Arizona Nights, Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE EMIGRANTS

  After the rain that had held us holed up at the Double R over one day,we discussed what we should do next.

  "The flats will be too boggy for riding, and anyway the cattle will bein the high country," the Cattleman summed up the situation. "We'd bogdown the chuck-wagon if we tried to get back to the J. H. But nowafter the rain the weather ought to be beautiful. What shall we do?"

  "Was you ever in the Jackson country?" asked Uncle Jim. "It's thewildest part of Arizona. It's a big country and rough, and no onelives there, and there's lots of deer and mountain lions and bear.Here's my dogs. We might have a hunt."

  "Good!" said we.

  We skirmished around and found a condemned army pack saddle withaparejos, and a sawbuck saddle with kyacks. On these, we managed tocondense our grub and utensils. There were plenty of horses, so ourbedding we bound flat about their naked barrels by means of thesquaw-hitch. Then we started.

  That day furnished us with a demonstration of what Arizona horses cando. Our way led first through a canon-bed filled with rounded bouldersand rocks, slippery and unstable. Big cottonwoods and oaks grew sothick as partially to conceal the cliffs on either side of us. Therim-rock was mysterious with caves; beautiful with hanging gardens oftree ferns and grasses growing thick in long transverse crevices;wonderful in colour and shape. We passed the little canons fenced offby the rustlers as corrals into which to shunt from the herds theirchoice of beeves.

  The Cattleman shook his head at them. "Many a man has come from Texasand established a herd with no other asset than a couple of horses anda branding-iron," said he.

  Then we worked up gradually to a divide, whence we could see a range ofwild and rugged mountains on our right. They rose by slopes andledges, steep and rough, and at last ended in the thousand-foot cliffsof the buttes, running sheer and unbroken for many miles. During allthe rest of our trip they were to be our companions, the only constantfactors in the tumult of lesser peaks, precipitous canons, and twistedsystems in which we were constantly involved.

  The sky was sun-and-shadow after the rain. Each and every Arizonanpredicted clearing.

  "Why, it almost never rains in Arizona," said Jed Parker. "And when itdoes it quits before it begins."

  Nevertheless, about noon a thick cloud gathered about the tops of theGaliuros above us. Almost immediately it was dissipated by the wind,but when the peaks again showed, we stared with astonishment to seethat they were white with snow. It was as though a magician had passeda sheet before them the brief instant necessary to work his greattransformation. Shortly the sky thickened again, and it began to rain.

  Travel had been precarious before; but now its difficulties wereinfinitely increased. The clay sub-soil to the rubble turned slipperyand adhesive. On the sides of the mountains it was almost impossibleto keep a footing. We speedily became wet, our hands puffed andpurple, our boots sodden with the water that had trickled from ourclothing into them.

  "Over the next ridge," Uncle Jim promised us, "is an old shack that Ifixed up seven years ago. We can all make out to get in it."

  Over the next ridge, therefore, we slipped and slid, thanking the godof luck for each ten feet gained. It was growing cold. The cliffs andpalisades near at hand showed dimly behind the falling rain; beyondthem waved and eddied the storm mists through which the mountainsrevealed and concealed proportions exaggerated into unearthly grandeur.Deep in the clefts of the box canons the streams were filling. Theroar of their rapids echoed from innumerable precipices. A soft swishof water usurped the world of sound.

  Nothing more uncomfortable or more magnificent could be imagined. Werode shivering. Each said to himself, "I can stand this--right now--atthe present moment. Very well; I will do so, and I will refuse to lookforward even five minutes to what I may have to stand," which is thetrue philosophy of tough times and the only effective way to endurediscomfort.

  By luck we reached the bottom of that canon without a fall. It waswide, well grown with oak trees, and belly deep in rich horse feed--anideal place to camp were it not for the fact that a thin sheet of watera quarter of an inch deep was flowing over the entire surface of theground. We spurred on desperately, thinking of a warm fire and achance to steam.

  The roof of the shack had fallen in, and the floor was six inches deepin adobe mud.

  We did not dismount--that would have wet our saddles--but sat on ourhorses taking in the details. Finally Uncle Jim came to the front witha suggestion.

  "I know of a cave," said he, "close under a butte. It's a big cave,but it has such a steep floor that I'm not sure as we could stay in it;and it's back the other side of that ridge."

