Chapter 5

In a little more than six hours we reached the Rio Puerco, and forded its roily, brackish current to a camping-place on the other side. Harry, who with daylight and warmth had recovered his good-humor, examined the odometer and reported the distance travelled to be 18.65 miles. He entered in his note-book that the Spanish name Puerco meant, as a noun, hog, and as an adjective, dirty. He thought the river well named. He also mentioned that on the eastern side of the stream there was an excellent camping-place, but that much pains had been taken to ford it to a very poor one. After pondering this apparently unreasonable movement he asked: "Why did we not camp on that grassy park on the opposite side?"

"I suppose it appears to you there can be no good reason for crossing to this side?" I asked, in reply.

"It does seem even more absurd than starting on a march just after midnight--something like going into a wood-shed to rest on a wood-pile when one could as well go into a parlor and rest on a divan."

"And certainly," added Frank, "we have gained nothing in distance in crossing. The march is to be short to-morrow."

"Still, boys, there is quite as good a reason for doing this as for starting early to avoid the heat of the day. These Far Western streams have a trick of rising suddenly; very rarely, to be sure, but frequently enough to cause commanding officers to be on their guard. A rainfall fifty or seventy-five miles up-stream might send down a volume of water that would make it impassable for several hours or several days, according as the fall is large or small; so the rule in the army is, 'cross a stream before camping.'"

"Have you ever been caught by a rise, sir?"

"Twice. Once on this very stream, near its mouth. I was in command of a small escort to a train. The wagon-master advised me to cross, but I was tempted by a fine meadow on the lower side, in contrast to a rough place on the opposite side, to take my chances. I was compelled to remain there five days. The other delay was on the Gallina; but that was rising when we approached and we had no choice about crossing. We were delayed that time but two days."

"I heard the paymaster and surgeon grumbling about the folly of crossing just now," said Frank.

"Very likely; this is their first march in the Far West."

"The captain and lieutenants heard them, but did not explain, as you have. Why was that?"

"There are two reasons. One is that in the army, as well as out of it, 'tenderfeet' are left to learn by experience; the other is that our surgeon resents being cautioned or advised. Now, boys, after dinner you had better take a _siesta_. By doing so you will find it less difficult to make an early start to-morrow morning."

"Thank you," replied Frank. "Tom Clary and George Hoey have told us that a nap is the correct thing after dinner on the march. Henry and I are going to try it."

"I am sorry, sir," added Henry, "that I was so ill-humored this morning. I will try to do as the soldiers do when they first start out--say nothing till day breaks."

"The early start was a surprise to you; you will be prepared for it hereafter."

A reverberating peal of thunder interrupted our conversation and caused us to glance towards the west. There we saw a mass of dark clouds rolling down upon us. Bolt after bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky and from sky to earth, and peal after peal of thunder crashed upon our ears.

VII

A SWOLLEN STREAM AND STOLEN PONY

It was our custom at all camps to park the supply-train in the form of an oval, with the tongues of the wagons outward and the wheels locked. An entrance, the width of a wagon, was left at one end.

When, therefore, it became certain that a tempest was about to break upon us, using the boy corporals as messengers, the chief wagon-master received orders from me to drive up the mules and corral them within the circle of wagons, and the commissary stock was hurried under the shelter of a rocky mesa west of the camp. All this was to prevent a stampede should the coming tempest be accompanied by wind and hail.

Tent-pins were driven in deeper, guys tightened, cavalry horses driven up, hobbled, and secured to picket ropes, loose articles thrown into wagons, and every precaution taken to be in readiness for the storm.

We had not long to wait before the rain came down in torrents. In an incredibly short time the water was flowing swiftly down the slope to the river. It gathered against our tent, and finding the frail structure must go, we seized everything portable, dashed into the furious downpour, and climbed to the tops of surrounding bowlders.

