Part 10

All this time I was sitting in the snow trying to keep the little one warm, and hopefully encouraging the two elder ones, Charlie and Renée. From the mountain top came the discordant howling and barking of jackals; from the blackness below arose the sad wailing of a hyena. I very nearly became tearful.

Peppino again offered his services, and proposed riding off to fetch help at a sheikh’s some ten miles away.

“Get into the carriage, wrap yourselves up warmly with everything available, and wait,” he said. “In five or six hours I will bring assistance.”

There was nothing else to be done, so we made the best of a bad job, packed ourselves up, and tried to sleep. The children, of course, succeeded at once, as did my husband, worn out with the efforts of the day, but I could not. My hunger was great, and I do not think I have ever before or since imagined such cold. Talk of African heat; African _cold_ has the first place in my memory.

The night was pitch-dark, and it was far from amusing to sit there listening to the animals prowling round. A hyena or so came very near to our mules, who shivered and snorted for a long time after.

Numbed with cold, I suppose I at last fell asleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a great commotion. Then came yelling, the sound of horses plunging, and I heard the children shrieking “Mother!” I rose precipitately, a light flashed in my face, baby was seized from me, and I myself was borne off like an infant by a man who appeared to be a giant. He hurried away up the mountain-side without a word, which did not at all seem to me the right behaviour of rescuers. Why thus seize us and bear us off into the mountains?

We must have been attacked by brigands, and my husband knifed as he slept! I kicked vigorously, shouting “Henri!” and “Peppino!” but received no answer, and my heart sank. Then I called “Charlie!” “Renée!” and to my great joy their voices answered quite close behind me. I therefore left off kicking--which, indeed, had no effect on my burly captor--and consoled myself with the thought that, though apparently a widow, I was not left childless.

After five minutes or so my giant began to shout. Other voices answered; then suddenly I was planted on my feet in the inky darkness, but almost at once a dozen matches were struck and held to a huge heap of dry brushwood. In two seconds we had a royal bonfire, which not only warmed us but lit up the country all round.

Brigands or no brigands, I thought, these Arabs were very thoughtful fellows.

I asked several times, “Where is my husband?” but they all raised their hands and shoulders in vague denial of any knowledge of his existence. I was beginning to be really alarmed when his welcome form loomed in view astride a mule. I do not think we have ever quite understood how he came to miss us in the confusion caused by the headlong arrival of our rescuers. He had galloped after us along a road where we had not been at all; but, not finding us, had come back, and had been guided by the firelight.

After a good warming at the fire we started for the sheikh’s house, ten miles off, the children being carried by Arabs on horseback, and I astride a mule on a “barda.” On our arrival we found couscous and sour milk awaiting us, and--what was far better--some good mattresses spread on the ground in a big, white-washed room. At ten next morning we left, the kindly sheikh having lent us his wagonette. Peppino had gone back with some Arabs to dig out and bring along Carriage Number Two.

About half-way to Boghar we met the regimental brake coming spanking along. The soldier driving told us that at eight o’clock an Arab had come to him saying that he was to harness up at once and drive for eight miles along the Teniet road, when he would find the Spahis’ captain, who was stranded with his family at Sheikh ben Shinan’s.

This experience of Arab telegraphy rather astonished us, for we were still greenhorns in this respect. Since then nothing of the kind surprises us; I have often learnt of distant happenings from the Arabs long before our own civilized methods brought me the news. Arabs travel a great deal by night, passing on the tidings from one to another--they are terrible gossips--so that it is the case of the hare and the tortoise. Their signalling is done by movements of the burnous by day and fires by night. In each district certain heights are especially used for this purpose. Whilst travelling by road on one occasion I remember hearing a long hoot-like call, and on looking in the direction of the sound I saw an Arab on a hill, evidently signalling with his burnous, for he was making regular up-and-down and to-and-fro movements with it. Half an hour after we saw another Arab with a huge flock of sheep. In the evening, when we arrived at the place we meant to camp at, we found ourselves expected by the sheikh, and a hospitable couscous prepared. He bade us welcome, saying we were later than he had thought. When we inquired how it was he expected us at all, he only vouchsafed to say, with half-closed eyes, that he had known we were on the road some hours before, and had supposed we would stop the night there. Thereupon we remembered the white-robed Arab on the hill and the shepherd far away, and began to understand.