  "I don't know how the ridge is to get back over--it was slippery enoughcoming this way--and the cave may shoot us out into space, but I'd liketo LOOK at a dry place anyway," replied the Cattleman.

  We all felt the same about it, so back over the ridge we went. Abouthalf way down the other side Uncle Jim turned sharp to the right, andas the "hog back" dropped behind us, we found ourselves out on thesteep side of a mountain, the perpendicular cliff over us to the right,the river roaring savagely far down below our left, and sheets of waterglazing the footing we could find among the boulders and debris.Hardly could the ponies keep from slipping sideways on the slope, as weproceeded farther and farther from the solidity of the ridge behind us,we experienced the illusion of venturing out on a tight rope overabysses of space. Even the feeling of danger was only an illusion,however, composite of the falling rain, the deepening twilight, and thenight that had already enveloped the plunge of the canon below.Finally Uncle Jim stopped just within the drip from the cliffs.

  "Here she is," said he.

  We descended eagerly. A deer bounded away from the base of the buttes.The cave ran steep, in the manner of an inclined tunnel, far up intothe dimness. We had to dig our toes in and scramble to make way up itat all, but we found it dry, and after a little search discovered afoot-ledge of earth sufficiently broad for a seat.

  "That's all right," quoth Jed Parker. "Now, for sleeping places."

  We scattered. Uncle Jim and Charley promptly annexed the slightoverhang of the cliff whence the deer had jumped. It was dry at themoment, but we uttered pessimistic predictions if the wind shouldchange. Tom Rich and Jim Lester had a little tent, and insisted ondescending to the canon-bed.

  "Got to cook there, anyways," said they, and departed with the two packmules and their bed horse.

  That left the Cattleman, Windy Bill, Jed Parker, and me. In a momentWindy Bill came up to us whispering and mysterious.

  "Get your cavallos and follow me," said he.

  We did so. He led us two hundred yards to another cave, twenty feethigh, fifteen feet in diameter, level as a floor.

  "How's that?" he cried in triumph. "Found her just now while I wasrustling nigger-heads for a fire."

  We unpacked our beds with chuckles of joy, and spread them carefullywithin the shelter of the cave. Except for the very edges, which didnot much matter, our blankets and "so-guns," protected by the canvas"tarp," were reasonably dry. Every once in a while a spasm ofconscience would seize one or the other of us.

  "It seems sort of mean on the other fellows," ruminated Jed Parker.

  "They had their first choice," cried we all.

  "Uncle Jim's an old man," the Cattleman pointed out.

  But Windy Bill had thought of that. "I told him of this yere cavefirst. But he allowed he was plumb satisfied."

  We finished laying out our blankets. The result looked good to us. Weall burst out laughing.

  "Well, I'm sorry for those fellows," cried the Cattleman. We hobbledour horses and descended to the gleam of the fire, like guiltyconspirators. There we ate hastily of meat, bread and coffee, merelyfor the sake of sustenance. It certainly amounted to little in the wayof pleasure. The water from the direct rain, the shivering trees, andour hat brims accumulated in our plates faster than we could bai
l itout. The dishes were thrust under a canvas. Rich and Lester decidedto remain with their tent, and so we saw them no more until morning.

  We broke off back-loads of mesquite and toiled up the hill, tastingthickly the high altitude in the severe labour. At the big cave wedumped down our burdens, transported our fuel piecemeal to the vicinityof the narrow ledge, built a good fire, sat in a row, and lit ourpipes. In a few moments, the blaze was burning high, and our bodieshad ceased shivering. Fantastically the firelight revealed the knobsand crevices, the ledges and the arching walls. Their shadows leaped,following the flames, receding and advancing like playful beasts. Farabove us was a single tiny opening through which the smoke was suckedas through a chimney. The glow ruddied the men's features. Outsidewas thick darkness, and the swish and rush and roar of rising waters.Listening, Windy Bill was reminded of a story. We leaned backcomfortably against the sloping walls of the cave, thrust our feettoward the blaze, smoked, and hearkened to the tale of Windy Bill.

  There's a tur'ble lot of water running loose here, but I've seen thetime and place where even what is in that drip would be worth a goldmine. That was in the emigrant days. They used to come over south ofhere, through what they called Emigrant Pass, on their way toCaliforny. I was a kid then, about eighteen year old, and what I didn'tknow about Injins and Agency cattle wasn't a patch of alkali. I had akid outfit of h'ar bridle, lots of silver and such, and I used to rideover and be the handsome boy before such outfits as happened along.