Through the sheets of rain we could dimly see the cavalry horses standing knee-deep in water, men looking out of the covered wagons, into which they had crawled for shelter, or standing, like ourselves, on the bowlders, their bodies covered with ponchos and gum blankets. Wall-tents, the sides of which had been looped up when pitched, stood with the flood flowing through them; cranes, upon which hung lines of kettles in preparation for dinner, standing alone, their fires and firewood swept away. The whole country as far as we could see was one broad sheet of rushing water, and the river, which was little more than a rill when we crossed it a few hours before, now rolled and boomed, a torrent several fathoms deep and dirtier than ever.

The storm continued little over half an hour, and with the return of sunlight the surface water rapidly disappeared. Demoralized tents were then set up, baggage and bedding examined, and the wet articles exposed to the sun; and before night, except for the booming of the river, little remained to remind us that we had been through a storm.

Just before retreat, Frank, Henry, and I stood on the bank of the river watching the trunks and branches of trees rush past, and the occasional plunge of a mass of earth undermined by the current.

"Well," said Frank, after silently contemplating the scene a few moments, "what you told us about crossing a stream before camping upon it has proved true, sir, and very quickly, too."

"Yes; I think even the paymaster and surgeon must be congratulating themselves they are on this side of that flood," I replied.

Next morning we resumed our march at the usual hour, and passed over 23.28 miles to a deserted Mexican town and Indian pueblo.

On the following day we crossed a chain of hills into the valley of the Rio Gallo. As we debouched from a deep ravine we caught sight of the pueblo of Laguna, illuminated by the sun, just rising, behind us. The town stands upon a rocky eminence overlooking the river, which waters, by irrigation, its large and well-cultivated valley.

When within four miles of it I proposed to the boys that we should hasten forward in advance of the wagons and visit the town. We galloped on, and were hospitably received by the Indian governor, who did the honors of the community in person. He showed us the interior of the terraced buildings, and conducted us through the subterranean _estufa_ where, for centuries before the invention of the friction-match, the Indians kept their sacred fire--fire made sacred through the difficulty of obtaining it or rekindling it when once extinguished--and so watched day and night by sleepless sentinels.

When we entered the town we left our horses hitched to the willows on the bank of the irrigating ditch, near the wall of the first house, and I ordered the dog Vic to remain with them. Three-quarters of an hour afterwards Vic looked into the _estufa_ from above, gave three sharp barks, and dashed away.

We were so deeply interested in the examination of a lot of scalps, quaint pottery, weapons of warfare, etc., that we paid no attention to her. Presently she appeared a second time, repeated her barking, and ran off again. A few moments later the dog again showed herself at the sky-light, and thrusting her head downward continued to bark until I approached the foot of the ladder. As I did so she uttered a sound of anxiety, or distress, and disappeared.

"Something must be the matter with our animals, boys," I remarked. "Frank, go and see what has happened, while Henry and I take leave of our host."

Corporal Frank climbed the ladder two rungs at a step, while Henry and I remained to thank the governor for his kindness and bestow some trifling gifts upon the rabble of children that had followed us closely throughout our visit. We then ascended the ladder and started for the place where we had left our animals.

Hurrying down the narrow alley we met Frank, who was nearly breathless with exertion and excitement. While yet at a considerable distance from us he shouted:

"Chiquita's gone! Can't see her anywhere!"

Hastening to the willows I found that Henry's pony was indeed missing. I thought she had simply broken loose, and would be found somewhere in the neighborhood, so mounted and made a hasty search. I saw our train several miles away, toiling up a long ascent, but there was no sign of a riderless pony on the road. On my return to the willows Henry said:

"Chiquita did not break away, sir; her halter-strap was too strong, and I tied it with a cavalry hitch. She must have been unfastened by some one. Perhaps these Pueblos have stolen her."

"She may have been stolen, as you suggest," I replied, "but not by the Pueblos. We were their guests, and our property was sacred."

The Indians, seeing our trouble, gathered about us, and among them I saw the governor. Making my way to him, I explained what had happened. He turned to his people and addressed them in his own tongue. A young girl approached and said something, at the same time pointing to the southwest.