(_To be concluded._)

BY EDWARD FRANKLIN CAMPBELL.

It is safe to say that few commercial travellers meet with such exciting experiences as befell the three “drummers” who figure in this narrative. A business trip into the wilds of Arizona landed them into as fierce a skirmish with Indian outlaws as could well be imagined.

Take a young fellow just raw from city life, throw him into the wilds of Arizona, and arrange for him to tumble head-first, so to speak, into a brisk skirmish with Indians, and he will have something to remember. Such was the experience which befell me about 1890.

For some years I had been travelling through California, visiting the largest cities and towns, introducing a “line” of goods for a large San Francisco importing concern. Such had been my success that nothing would suit my firm but to add Arizona to my territory, a proposition I made no objection to.

Of late years Arizona has vastly improved, and trouble with the Indians has become almost unknown, especially since that notorious warrior, Geronimo, was deported to the State of Florida, but up to the ‘nineties there was still an occasional flare-up.

Both Geronimo and the villainous “Apache Kid,” a bloodthirsty red-skin brigand, figure in this story, the first indirectly and the second very prominently.

Having reached the town of Wilson, in the southern part of the territory, I fell in with two fellow-commercial salesmen--Levy, representing a large dry-goods concern, and Bates, handling a line of boots for a St. Louis house.

Levy imparted the fact that he was going to visit a large mining camp, called World City, located some hundred and sixty miles to the north and as many miles distant from the railway. Bates said he would join Levy provided I would make one of the party.

Although my route did not include this side-trip, I became convinced that it would pay me well to visit World City. By sharing expenses with Levy and Bates, the trip could be made most reasonably, so I wired my house accordingly, and Levy hastened to make arrangements with a local celebrity, a Scotchman named McGill, for transportation.

An agreement having been made with McGill, the balance of the day was consumed in making preparations for our departure on the following morning. There were blankets to buy, for one is never safe without them. No matter how hot and burning the day may be, the nights are always crisp and chill on the Arizona plains, and one never knows while making such a trip when he will land at his destination. Nine chances out of ten he will be hours late. Our journey was no exception to the rule.

On the following morning I was aroused by McGill. On the wagon, which was a heavy four-wheel affair, he had loaded three shoe-sample trunks, the property of Bates, and two immense square trunks carried by Levy. Beside this there were sundry boxes and bundles of blankets, as well as our heavy overcoats and small personal luggage.

After a hasty breakfast of ham and eggs--I generally ordered ham and eggs in Arizona because other meats were far from tender in those days--we took our places on the wagon. Levy occupied the front seat with McGill, while Bates and I sat on top of a huge trunk, slippery and uncertain.

Although the animals seemed good and hardy, they were small, and I do not think we realized the great weight of the combined load. At the wheels we had a pair of small and nimble mules, and as leaders a pair of small bay horses, whose looks did not recommend them.

The first day out all went well, and we reached the little town of Bonita, a most desolate-looking place. We had travelled less than thirty miles.

We drove up to the door of a little adobe building with a thatched roof. On the front a crude sign informed the public that it was a “General Store.” Another placard indicated that it was also a public-house, or “saloon,” as they are called in America.

On entering we found ourselves in a small room with a rough counter running down one side, behind which was the smiling face of the proprietor, who lived with his wife and two beautiful daughters in the one adjoining room--these two rooms constituting the entire building.