  They were queer people, most of 'em from Missoury and such-likesouthern seaports, and they were tur'ble sick of travel by the timethey come in sight of Emigrant Pass. Up to Santa Fe they mostly hikedalong any old way, but once there they herded up together in bunches oftwenty wagons or so, 'count of our old friends, Geronimo and Loco. Agood many of 'em had horned cattle to their wagons, and they crawledalong about two miles an hour, hotter'n hell with the blower on,nothin' to look at but a mountain a week way, chuck full of alkali,plenty of sage-brush and rattlesnakes--but mighty little water.

  Why, you boys know that country down there. Between the ChiricahuaMountains and Emigrant Pass it's maybe a three or four days' journeyfor these yere bull-slingers.

  Mostly they filled up their bellies and their kegs, hoping to lastthrough, but they sure found it drier than cork legs, and generallylong before they hit the Springs their tongues was hangin' out a foot.You see, for all their plumb nerve in comin' so far, the most of themdidn't know sic 'em. They were plumb innocent in regard to savin'their water, and Injins, and such; and the long-haired buckskin fakesthey picked up at Santa Fe for guides wasn't much better.

  That was where Texas Pete made his killing.

  Texas Pete was a tough citizen from the Lone Star. He was about asbroad as he was long, and wore all sorts of big whiskers and blackeyebrows. His heart was very bad. You never COULD tell where TexasPete was goin' to jump next. He was a side-winder and a diamond-backand a little black rattlesnake all rolled into one. I believe thatTexas Pete person cared about as little for killin' a man as for takin'a drink--and he shorely drank without an effort. Peaceable citizensjust spoke soft and minded their own business; onpeaceable citizensTexas Pete used to plant out in the sagebrush.

  Now this Texas Pete happened to discover a water hole right out in theplumb middle of the desert. He promptly annexed said water hole, digsher out, timbers her up, and lays for emigrants.

  He charged two bits a head--man or beast--and nobody got a mouthfultill he paid up in hard coin.

  Think of the wads he raked in! I used to figure it up, just for thejoy of envyin' him, I reckon. An average twenty-wagon outfit, firstand last, would bring him in somewheres about fifty dollars--andbesides he had forty-rod at four bits a glass. And outfits at thattime were thicker'n spatter.

  We used all to go down sometimes to watch them come in. When they seethat little canvas shack and that well, they begun to cheer up and movefast. And when they see that sign, "Water, two bits a head," theireyes stuck out like two raw oysters.

  Then come the kicks. What a howl they did raise, shorely. But itdidn't do no manner of good. Texas Pete didn't do nothin' but sitthere and smoke, with a kind of sulky gleam in one corner of his eye.He didn't even take the trouble to answer, but his Winchester layacross his lap. There wasn't no humour in the situation for him.

  "How much is your water for humans?" asks one emigrant.

  "Can't you read that sign?" Texas Pete asks him.

  "But you don't mean two bits a head for HUMANS!" yells the man. "Why,you can get whisky for that!"

  "You can read the sign, can't you?" insists Texas Pete.

  "I can read it all right?" says the man, tryin' a new deal, "but theytell me not to believe more'n half I read."

  But that don't go; and Mr. Emigrant shells out with the rest.

  I didn't blame them for raisin' their howl. Why, at that time theregular water holes was chargin' five cents a head from the governmentfreighters, and the motto was always "Hold up Uncle Sam," at that.Once in a while some outfit would get mad and go chargin' off dry; butit was a long, long way to the Springs, and mighty hot and dusty.Texas Pete and his one lonesome water hole shorely did a big business.

  Late one afternoon me and Gentleman Tim was joggin' along above TexasPete's place. It was a tur'ble hot day--you had to prime yourself tospit--and we was just gettin' back from drivin' some beef up to thetroops at Fort Huachuca. We was due to cross the Emigrant Trail--she'swore in tur'ble deep--you can see the ruts to-day. When we topped therise we see a little old outfit just makin' out to drag along.

  It was one little schooner all by herself, drug along by two poor oldcavallos that couldn't have pulled my hat off. Their tongues was out,and every once in a while they'd stick in a chuck-hole. Then a manwould get down and put his shoulder to the wheel, and everybody'd takea heave, and up they'd come, all a-trembling and weak.

  Tim and I rode down just to take a look at the curiosity.