Looking in the direction indicated, over a long stretch of broken country, bordered on the west by an irregular range of sandstone mesas, I thought I saw a moving object near the foot of a rugged bluff, several miles distant; but before I could adjust my field-glass the object had turned the bluff and disappeared. One thing, however, I did see--it was Vic, sitting on a knoll less than a mile from the pueblo.

"I wonder we have not thought of Vic's absence all this time," I said; "there she is, on the trail of the thief, wondering why we do not pursue."

"The good doggie," said Henry. "She did her best to tell us Chiquita was stolen, and she means to do her best to retake her."

Turning to the governor, I asked, "Are there any Navajos about here?"

"There is a large band in the _cienaga_, three leagues from here. The lost pony will be found there."

I directed Henry to run after the train and report what had happened. "Wave your handkerchief," said I, "and some one will come to meet you. If it should be a mounted man, take his animal, overtake Captain Bayard, tell him all you know, and say that Frank and I have gone in pursuit, and that I request him to send a detachment of cavalry to look us up."

Henry started off with a celerity begotten of his anxiety at the loss of his pony and the fear that his brother might fall into danger unless a body of troopers followed him closely.

Frank and I then galloped towards Vic. As soon as the dog saw us approaching she sprang into the air, shook herself in an ecstasy of delight, then put her nose to the earth, and went steadily on in advance, threading her way through clumps of sage-brush and greasewood and along the ravines.

The tracks of a shod pony satisfied us that we were on the trail of Chiquita and her Navajo rider. The boy had kept well down in the ravines and depressions, in order to screen himself from observation and possible pursuers. We, however, were not obliged to follow his tracks; Vic did that, and we took the general direction from her, cutting across turnings and windings, and making much better progress than the thief could have done.

An hour's ride brought us to the bluff behind which I had seen an object disappear. Vic turned it and began to ascend the almost dry bed of the stream, in the bottom of which I could see occasional depressions at regular distances, as if made by a horse at a trot. Soon the brook enlarged, becoming a flowing stream, and the tracks were no longer visible.

That the brook flowed from the _cienaga_, or marsh, where the Navajos were rendezvoused, was an easy inference. The Indian boy was endeavoring to reach that place with the stolen pony. Directing Frank to keep up the left side of the stream, and to look for tracks indicating that Chiquita had left its bed, I took the right side and hastened on.

Willows now began to appear along the banks, showing that we had reached a permanent flow of water. Twice we came to masses of bowlders which made it impossible for a horse to travel in the stream, and we found that the pony had skirted them.

We had now reached a point where a small brook entered the larger one from the right. We dismounted at the confluence to make an observation. Vic suddenly began to bark furiously; then a yelp and a continued cry of pain showed that the dog was hurt, and presently she appeared with an arrow through the thick of her neck.

Advancing cautiously I caught sight of Chiquita in a cleft of the rock at my left, and an Indian boy standing behind her and aiming an arrow over the saddle. A sharp twang, and the missile flew through my hair between my right ear and my hat-rim. The boy then sprang forward, and raised a knife as if to hamstring the pony. But it was not to be, for a carbine spoke, and the raised arm of the Indian fell at his side.

"Well done, Frank!" I called.

We ran forward to capture the young Navajo, but he quickly disappeared behind a large rock and was seen no more. Returning to the main brook with Chiquita, we tied the horses to the willows and began a search for Vic. I called her by all the pet names to which she was accustomed, but received no response. I searched over as great a distance as I dared, with a consciousness that a band of Navajos was not far distant.

Reluctantly abandoning our search, we were preparing to return to the train and escort when we descried a large war-party of Indians riding towards us from the direction of the _cienaga_. It was at once evident they saw us, for, raising a terrific war-whoop, their irregular mass broke for us in a furious charge.

Death certainly awaited us if captured, and this thought prompted us to leave our exposed position instantly. Leading Chiquita, and telling Frank to follow, I dashed down the stream in the direction of the Fort Wingate road.

