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FRONTIER
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THE RED-BLOODED
* Buriiiiitf bru.sli dropped from above failed to lodge before
the recess'*
THE RED-BLOODED
HEROES
OF THE FRONTIER
BY
EDGAR BEECHER BRONSON
AUTHOR OF
COWBOY LIFE ON THE WESTERN PLAINS.
Thrilling stories of pioneer life and deeds of
daring along the Overland Trail, facing anni-
hilation in the bloody track of the crafty Indian,
Tales of frontier heroes, " badnten," outlaws,
and border bandits who were "jugglers with
death '* on the outposts of civilization.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
^
Copyright
A. C. McCldro & Co.
1910
Published September 10, 1910
Entered at Stationers' Hall. London, England.
Tht author acknowledges his indebtedness to the
editors of periodicals in which some of this material
has appeared, for permission to tise the same in this
volume.
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I Loving's Bend ....
II A Cow-Hunters'* Couet
III A Self-Constituted Executioner
IV Triggerfingeritis
V A Juggler with Death
VI An Aerial Bivouac .
VII The Evolution of a Train Robber
VIII Circus Day at Mancos
IX Across the Border .
X The Three-Legged Doe and the Blind
Buck .....
XI The Lemon County Hunt .
XII El Tigre
XIII Bunkered .....
XIV They Who Must Be Obeyed
XV Djama Aout's Heroism
XVI A Modern Coeur-de-Lion .
5582G4
31
51
70
104
125
149
171
194
255
277
299
316
329
337
THE RED-BLOODED
CHAPTER I
FROM San Antonio to Fort GrifBn, Joe Lov-
ing's was a name to conjure with in the middle
sixties. His tragic story is still told and re-
told around camp-fires on the Plains.
One of the thriftiest of the pioneer cow-hunters, he
was the first to realize that if he would profit by the
fruits of his labor he must push out to the north in
search of a market for his cattle. The Indian agencies
and mining camps of northern New Mexico and Col-
orado, and the Mormon settlements of Utah, were the
first markets to attract attention. The problem of
reaching them seemed almost hopeless of solution.
Immediately to the north of them the country was
trackless and practically unknown. The only thing
certain about it was that it swarmed with hostile
Indians. What were the conditions as to water and
grass, two prime essentials to moving herds, no one
knew. To be sure, the old overland mail road to El
Paso, Chihuahua, and Los Angeles led out west from
the head of the Concho to the Pecos ; and once on the
[3]
• * a* *
• ■/• ^'^THg EED^BLOODED
Pecos, which they knew had its source indefinitely in
the north, a practicable route to market should be
possible.
But the trouble was to reach the Pecos across the
ninety intervening miles of waterless plateau called
the Llano Estacado, or Staked Plain. This plain
was christened by the early Spanish explorers who,
looking out across its vast stretches, could note no
landmark, and left behind them driven stakes to guide
their return. An elevated tableland averaging about
one hundred miles wide and extending four hundred
miles north and south, it presents, approaching any-
where from the east or the west, an endless line of
sharply escarped bluffs from one hundred to two hun-
dred feet high that with their buttresses and re-
entrant angles look at a distance like the walls of an
enormous fortified town. And indeed it possesses
riches well worth fortifying.
While without a single surface spring or stream
from Devil's River in the south to Yellow House
Canon in the north, this great mesa is nevertheless
the source of the entire stream system of central and
south Texas. Absorbing thirstily every drop of moist-
ure that falls upon its surface, from its deep bosom
pours a vitalizing flood that makes fertile and has
enriched an empire, — a flood without which Texas,
now producing one-third of the cotton grown in the
United States, would be an arid waste. Bountiful to
[4]
LOVING'S BEND
the south and east, it is niggardly elsewhere, and only
two small springs, Grierson a^id Mescalero, escape
from its western escarpment.
A driven herd normally travels only twelve to sev-
enteen miles a day, and even less than this in the early
Spring when herds usually are started. It therefore
seemed a desperate undertaking to enter upon the
ninety-mile "dry drive," from the head of the Con-
cho to the Horsehead Crossing of the Pecos, wherein
two-thirds of one's cattle were likely to perish for
want of water.
