Chapter 6

The Arnold family history, gathered incidentally on the march, and at a period later in my story, was briefly this: Brenda was the only daughter of Mr. Arnold's only brother, and had been reared in a large inland city of New York. Her father and mother had recently perished in a yachting accident, and the young girl had been sent to her paternal uncle in Colorado. There were relatives on the mother's side, but they were scattered, two brothers being in Europe at the time of the accident. Brenda had reached her Western uncle just as he was starting on one of his periodical moves--this time to Arizona.

The different social status of the families of the two brothers was unusual, but not impossible in our country. One of the brothers was ambitious, of steady habits, and possessed of a receptive mind; the other was idle, impatient of restraint, with a disinclination to protracted effort of any kind.

The distance to the first camp beyond Fort Wingate where we were sure to find water was twenty-two miles; and it being impossible for us to leave the post before three o'clock in the afternoon, we determined to make a dry camp five and a half miles out.

When Frank and Henry learned that the start was not to be an early one they rode out to the Arnold camp with the information, and the former was duly presented to Miss Brenda. Gypsy was brought into the fort and shod, and returned to her mistress in season for the march.

The evening was well advanced when we pitched our tents at the dry camp. Horses and mules were turned out to graze for the first time without water, and although in this mountain region the grass was abundant, they did not cease to whinny and bray their discontent throughout the night.

The sun dropped behind the mountain spurs, and we drew nearer and nearer the fires, adding a thicker garment as the twilight deepened into night. Frank expressed the trend of thought by asking, "We now march into the heart of the Navajo country, do we not, sir?"

"Not precisely through the heart, but along its southern border."

"They'll try to make it lively for us, I suppose?"

"They will certainly watch us closely, and will take advantage of any carelessness on our part."

"Do you think there is any chance of our finding Manuel Perea?"

"Hardly; he is too far off our route. We cannot leave the train to look him up."

There was a suspicious choke in the voice of the little corporal when he said: "It is awful to think we are going so near the dear old boy and can do nothing for him. Only think of his poor mother!"

"I was told at the fort that she has offered five thousand dollars to the man who will bring Manuel to her," said Frank. "I wish I could bring him in for nothing."

"Brenda says she believes we shall find him somehow," Henry said. "I hope she is right, for I saw his mother at Algodones and promised her to rescue him or become a prisoner with him."

"So she wrote me at Los Pinos," I replied. "Well, something may turn up to enable us to serve his mother. Let us go to bed."

Next morning we were again on the road by starlight. A march of sixteen miles brought us to Agua Fria--cold water. Less than a hundred yards west of the spring was a ridge which did not rise fifty feet above it, and that was the "backbone" of the continent. The water of Agua Fria flowed into the Atlantic; the springs on the other side of the ridge flowed into the Pacific.

The wagons of the Arnold family travelled between the rear-guard and the government wagons. They consisted of two large "prairie schooners," drawn by three pairs of oxen each, a lighter wagon, drawn by four horses, beside which four cows, two ponies, and four dogs were usually grouped. The father and eldest daughter drove the ox-teams, the mother the horse-team, and two daughters rode the ponies. Brenda's pony, Gypsy, was her own property, purchased soon after she joined her uncle in Colorado. As my station and Frank's were with the rear-guard, or along the flanks of the train, Miss Brenda commonly rode with us after daylight. Henry, after leaving Fort Wingate, rode with the advance.

After supper at Agua Fria, Corporal Frank ordered all water-kegs to be filled, for the water at El Morro, or Inscription Rock, our next camping-place, was poor. The distance was seventeen and a half miles. The next march was to the junction of the Rio Pescado and Otter Creek, twenty-two miles, and the following to Arch Spring, nineteen miles. This way took us through the ancient town of Zuñi, an Indian community described by the Spanish priest, Father Marco de Niga, in 1559.