We spent the night on the floor of the store, in front of the counter, and next morning resumed our journey, hoping to reach the little group of buildings known as Standard before night. In my own mind--and I think the others believed the same--I did not really expect to reach Standard that night, for it was nearly fifty miles distant and our animals were far from fresh.

I think it was about ten o’clock in the morning that we saw a cloud of dust several miles ahead. In time it proved to be a company of negro soldiers, marching to a neighbouring military post.

As they came alongside we could see a number of rifles sticking out of the canvas of the great covered wagons which accompanied them. They halted, and an officer, whom McGill said was a colonel, came over. He saluted us pleasantly and asked laughingly:--

“Are you not afraid to travel in this direction?”

McGill inquired why, whereupon the officer explained that “Apache Kid” was out with a small band of warriors, that Geronimo had disappeared from the Indian Reservation, and that serious trouble was brewing. The troops, he added, were being moved for the purpose of heading off “Apache Kid” and his crowd.

The smiling face of the colonel rather misled me. He did not seem really serious, and, as I sized up the situation, I believed it quite possible that he recognised our party as “tenderfeet,” and desired to frighten us.

After the soldiers had become a mere blur in the distance we resumed our journey. We had gone but a few miles farther, however, when an accident occurred to our wagon. Something gave way--I don’t remember what--and it became impossible to proceed. Levy took a look at the wagon and declared it was “no good, anyway”; Bates joined in the abuse, and McGill lost his temper. Finally, I acted as peacemaker, and suggested that something would have to be done as the afternoon was advancing. Either we must return to Bonita on foot, abandoning the wagon and contents, or McGill would have to take the team back and secure another conveyance.

The last alternative being accepted, we drew lots, and it fell to Levy to return to Bonita with McGill, while Bates and I remained to look after the property.

McGill insisted that with the load off he would be able to haul the wagon back to Bonita for repairs, so we set to work and, after a struggle with the trunks, got the vehicle in shape to be drawn.

It was with great misgivings that I saw my companions depart. It was not to my liking to remain as a guardian of that mass of luggage. Bates did not seem to mind it. He simply offered me his last cigar, then lighted it himself and sat down on the bare ground.

I think we could see in every direction for twenty miles and more, except toward the mountains, which were to the east, some five miles distant.

“Well, Bates,” I said, “what are we going to do? It’s getting mighty cold. The wind sweeps down from that mountain as if we might get a little of the storm brewing up there.”

“That’s no mistake, my boy, and if I am not in error we are going to get snow inside of two hours. Most extraordinary for Arizona.”

“Don’t you think we could arrange some shelter with these trunks and roll of canvas?”

“Just the thing, my boy. Glad you suggested it.”

So we set to work and built our house, forming our walls by arranging the trunks in a square, leaving a small opening to be used as a door. On this we spread the great piece of canvas which had been brought along to cover the wagon in case of storm, thus making a roof. That it might not be carried away by the wind, which was now howling like a hurricane, we weighted it with small boulders. With other rocks we built a small fireplace and chimney, without and facing our door. With the limited supply of wood, which was very scarce--sagebrush and gnarled mesquite--we built a small fire in our fireplace, much to our joy, for we were now actually blue with the cold.

The sky was now thoroughly overcast with snow-clouds and the snow was beginning to fall, settling in miniature drifts beneath the sage bushes.

In removing the trunks from the wagon our labours had been heavy, and we realized, as Bates expressed it, “we were twenty miles from nowhere, and not a drop of water nearer than Bonita.”

Bates rummaged through the kit for a drink of any kind, but was only able to produce a diminutive flask with about one swallow of whisky in it. After offering this to me he took it down with a cheering “Here’s to you!”

“Don’t throw away that flask, Bates,” I called to him as I saw him taking aim at a near-by sage bush. “I may be able to collect a drink with that.”

I filled the little flask as full as I could pack it with snow which I collected under the bushes, then held it carefully over the fire, reducing the snow to water. This barely gave us enough to moisten our lips, and I gave it up.