Joe Loving was the first man to venture it, and he
succeeded. He traversed the Plain, fought his way
up the Pecos, reached a good market, and returned
home in the Autumn, bringing a load of gold and
stories of hungry markets in the north that meant
fortunes for Texas ranchmen. This was in 1866. It
was the beginning of the great " Texas trail drive,"
which during the next twenty years poured six mil-
lion cattle into the plains and mountains of the
Northwest. Of this great industrial movement, Joe
Loving was the pioneer.
At this time Fort Sumner, situated on the Pecos
about four hundred miles above Horsehead Crossing,
was a large Government post, and the agency of the
Navajo Indians, or such of them as were not on the
war-path. Here, on his drive in the Summer of 186T,
Loving made a contract for the delivery at the post
15]
THE RED-BLOODED
the ensuing season of two herds of beeves. His part-
ner in this contract was Charles Goodnight, later for
many years the proprietor of the Palo Duro ranch
in the Pan Handle.
Loving and Goodnight were young then ; they had
helped to repel many a Comanche assault upon the
settlements, had participated in many a bloody raid
of reprisal, had more than once from the slight shel-
ter of a buffalo-wallow successfully defended their
lives, and so they entered upon their work with little
thought of disaster.
Beginning their round-up early in March as soon
as green grass began to rise, selecting and cutting out
cattle of fit age and condition, by the end of the month
they reached the head of the Concho with two herds,
each numbering aboilt two thousand head. Loving
was in charge of one herd and Goodnight of the other.
Each outfit was composed of eight picked cowboys,
well drilled in the rude school of the Plains, a " horse
wrangler," and a cook. To each rider was assigned
a mount of five horses, and the loose horses were
driven with the herd by day and guarded by the
*' horse wrangler " by night. The cook drove a team
of six small Spanish mules hitched to a mess wagon.
In the wagon were carried provisions, consisting prin-
cipally of bacon and jerked beef, flour, beans, and
coffee ; the men's blankets and " war sacks,'* and the
simple cooking equipment. Beneath the wagon was
[6]
LOVING'S BEND
always swung a " rawhide " — a dried, untanned, un-
scraped cow's hide, fastened by its four corners be-
neath the wagon bed. This rawhide served a double
purpose: first, as a carryall for odds and ends; and
second, as furnishing repair material for saddles
and wagons. In it were carried pots and kettles, ex-
tra horseshoes, farriers' tools, and firewood ; for often
long journeys had to be made across country which
did not furnish enough fuel to boil a pot of coffee.
On the sides of the wagon, outside the wagon box,
were securely lashed the two great water barrels, each
supplied with a spigot, which are indispensable in
trail driving. Where, as in this instance, excep-
tionally long dry drives were to be made, other water
kegs were carried in the wagons.
Such wagons were rude affairs, great prairie
schooners, hooded in canvas to keep out the rain.
Some of them were miracles of patchwork, racked and
strained and broken till scarcely a sound bit of iron or
wood remained, but, all splinted and bound with strips
of the cowboy's indispensable rawhide, they wabbled
crazily along, with many f shriek and groan, threat-
ening every moment to collapse, but always holding
together until some extraordinary accident required
the application of new rawhide bandages. I have no
doubt there are wagons of this sort in use in Texas
to-day that went over the trail in 1868.
The men need little description, for the cowboy
17]
THE RED-BLOODED
type has been made familiar by Buffalo Bill's most
truthful exhibitions of plains life. Lean, wiry,
bronzed men, their legs cased in leather chaparejos,
with small boots, liigh heels, and great spurs, they
were, despite their loose, slouchy seat, the best rough-
riders in the world.
Cowboy character is not well understood. Its most
distinguishing trait was absolute fidelity. As long as
he liked you well enough to take your pay and eat
your grub, you could, except in very rare instances,
rely implicitly upon his faithfulness and honesty. To
be sure, if he got the least idea he was being misused
he might begin throwing lead at you out of the busi-
ness end of a gun at any time ; but so long as he liked
you, he was just as ready with his weapons in your
defence, no matter what the odds or who the enemy.