After leaving Zuñi, a march of thirty-two miles brought us late in the evening to a spring variously called by Mexicans, Indians, and Americans, Ojo Rodondo, Wah-nuk-ai-tin-ai-z, and Jacob's Well. It is a funnel-shaped hole in a level plain, six hundred feet in diameter at the top, and one hundred and sixty feet deep.

At the bottom of the hole is a pool of brackish, green water, reached by a spiral track around the wall. Our cooks first procured a supply of water, and then the animals were driven down in detachments. They waded, swam, and rolled in the water until it was defiled for human use.

An hour after our arrival four Navajos appeared and were admitted to an interview with Captain Bayard, of whom they asked information concerning the terms offered their bands as an inducement to surrender and go upon the reservation. In reply to our questions they told us we would find plenty of water at Navajo Springs, seven miles from Jacob's Well, and that there had been a heavy rainfall at the west. As the Indians were preparing to leave, Corporal Henry came forward and asked Captain Bayard to inquire for Manuel Perea. The captain thanked the boy for the suggestion, and did so; and we learned that a Mexican boy, answering the description given, was assisting in herding the ponies of Elarnagan, north of the Twin Buttes, at the head of Carizo Creek.

"Carizo Creek," said Frank, reflectively, turning over his schedule of distances, "that is 19.05 miles from here."

"Yes, and there are the Twin Buttes," said Henry, pointing to two prominent peaks to the northwest. "Can't we go there, sir? It cannot be more than thirty miles."

"I would not be justified in leaving the road except upon an extraordinary emergency," replied Captain Bayard.

"Don't you suppose, sir, that Elarnagan would give Manuel up for the large reward his mother offers?" asked Brenda Arnold, who stood by the side of the boy corporals, an interested listener to all that had been said.

The captain asked her question of the Indians, and one of them replied that the chief had refused large offers heretofore, and would doubtless continue to do so.

"Cannot you scare him by a threat?" asked Henry.

"I will try it, corporal," answered the captain. Then, turning to the Navajos, he continued: "Tell the chief, Elarnagan, that it is not the part of a brave warrior to cause grief and sorrow to women and children; tell him that the great chief at Santa Fé is fast bringing this war to a close, and that two-thirds of his people are already on the reservation at Bosque Rodondo; tell him that when he surrenders--which will not be long from now--if the boy Manuel is not brought in safe he will be severely punished."

"Thank you," said Henry.

The Indians left in a northerly direction.

At guard-mounting Captain Bayard announced that, owing to the recent fatiguing marches and the lack of good water, we would go no farther than Navajo Springs the following day, and that we would not break camp before eight o'clock.

This announcement was received with pleasure; for since leaving Agua Fria little water had been drunk, it being either muddy, stagnant, or alkaline. The water at Navajo Springs was said to be pure.

Ten o'clock next morning found us at the springs. They were fifteen in number, clustered in an area of less than an acre. Each was of the dimensions of a barrel set upon end in the ground, with a mere thread of water flowing from it--a thread which the fierce sun evaporated before it had flowed a rod from its source. It soon became plain to every one that we could not long remain there.

The Indians had said there had been a heavy rainfall at the west. Five and one-twentieth miles over a rough, red, and verdureless country brought us to the Rio Puerco of the West. There was not a drop of water in it.

The commanding officer ordered me to take ten cavalrymen, with shovels, and go on to Carizo Creek, and, if I found no running water, to sink holes in a line across its bed. The boy corporals were allowed to go with me.

The distance to Carizo was seven miles, over a high, intervening ridge, and the creek, when we reached it, was in no respect different from the one we had just left. We opened a line of holes six feet deep, but found very little water.

Sending Corporal Henry back with a message to Captain Bayard, we pushed on to Lithodendron Creek, a distance of thirteen miles, and found about an acre of water, four inches deep, in the bed of the stream, under the shadow of a sandstone cliff. It was miserable stuff--thick, murky, and warm--but it was better than nothing; I sent a soldier back to the command, and sat down with Frank under the cliff to wait.

The march had lengthened into thirty-two miles, over an exceedingly rough country, and it had been continuous, with no noonday rest, and under a broiling sun.