Then we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets and reclined inside our improvised house and discussed matters.

“I say, Bates, what did you think of the colonel’s story about Apaches being out?” I asked.

“Can’t say. I know if I were an Apache and had a warm wigwam to crawl into, the warpath could go to perdition. I’m sure I wouldn’t bother with it this kind of weather. You won’t have the pleasure of meeting Geronimo, ’Apache Kid,’ nor any other human--and, I might add, inhuman--being till the weather lets up.”

“What have you got for protection in case we do run across them?” I asked.

“Well, the only protection I have is a pair of boots made by the Sun Shoe Company, which I represent. With these on, and a fair start, I might outrun them. That’s all I’ve got for protection. What have you got?”

“Well,” I said, rather apologetically, “I have a revolver here, but it isn’t much good. It might do to fire salutes with, but I’m afraid it would not do much execution. The fact is, I’ve not fired the thing for some years.”

“Now, look here, my boy. If you should ever shoot me with that thing, and I should find it out, I should be quite put out about it,” said Bates, with a laugh. “We might as well quit worrying. If the wild and woolly Apaches get us, it’s fate. They’ll get us, that’s all. I’m going to sleep.”

Suiting the action to the word, he rolled over and left me to my dreary thoughts. I tried to sleep and did drop into a light slumber, from which I was suddenly awakened by a startled exclamation from Bates.

As I opened my eyes he was just going through the doorway on all fours.

“Bring that revolver here,” he called to me.

As quickly as possible I was out after him. He was gazing towards the mountains in the distance.

“What has happened?” I asked, in some alarm at the sudden call to arms.

He explained that something had come to the door of our house. He could hear it, but only caught a slight glimpse of it as he raised his head, for it dashed out of sight immediately. It was evidently an animal of some sort, for we found the marks of its feet and claws in the soft earth. Whatever it was we never caught sight of it.

We were now thoroughly awake. The weather had cleared, the sun was shining warmly and my spirits were beginning to rise.

Far off, down the incline of the plain, we could see the spot known as Bonita. Between us and the town all was open, save for some sage bushes here and there dotting the view.

Surely McGill should now be on his way back, but not a sign of him could we see.

We recalled the fact that we were hungry. Bates rummaged in the kit. The net results were a small paper of biscuits and a tin of beef--nothing else.

We ate all the biscuits and half of the beef, collected more firewood, and, at about six o’clock, discovered the team slowly wending its way from Bonita. It was more than an hour before it arrived at our camp.

Another serious matter now confronted us. Either we must stay with our improvised camp or, as McGill suggested, make for Brick Dust Canyon, in the mountain, where lived a frontiersman named James W. Smith, who had a little farm situated on an oasis of productive earth in the midst of this vast wilderness of alkali and sand.

Eventually we decided upon the latter alternative, and succeeded in loading up and making a start.

For a long time we crept upward, no one riding except McGill, in order to relieve the tired animals.

Reaching the summit of the ascent at last, McGill stopped, for we had now to descend into a deep canyon.

Daylight had by this time given way to deepest night, and ahead all looked black and forbidding. Our driver could not even see the road, which was, moreover, obscured by a growth of trees in the canyon.

“Gentlemen,” said McGill, “this rig has no brake to hold it. There is a big down-grade here and a sharp turn at the bottom. From there to Jim’s house is about a mile. We must manage to stop one of the hind wheels, for these mules will never be able to hold the load in check; besides, I can’t see the road, and must let the animals take their course.”

We tied the right rear wheel with a stout bit of rope and started again, but with this difference--Levy, Bates, and I each lighted cigars, which Levy had brought from Bonita, and, puffing vigorously at these, walked ahead of the load, endeavouring to pilot McGill by the glow of the lighted “stogies.”

