a sea of Spanish maledictions.
The pack train having reached its destination, the two pairs of guards, clutching their "writin'" from Turley, departed in hot haste to claim their payment, and not long thereafter, rifleless, wandered about on foot to see the sights, gaping and curious. In the hand of each was a whiskey jug, the cynosure of all eyes. ThePlaza Publicaseemed to fascinate them, for they spent most of their time there; and when they passed the guard house in thepalaciothey generously replied to the coaxing banter of the guard off watch, and went on again with lightened jugs. Here as elsewhere they sensed a poorly hidden feeling of unrest, and hid their smiles; somewhere north of Texas theTejanosrode with vengeance in their hearts and certain death in their heretic rifles. No one knew how close they might be, or what moment they would storm into the town behind their deadly weapons. But the fear was largely apathetic, for these people, between the Apache and Comanche raids of year after year, had suckled fear from their mothers' breasts.
Finally, apprehensive of the attention they were receiving, the strange Indians left the plaza and sought refuge with the mules of theatejo, to remain there until after dark; and at their passing, groups of excited women or quarreling children resumed their gambling in the streets and all was serene again.
Gambling here was no fugitive evader of the law, no crime to be enjoyed in secret, but was an institution legalized and flourishing. There even was a public gaming house, where civil officers, traders, merchants, travelers, and the clergy grouped avidly around themontetables and played at fever heat, momentarily beyond the reach of any other obsession. Regularly the governor and his wife graced the temple of chance with their august persons and held informal levees among the tables, making the place a Mecca for favor-seekers and sycophants, and a golden treasury for the "house." At this time, so soon after the arrival of two great caravans and the collection of so much impost, part of which stuck to every finger that handled it, the play ran high throughout the crowded room.
The round of festivities attending the arrival of the wagon trains were not yet stilled, and fandangoes nightly gave hilarity a safety valve. Great lumberingcarretas, their wheels cut from solid sections of tree trunks and the whole vehicle devoid of even a single scrap of precious iron, shrieked and rattled through the dark streets, filled with shoddy cavaliers and dazzling women, whose dresses seemed planned to tempt the resolutions of a saint.Rebosaor lacemantillaover full, rounded, dark and satiny breasts;fans wielded with an inherited art, to coax and repel the victims of great and smouldering eyes of jet, which melted one moment to blaze the next—this was the magic segment of the clock's round. Now the eyesores of the squalid town were hidden from critical sight, and the alluring softness and mystery of an ancient Spanish city made one forget the almost unforgetable. Life and Death danced hand in hand; Love and Hate bowed and curtsied, and the mad green fires of Jealousy flickered or flared; while the poverty and the sordid tragedies of the day gave place to tingling Romance in the feathery night. Violins and guitars caressed the darkness with throbbing strains, catching the breath, tingling the nerves and turning dull flesh to pulsing ecstasy.
To the fandango came a flower of a far-off French-American metropolis, strangely listless; and here felt her blood slowly transmute to wine and every nerve become a harp-string to make sad music for her soul.
Small wonder that Armijo stood speechless in the sight of such a one as she, and forgot to press his questioning as to four who had somewhere left that wagon train; small wonder that he gave no heed to men in the presence of this exotic flower not yet unfolded, in whose veins the French blood of the mother coursed with the Saxon of the father, and played strange and wondrous pranks in delicate features, vivacious eyes, and hidden whimsicalities now beginning to peek forth.
The coarse sensuality of the governor's face revealed his thoughts to all the room; his eyes never had known the need to mask the sheerness of theirgreedy passion, and in such a moment could not dissemble. What man like him, in his place and power, with his nature, would glance twice at a lazy, dirty Indian looking in through the open door, or know that the murder beast was tearing at its moral fetters in the Delaware's seething soul? Without again taking his burning eyes from the woman before him the governor tossed, by force of habit, a copper coin through the door, alms to a beggar to bring him luck from heaven to further his plans from hell. Nor did he know the magazine his contemptuous gift had set aflame, nor see the convulsive struggle between the Delaware and three other Indians. The guard laughed sneeringly at the fight they made, three to one, over a single piece of copper: Who was to know that they fought over a hollow piece of steel, charged twice times three with leaden death? Who was to read the desperation in that furious struggle, where a beast-man fought like a fiend against his closest friends? The struggling four reeled and stumbled from the house, leading away a fiery tempest and faded into the crooning night. That open door nearly had been an Open Door, indeed!
Within the room the vivacity died in the woman's eyes, the whimsicalities drew back in sudden panic at the beast look on the governor's face; the swing was gone from the strumming music, the rhythm from the swaying dance. At once the festive room was a pit of slime, the smiling faces but mocking masks, and the dark shadow of a vulture descended like a suffocating gas. Like a flash the wall dissolved to show a long, clean trail, winding from Yesterday intoTomorrow; restful glades and creeks of shining sands, windswept prairies and a clear, blue sky; verdant glades and miles of flowers—and a tall, dark youth with smiling face, who worshiped reverently with tender eyes. She drew herself up as white streaks crossed her crimson cheeks like some darting rapier blade, and, bowing coldly to the pompous governor, stood rigidly erect and stared for a full half-minute into his astonished eyes, and made them fall. Deliberately and with unutterable scorn and loathing she turned from him to her father and her uncle, who forthwith shattered the absurd rules of pomp by showing him their broad backs and leaving at once. The room hushed as they walked toward the door, but no man stayed them, for on their faces there blazed the sign of Death.
Armijo, still staring after them, waved his hand and three men slipped out by another door, to follow and to learn what sanctuary that flower might choose. As he wheeled about and snapped a profane order the fiddlers and strummers stumbled into their stammering music; the dance went on again, with ragged rhythm, like an automaton out of gear.