Frank and I sat a little apart from the soldiers, watching for the arrival of the approaching wagons.

Time dragged slowly on until after nine o'clock, when a faint "hee-haw" in the far distance gave us the first hint that the train was over the divide and that the unfailing scent of the mules had recognized the vicinity of water.

An hour more passed before Sergeant Cunningham and half a dozen privates of the infantry company marched down to the roily pool and stooped for a drink. The rest of the men were straggling the length of the train, which arrived in sections, heralded by the vigorous and continued braying of the mules.

No one felt inclined to pitch a tent, partly on account of extreme fatigue, but chiefly because the ground was rough and stony and cacti in endless variety strewed the surface, branching and clustering about the petrified trunks of giant trees which gave the creek its name.

There was no grass in the vicinity, and no grain on the train. The animals when turned loose went to the pool and drank, and then wandered about the wagons calling for forage. Lowing of cattle, bleating of sheep, braying of mules, and whinnying of horses never ceased as the suffering animals wandered in search of food. There was no fuel for fires in the midst of this petrified forest of prostrate trees, so hard bread and raw bacon made our supper.

After a time I began to wonder why Vic had not come to greet me. She had accompanied Henry when he went back with my message, and I knew that if he had returned she would have looked me up immediately. I was about to search for her, when Frank appeared, and asked, "Have you seen my brother?"

"No," I replied, "nor have I seen Vic. They must be with the rear guard."

"No, sir; they are not there. I have just seen the sergeant of the guard."

"Have you visited the Arnolds?"

"Yes, sir; and Miss Brenda says they have not seen him since he came back from you."

"Is not Corporal Henry here?" asked Captain Bayard, who had approached and overheard a part of our conversation.

"No, sir," I answered. "I sent him to you at Carizo to say we had found no water."

"He reported to me," the captain replied, "and I sent him back at once with orders for you to proceed to Lithodendron, as you have done."

"He did not reach me. I came here because it seemed the only thing to do."

"Henry not here!" and the captain and all of us began moving towards the train. "Cause an immediate search to be made for him. Examine every wagon. He may have got into a wagon and fallen asleep."

It is needless to say, perhaps, that this search was participated in by nearly every individual in the command not too tired to stir. Henry was known to all, and had in many gentlemanly and kindly ways acquired the respect and affection of soldiers and civilian employés.

Every wagon was examined, although from the first there was a general presentiment that it would be useless. In the wagon assigned to the use of the boy corporals and myself, Henry's carbine and revolver were found, but Frank said his brother had not worn them during the day.

The mule and cavalry herds were examined for the cream-colored pony, but that also was missing. Then the thought suggested itself that the lad might be wandering on the road we had just traversed; but an examination of the sergeant of the guard showed that to be impossible.

But one conclusion could be arrived at, and that was that Henry had been picked up by the Navajos when returning from the command to my detachment on the Carizo.

At the conclusion of the search the officers gathered near their wagons for a consultation. Frank remained apart, silent and miserable.

Captain Bayard said: "It is impossible for us to make an immediate pursuit with horses in such a condition as ours. To attempt a pursuit over the barren region about us would be to invite failure and disaster. If we had Mexican ponies, or Indian ponies like those of the boys, we might start at once. The boy is probably a prisoner, and a delay of one or two days can make little difference to him."

"But can we go with any better prospect of success to-morrow or next day?" I asked.

"Yes, a march of sixteen miles and a half will bring us to the Colorado Chiquito--a stream flowing at all times with pure water; there, also, we shall find abundance of grass and a recently established cavalry camp. I received a letter from the department commander before I left Wingate, stating that Lieutenant Hubbell and forty New Mexican cavalry had been ordered there three weeks ago. We shall find an abundance of grain at the camp, and can put our animals in good condition for an expedition into Elarnagan's country in a few days. Now, gentlemen, let us get such rest as we can, and start at an early hour in the morning."