  A thin-lookin' man was drivin', all humped up.

  "Hullo, stranger," says I, "ain't you 'fraid of Injins?"

  "Yes," says he.

  "Then why are you travellin' through an Injin country all alone?"

  "Couldn't keep up," says he. "Can I get water here?"

  "I reckon," I answers.

  He drove up to the water trough there at Texas Pete's, me and GentlemanTim followin' along because our trail led that way. But he hadn'tmore'n stopped before Texas Pete was out.

  "Cost you four bits to water them hosses," says he.

  The man looked up kind of bewildered.

  "I'm sorry," says he, "I ain't got no four bits. I got my roll liftedoff'n me."

  "No water, then," growls Texas Pete back at him.

  The man looked about him helpless.

  "How far is it to the next water?" he asks me.

  "Twenty mile," I tells him.

  "My God!" he says, to himself-like.

  Then he shrugged his shoulders very tired.

  "All right. It's gettin' the cool of the evenin'; we'll make it." Heturns into the inside of that old schooner.

  "Gi' me the cup, Sue."

  A white-faced woman who looked mighty good to us alkalis opened theflaps and gave out a tin cup, which the man pointed out to fill.

  "How many of you is they?" asks Texas Pete.

  "Three," replies the man, wondering.

  "Well, six bits, then," says Texas Pete, "cash down."

  At that the man straightens up a little.

  "I ain't askin' for no water for my stock," says he, "but my wife andbaby has been out in this sun all day without a drop of water. Ourcask slipped a hoop and bust just this side of Dos Cabesas. The poorkid is plumb dry."

  "Two bits a head," says Texas Pete.

  At that the woman comes out, a little bit of a baby in her arms. Thekid had fuzzy yellow hair, and its face was flushed red and shiny.

  "Shorely you won't refuse a sick child a drink of water, sir," says she.r />
  But Texas Pete had some sort of a special grouch; I guess he was justbeginning to get his snowshoes off after a fight with his own forty-rod.

  "What the hell are you-all doin' on the trail without no money at all?"he growls, "and how do you expect to get along? Such plumb tenderfeetdrive me weary."

  "Well," says the man, still reasonable, "I ain't got no money, but I'llgive you six bits' worth of flour or trade or an'thin' I got."

  "I don't run no truck-store," snaps Texas Pete, and turns square on hisheel and goes back to his chair.

  "Got six bits about you?" whispers Gentleman Tim to me.

  "Not a red," I answers.

  Gentleman Tim turns to Texas Pete.

  "Let 'em have a drink, Pete. I'll pay you next time I come down."

  "Cash down," growls Pete.

  "You're the meanest man I ever see," observes Tim. "I wouldn't speakto you if I met you in hell carryin' a lump of ice in your hand."

  "You're the softest _I_ ever see," sneers Pete. "Don't they have anygenooine Texans down your way?"

  "Not enough to make it disagreeable," says Tim.

  "That lets you out," growls Pete, gettin' hostile and handlin' of hisrifle.

  Which the man had been standin' there bewildered, the cup hangin' fromhis finger. At last, lookin' pretty desperate, he stooped down to digup a little of the wet from an overflow puddle lyin' at his feet. Atthe same time the hosses, left sort of to themselves and bein' drierthan a covered bridge, drug forward and stuck their noses in the trough.

  Gentleman Tim and me was sittin' there on our hosses, a little to oneside. We saw Texas Pete jump up from his chair, take a quick aim, andcut loose with his rifle. It was plumb unexpected to us. We hadn'tthought of any shootin', and our six-shooters was tied in, 'count ofthe jumpy country we'd been drivin' the steers over. But GentlemanTim, who had unslung his rope, aimin' to help the hosses out of thechuckhole, snatched her off the horn, and with one of the prettiesttwenty-foot flip throws I ever see done he snaked old Texas Pete rightout of his wicky-up, gun and all. The old renegade did his best totwist around for a shot at us; but it was no go; and I never enjoyedhog-tying a critter more in my life than I enjoyed hog-tying TexasPete. Then we turned to see what damage had been done.

  We were some relieved to find the family all right, but Texas Pete hadbored one of them poor old crow-bait hosses plumb through the head.

  "It's lucky for you you don't get the old man," says Gentleman Tim veryquiet and polite.

  Which Gentleman Tim was an Irishman, and I'd been on the range longenough with him to know that when he got quiet and polite it was timeto dodge behind something.