As we flew along, feeling positive that the Indians would overtake us, I eagerly surveyed the rocky wall on our left, hoping to find a break in which we could shelter ourselves and hold the enemy in check until our friends arrived. But no opening appeared, and it seemed impossible for us to reach Laguna alive.

On we went into the dense bushes, a hail of bullets and a rush of arrows about our ears. But at this moment the clear notes of a cavalry trumpet sounded "deploy," and the California cavalry crashed through the willows and we were saved. They broke into a skirmish-line behind us, but only a few shots were fired and the Navajos were gone.

Being an escort, we could not delay for further operations against the enemy. Our duty was to return at once to the train. Frank and I were both uninjured, but a bullet had raised the chevron on the boy's sleeve, and another had shattered the ivory hilt of his revolver.

The volunteers dismounted for a rest, and I took the opportunity to make a further search for Vic, my faithful companion and friend. Leaving my horse with Frank, I started towards the place where I had last seen her.

As I descended a shallow ravine to the willow-clad brook I came upon an unexpected sight, and paused to witness it. On his knees, close to the water, his back towards me, was Corporal Henry. Extended at his left side was Vic, held closely under his left arm, her plumy tail hanging dejectedly in my direction. An occasional dispirited wag showed that she appreciated the kindness being shown her. The boy was evidently busy at something that elicited from the animal, every now and then, faint cries of pain. I heard something snap, and saw him lay two parts of an arrow on the ground to his right; then he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in the brook, and apparently washed a wound.

All the time the boy could be heard addressing his patient in soothing tones, occasionally leaning his face against her head caressingly. "Poor little Vicky! Nice, brave doggie! There, there; I will not hurt you more than I can help. They can't shoot you again, girlie, for lots of your friends are here now. You shall ride back to the train on Chiquita with me. We'll own Chiquita together after this."

I felt a little delicacy about breaking in upon this scene and letting the boy know I had overheard all his fond talk to Vic, so withdrew into a clump of bushes and began calling the dog.

Henry promptly answered: "Here she is, sir. This way. She wants to come, but I think she had better not."

"Is she much hurt?" I asked, approaching them.

"Not dangerously, sir. This arrow passed through the top of her neck. I notched it and broke it, so as not to be obliged to draw the barb or plume through the wound. She is weak from her long run and loss of blood. The wound might be bound up if her collar was off."

"I will remove it and not put it on again until the sore heals," I answered, and, taking a key from my pocket, I took off the collar and assisted in dressing the wound.

After petting Vic for a while, and using quite as much "baby talk" in doing so as Henry had in dressing the wound, I asked the boy how he came to return with the cavalry.

"I ran ahead, as you told me to, sir, and the wagon-master came to meet me. He lent me his mule, and I rode on to Captain Bayard and made my report. The captain sent Lieutenant Baldwin and his men, and lent me a spare horse to come along as guide."

"Have you seen Chiquita?"

"At a distance. Is she all right?"

"Yes, but very tired. Let us join the troop, for it is time we were on our way to the train."

Our return ride was at a walk. Henry turned his cavalry horse over to a trooper to be led, and mounted Chiquita with Vic in his arms. Arrived in camp he took the dog to the surgeon for treatment, and in a few days she was as lively as ever.

VIII

OVER THE DIVIDE--A CORPORAL MISSING

Fort Wingate was reached in two more marches--six in all from the Rio Grande--and we went into camp for two days for rest and some needed repairs to wagons before undertaking the second and longer section of our military journey--a section upon which at that time no white man had set up a home.

Recalling my promise to the priest who had interviewed me in behalf of Señora Perea, I made inquiries of the Port Wingate officers concerning her son. None of them had heard more than she already knew, but a scout claimed he had recently seen a Mexican boy herding ponies for the Navajo chief Elarnagan, thirty miles north of Zuñi.

The evening before resuming our march Captain Bayard informed me that there was an emigrant family camped half a mile to the west of Fort Wingate, which had been awaiting our arrival in order to travel to Arizona under our protection. He told me to assign the family a place in the train.