IX

THE RESCUING PARTY

At the close of the consultation I rejoined Corporal Frank, and we went back to our former seat under the cliff. The boy was exceedingly depressed, and I did my best to persuade him that all would end well and his brother would be rescued.

"But he may be dead, or dying," he answered to my arguments.

"No; that is improbable. Had he been killed, the Indians would have taken particular pains to mutilate and place his body where the passing column would have seen it. That in itself is good evidence that he is living. The worst that is likely to happen is that he may be held for ransom or exchange."

"But how _can_ I wait?" exclaimed Frank. "I feel as though I ought to start now."

"That would do no good," I replied. "You cannot find your brother's trail, nor could you follow it in the night."

"I cannot help thinking, sir, that Henry will send Vicky with a message, and I fear that she cannot follow us so far. She must be fearfully hungry and thirsty. I feel as if I ought to go and meet her."

"You may be right about the message. As Vic was without her collar, she may not have been killed."

The hours crept slowly on. The uneasy animals never ceased their walk backward and forward between the water and the wagons, uttering their discontent. Towards midnight, overcome by the fatigues of the day, I fell into a doze, and did not wake until called at three.

A breakfast similar to our supper was served, and we were ready for the road. The mules were harnessed while vigorously braying their protests against such ill usage, and, once under way, slowly drew the wagons to the summit of the divide between the Lithodendron and the Little Colorado, a distance of twelve miles.

I did not see Frank while overlooking the drawing out of the train, but gave myself no anxiety on his account, thinking he had accompanied the advance. We had proceeded about a mile when a corporal of the guard ran after me, and reported that the Arnolds were not hitching up. Halting the train, I rode back and found Brenda sitting by the road-side in tears.

"What is the matter, Miss Arnold?" I asked.

"Oh, it is something this time," she sobbed, "that even you cannot remedy."

"Then you think I can generally remedy things? Thank you."

"You have always helped us, but I do not see how you can now."

"What is the trouble, please?"

"Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs through to the quick. They were obliged to travel very fast yesterday, and over a flinty road, and their hoofs are worn and bleeding. Uncle says we must remain behind."

"Perhaps things are not as bad as you think," I said. "Let us go back and see."

Rising dejectedly, and by no means inspired by hope, Brenda led the way to the Arnold wagons, where I found the father and mother on their knees beside an ox, engaged in binding rawhide "boots" to the animal's feet. These boots were squares cut from a fresh hide procured from the last ox slaughtered by the soldier-butcher. The foot of the ox being set in the centre, the square was gathered about the ankle and fastened with a thong of buck-skin.

"Are all of your cattle in this condition, Mr. Arnold?" I asked.

"Only one other's 's bad's this, but all uv 'em's bad."

"That certainly is a very bad-looking foot. I don't see how you kept up, with cattle in that condition."

"Had to, or git left."

"That's where you make a mistake. We could not leave you behind."

"I didn't think 'twould be uv any use t' say anythin'," said Mr. Arnold. "You seem t' have all you can haul now."

"We have over three hundred head of oxen in our commissary herd that we purchased of a freighter. We can exchange with you. A beef is a beef. Turn your cattle into our herd, and catch up a new lot. When we get to Prescott you can have your old teams if you want them."

"Thank you agin, sir. I shall want 'em. They know my ways an' I know theirs."

From the top of the divide the road, smooth and hard, descended to the river, ten miles away. At nine o'clock the head of the column had reached the banks, and a few moments later men and horses had partaken of the clear, cool water.

As the infantry and cavalry moved away from the shore the wagons came down the decline, the mules braying with excitement at the sight of the water gleaming through the green foliage of the cottonwoods and the verdant acres of rich grass that stretched along the river-side. Brakes were put on and wheels double-locked, until the harness could be stripped off and the half-frantic animals set free to take a turn in the river.

Sheep and oxen plunged down the banks and stood leg-deep in the current while they drank the grateful water. A few moments later all the refreshed animals were cropping the generous grass. As I was going to Captain Bayard I observed Brenda Arnold taking the odometer from its wheel and making an entry in a note-book. Approaching her, I asked: "Why are you doing that, Miss Brenda?"