  "I hope, sir" says he to the stranger, "that you will give your wifeand baby a satisfying drink. As for your hoss, pray do not be underany apprehension. Our friend, Mr. Texas Pete, here, has kindlyconsented to make good any deficiencies from his own corral."

  Tim could talk high, wide, and handsome when he set out to.

  The man started to say something; but I managed to herd him to one side.

  "Let him alone," I whispers. "When he talks that way, he's mad; andwhen he's mad, it's better to leave nature to supply the lightnin'rods."

  He seemed to sabe all right, so we built us a little fire and startedsome grub, while Gentleman Tim walked up and down very grand and fierce.

  By and by he seemed to make up his mind. He went over and untied TexasPete.

  "Stand up, you hound," says he. "Now listen to me. If you make abreak to get away, or if you refuse to do just as I tell you, I won'tshoot you, but I'll march you up country and see that Geronimo getsyou."

  He sorted out a shovel and pick, made Texas Pete carry them right alongthe trail a quarter, and started him to diggin' a hole.

  Texas Pete started in hard enough, Tim sittin' over him on his hoss,his six-shooter loose, and his rope free. The man and I stood by, notdarin' to say a word. After a minute or so Texas Pete began to workslower and slower. By and by he stopped.

  "Look here," says he, "is this here thing my grave?"

  "I am goin' to see that you give the gentleman's hoss decentinterment," says Gentleman Tim very polite.

  "Bury a hoss!" growls Texas Pete.

  But he didn't say any more. Tim cocked his six-shooter.

  "Perhaps you'd better quit panting and sweat a little," says he.

  Texas Pete worked hard for a while, for Tim's quietness was beginningto scare him up the worst way. By and by he had got down maybe four orfive feet, and Tim got off his hoss.

  "I think that will do," says he.

  "You may come out. Billy, my son, cover him. Now, Mr. Texas Pete," hesays, cold as steel, "there is the grave. We will place the hoss init. Then I intend to shoot you and put you in with the hoss, and writeyou an epitaph that will be a comfort to such travellers of the Trailas are honest, and a warnin' to such as are not. I'd as soon kill younow as an hour from now, so you may make a break for it if you feellike it."

  He stooped over to look into the hole. I thought he looked an extralong time, but when he raised his head his face had changed complete.

  "March!" says he very brisk.

  We all went back to the shack. From the corral Tim took Texas Pete'sbest team and hitched her to the old schooner.

  "There," says he to the man. "Now you'd better hit the trail. Takethat whisky keg there for water. Good-bye."

  We sat there without sayin' a word for some time after the schooner hadpulled out. Then Tim says, very abrupt:

  "I've changed my mind."

  He got up.

  "Come on, Billy," says he to me. "We'll just leave our friend tied up.I'll be back to-morrow to turn you loose. In the meantime it won'thurt you a bit to be a little uncomfortable, and hungry--and thirsty."

  We rode off just about sundown, leavin' Texas Pete lashed tight.

  Now all this knocked me hell-west and crooked, and I said so, but Icouldn't get a word out of Gentleman Tim. All the answer I could getwas just little laughs.

  We drawed into the ranch near midnight, but next mornin' Tim had a longtalk with the boss, and the result was that the whole outfit wasinstructed to arm up with a pick or a shovel apiece, and to get set forTexas Pete's. We got there a little after noon, turned the old boyout--without firearms--and then began to dig at a place Tim told us to,near that grave of Texas Pete's. In three hours we had the finestwater-hole developed you ever want to see. Then the boss stuck up asign that said:

  PUBLIC WATER-HOLE. WATER, FREE.

  "Now you old skin," says he to Texas Pete, "charge all you want to onyour own property. But if I ever hear of your layin' claim to thisother hole, I'll shore make you hard to catch."

  Then we rode off home. You see, when Gentleman Tim inspected thatgrave, he noted indications of water; and it struck him that runnin'the old renegade out of business was a neater way of gettin' even thanmerely killin' him.

  Somebody threw a fresh mesquite on the fire. The flames leaped upagain, showing a thin trickle of water running down the other side ofthe cave. The steady downpour again made itself prominent through there-established silence.

  "What did Texas Pete do after that?" asked the Cattleman.

  "Texas Pete?" chuckled Windy Bill. "Well, he put in a heap of hisspare time lettin' Tim alone."