I went to their camp, and found it located in a grove of cottonwoods a short distance out, on the Arizona trail. Mr. Arnold, the head of the family, never ceased his occupation while I was talking to him. He was constructing a camp-table and benches of some packing-boxes he had procured from the post trader. He was a tall, well-proportioned man, of dark complexion and regular features, with black, unkempt hair and restless brown eyes. He was clothed in a faded and stained butternut suit of flannel, consisting of a loose frock and baggy trousers, the legs of the trousers being tucked into the tops of road-worn boots. His hat was a battered and frayed broad-brimmed felt. Mrs. Arnold sat on a stool superintending the work, bowed forward, her elbows on her knees, holding a long-stemmed cob-pipe to her lips with her left hand, removing it at the end of each inspiration to emit the smoke, which curled slowly above her thin upper lip and thin, aquiline nose. She was a tall, angular, high-shouldered, and flat-chested woman, dark from exposure to wind, sun, and rain, her hair brown in the neck, but many shades lighter on the crown of her head. Her eyes were of an expressionless gray. A brown calico of scant pattern clung in lank folds to her thin and bony figure.

The three daughters were younger and less faded types of their mother. Each was clad in a narrow-skirted calico dress, and each was stockingless and shoeless. Mother and daughters were dull, slow of speech, and ignorant.

After staying long enough to give the necessary instructions and exchange civilities with each member of the family in sight, I was riding slowly back to the roadway, intending to take a brisk canter to the fort, when Corporal Henry's voice called from a clump of cedars at the back of the Arnold family's wagons.

"Oh, Mr. Duncan, may I speak to you a moment?"

Turning my horse in the direction of the voice, I saw my young friend approaching, switching a handsome riding-whip in his hand.

"You haven't seen all the family, sir," he said.

"I have seen Mr. and Mrs. Arnold and those the mother said were all their children--the three barefooted girls."

"But there is one more girl, sir, a very pretty one, too--a niece. She's back of the wagons making friends with Vic and Chiquita. You must not go without seeing her."

I went back with Henry and saw a girl of about fourteen standing by Chiquita, holding her by the bridle-rein and smoothing her neck, while Vic nestled at her feet. She seemed very attractive at my first casual glance, impressing me favorably. A blonde, possessed of abundant flaxen tresses held in a band of blue ribbon, having a complexion which her recent journey had tanned and sprinkled with abundant freckles, but giving promise of rare beauty with added years and less exposure to sun and wind. Her clothing was fashionably made and well fitted, and her delicate feet were encased in neat boots and stockings.

"Miss Arnold," said Henry, "permit me to introduce our quartermaster, Lieutenant Duncan--and Mr. Duncan," continued the boy, "it gives me pleasure to present to you Miss Brenda Arnold."

The quality, modulation, and refinement of the voice in which the girl assured me of her pleasure in meeting me, confirmed my first impression.

"But how did you make the acquaintance of Corporal Henry Burton, Miss Arnold?" I asked.

"I was riding back from the fort, sir, where I had been to mail some letters, and my pony, Gypsy, lost a shoe and came near falling. The stumble caused me to drop a package, and Mr. Burton chanced to come up and restore it to me, and he also picked up Gypsy's shoe. He accompanied me to camp, and since we arrived has been giving me the history of Vic, Sancho, and Chiquita."

"And that, of course, included something of the history of their devoted attendants?"

"Yes, I have learned something of the gallant deeds of Corporals Frank and Henry Burton and Lieutenant Duncan at Los Valles Grandes and on the march here. When I meet Corporal Frank I shall know you all."

"He will present himself to-morrow, no doubt," I observed. "But about that pony's shoe; do you want it reset?"

"Yes, but who can do it?"

"At our next camp, to-morrow, our soldier-blacksmith shall set it."

"But I do not belong to government, sir."

"But part of this government belongs to you," replied Henry. "I'll lead Gypsy to the forge for you, and Private Sattler shall shoe her as he does Chiquita, and polish the shoes, too."