"I promised Mr. Frank I would do it until he and Mr. Henry return," was her answer.

"Promised Frank? Where has he gone?"

"Gone to find his brother."

"And you knew what you are telling me when we were exchanging oxen this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Mr. Frank said I must not before we arrived here."

"Have you no idea of the fearful danger in which he has placed himself?"

"I know he has gone to find Henry, and that he said he should find him," and the pretty girl betrayed her lack of confidence in the boy's project by sitting down in the grass and bursting into tears.

"When did Corporal Frank start?" I asked.

"Last night. He gave Sancho about a dozen pounds of hard bread, filled his canteen with water which Aunt Martha had filtered through sand, and asked me to attend to the odometer, and rode off in the darkness. Don't you really believe the boys will return, sir?"

"God grant they may," I answered; "but it is very doubtful."

Here was fresh trouble--trouble the whole command shared, but which rested heaviest upon Captain Bayard and myself. We were answerable to Colonel Burton for the manner in which we executed his trust.

"Ride down the valley," said the captain to me after I had concluded my account of what Brenda had said, "and look for Lieutenant Hubbell's camp. It cannot be far from here. Tell him to send me three days' grain for forty animals. While you are gone I will select a camp farther down stream, and within easy communication with him, park the train, and establish order. We will remain here until we know what has become of the boys."

I found the New Mexican cavalry camp three miles down the river, and obtained the desired forage. When I returned our new camp was established, fires burning, and cooking well under way.

Captain Bayard informed me that the detachment of Mexican cavalry which had accompanied us thus far would leave at this point and not rejoin us. "I have ordered Baldwin to grain his horses and be ready to start in search of our boys at daybreak," continued the captain. "You will accompany him. We shall be in no danger, with Hubbell so near. You can take thirty pounds of grain on your saddles, and you will find plenty of water on the Carizo where it breaks from the hills."

"How many days are we to stay out?"

"You are to take five days' rations. If the boys are not found in that time I fear they will never be found."

I went to bed early, and soon fell into a fitful slumber, which lasted until an hour before midnight. I arose, dressed, and sat down by the smouldering camp-fire, a prey to unpleasant reflections.

Suddenly the sound of a cantering horse approaching from the north fell upon my ears. What could it mean? I listened intently. The horse slowed down to a walk. He entered the camp. The voice of Private Tom Clary, who was posted as sentinel No. 1, challenged: "Halt!--who comes there?"

"A friend--Corporal Frank Burton," was the answer.

"Blest be the saints! Corpril Frank, laddie, is it you--and aloive?" said the sentinel, forgetting in his joy to continue the usual formality of the challenge or to call the corporal of the guard.

Springing from my seat I walked towards the sentinel, and there, by the light of the moon, I saw Frank, mounted upon Sancho, with Vic in his arms. I reached up to take my dog, but the boy quickly exclaimed:

"Be careful, sir, be careful! She's badly hurt. Here's the letter she brought. Henry is alive."

To attempt to relate all that now occurred would be impossible. In some mysterious manner the news of Frank's arrival crept through the camp, and half-dressed figures of officers and soldiers gathered about the camp-fire, curious to listen to an account of the boy's adventure. One little, blanketed figure ran out of the darkness, caught Vic's face between her two palms, nestled her cheek against it, and with a cheerful "good-night," disappeared as suddenly as she had come.

I took Vic in my lap as I sat on the ground, and by the light of a blazing pine-knot proceeded to examine her condition. I found the mouth and feet of the poor animal full of the spines of the _cholla_ cactus, a growth which is simply a mass of fine thorns. This cactus grows in patches, and when the dead clusters fall to the ground the spines stick to everything touching them. The dog had stepped into a bed of these bunched needles, and filled her feet, and in trying to remove them with her teeth had thrust them through cheeks, lips, and tongue, literally closing her jaws. Her paws bristled with them like pin-cushions.