There were times when the mules and the locked wheel were insufficient to check the wagon to any great extent, on account of the steepness of the grade, but at first all went well. It was not long before we reached the sharp turn at the bottom. We were greatly in advance of McGill now, and, indeed, we could hear nothing of him, so Levy went back to investigate and to warn him of the danger ahead. He found the wagon halted at a fairly level spot to recuperate the exhausted animals. Levy told the Scotsman that he was about to plunge down the last and most precipitous piece of road, and urged him to give it up.

McGill was headstrong, however, and insisted upon going ahead, so we took up our stand with our cigars, to mark the turn at the bottom, and the big vehicle started.

We could hear it gaining speed every moment. Mingled with the rumbling of the wagon and the clatter of the animals’ hoofs we heard the shouts of McGill, who had now lost all control over his team.

On they came with a rush and a roar, and we, who were lighting the way, discovered we were in some danger. At the last moment we sprang back into the rocks and brush at the side as the team swept irresistibly on.

The leaders took the turn all right, but the next instant there was a crash and a yell from McGill. The wagon had left the road and plunged into a tree, the harness gave way, and Bedlam broke loose.

The Scotsman saved his skin by jumping fairly into a bush, while we sprang to the animals’ heads to check them. They showed, however, no disposition on their part to run away; they knew when they had had enough.

Away down in the distance we could see a light, which McGill said was at Jim’s house. He would leave us with the animals and seek assistance from the house, he told us.

“I shall go across-lots,” he shouted back to us, “by a trail which will save a lot of walking.”

For hours Bates, Levy, and I awaited his return in vain. We exhausted every topic of conversation we could think of, and at last, tired, disgusted, and feeling thoroughly out of sorts, we set off down the road, taking the animals with us.

Although we could still see the light, we walked for a long time before we actually arrived before a small adobe house, which was surrounded by a thick wall some eight feet high. The road led us to a pair of huge solid gates, which, being closed, prevented us seeing within. We called out, and in a few seconds a voice answered us, and we were conscious of someone approaching the gates with a lantern.

This proved to be Jim Smith himself. He seemed to be in a very merry mood, for, although we were total strangers, he almost laughed in our faces. He had a story to tell, it soon appeared, of a misfortune which had befallen our friend McGill.

It seemed that in attempting to take his short cut “across-lots,” the Scotsman had struck a cattle trail, which led to a watering-trough set beside a newly-dug well, the existence of which he knew nothing of.

By a curious accident, he walked straight into this well and plunged into eight feet of water.

It happened that Smith was at that moment bringing some young cattle into his walled enclosure, and, hearing the muffled cries of McGill in the well, believed they proceeded from a cow in difficulties.

Lantern in hand, he made his way to the well and called out. Judge of his surprise when he heard a voice, as from the tomb, growl:--

“I’ve lost my bloomin’ pipe!”

Looking into the well, he discovered McGill clinging to the sides as best he could with fingers and nails. It was but a moment’s work to throw him a line and bring him out, as sorry and dejected-looking a scarecrow as one could imagine. Strange to relate, it was all that Jim could do to keep McGill from going back into the well for his cherished briar, the loss of which seemed to worry him greatly.

We found the Scotsman in a very bad temper, complaining bitterly of the loss of his pipe, which he told us he was smoking at the time of his misfortune.

We received a hearty welcome from Jim and his wife. The latter was busy soothing their ten-months-old baby to sleep. There they lived, in that little one-room house, eating, sleeping, and cooking in the same apartment.

I began to speculate as to where we tired travellers would find a place to lay our heads. The house was a solid adobe, without windows. In the doorway hung a frame, on which was fastened a strip of canvas in lieu of a door.

A hearty meal was prepared by Mrs. Smith, after which we were invited to go out and bring in our beds.

On our return we found that Mrs. Smith and the babe were already in the huge bed in the corner. Jim was preparing to follow, and we were invited to spread our blankets on the floor, which, like the Bonita store, was mother earth.