Another characteristic trait was his profound respect
for womanhood. I never heard of a cowboy insulting
a woman, and I don't believe any real cowboy evex
did. Men whose nightly talk around the camp-fire is
of home and " mammy " ai . apt to be a pretty good
sort And yet another qu lity for which he was re-
markable was his patient, uncomplaining endurance
of a life of hardship and privation equalled only
among seafarers. Drenched by rain or bitten by
snow, scorched by heat or stiffened by cold, he passed
it all off with a jest. Of a bitterly cold night he
might casually remark about the quilts that coin-
[8]
LOVING'S BEND
posed his bed: "These here durned huldys ain't
much thicker 'n hen skin!" Or of a hot night:
"Reckon ole mammy must 'a stuffed a hull bale of
cotton inter this yere ole huldy." Or in a pouring
rain : " 'Pears like ole Mahster's got a durned fool
idee we'uns is web-footed." Or in a driving snow
storm: "Ef ole Mahster had to git rid o' this yere
damn cold stuff, he might 'a dumped it on fellers
what 's got more firewood handy."
Vices.? Well, such as the cowboy had, some one
who loves him less will have to describe. Perhaps he
was a bit too frolicsome in town, and too quick to
settle a trifling dispute with weapons; but these
things were inevitable results of the life he led.
In driving a herd over a known trail where water
and grass are abundant, an experienced trail boss
conforms the movement of his herd as near as possi-
ble to the habit of wild cattle on the range. At dawn
the herd rises from the bed ground and is " drifted "
or grazed, without pushing, in the desired direction.
By nine or ten o'clock they have eaten their fill, and
then they are "strung out on the trail" to water.
They step out smartly, two men — one at either side
— " pointing " the leaders ; and "swing " riders along
the sides push in the flanks, until the herd is strung
out for a mile or more, a narrow, bright, particolored
ribbon of moving color winding over the dark green
of hill and plain. In this way they easily^march off
[9]
THE RED-BLOODED
six to nine miles by noon. When they reach water
they are scattered along the stream, drink their fill
and lie down. Dinner is then eaten, and the boys not
on herd doze in the shade of the wagon, until, a little
after two o'clock, the herd rise of their own accord
and move away, guided by the riders. Rather less
distance is made in the afternoon. At twilight the
herd is rounded up into a close circular compact mass
and "bedded down" for the night, the first relief of
the night guard riding slowly round, singing softly
and turning back stragglers. If properly grazed, in
less than a half-hour the herd is quiet and at rest ;
and, barring an occasional wild or hungry beast try-
ing to steal away into the darkness, so they lie till
dawn unless stampeded by some untoward incident.
Every two or three hours a new " relief " is called
and the night guard changed. Round and round all
night ride the guards, jingling their spurs and dron-
ing some low monotonous song, recounting through
endless stanzas the fearless deeds of some frontier
hero, or humming some love ditty rather too passion-
ate for gentle ears.
But when a ninety-mile drive across the Staked
Plain is to be done, all this easy system is changed.
In order to make the journey at all the pace must be
forced to the utmost, and the cattle kept on their legs
and moving as long as they can stand.
Therefore, when Loving and Goodnight reached
[10]
LOVING'S BEND
the head of the Concho, two full days' rest were taken
to recuperate the " drags," or weaker cattle. Then,
late one afternoon, after the herd had been well grazed
and watered, the water barrels and kegs filled, the
herd was thrown on the trail and driven away into the
west, without halt or rest, throughout the night.
Thus, driving in the cool of the night and of the early
morning and late evening, resting through the heat
of midday when travel would be most exhausting, the
herd was pushed on westward for three nights and
four days.
On these dry drives the horses suffer most, for
every rider is forced, in his necessary daily work, to
cover many times the distance travelled by the herd,
and therefore the horses, doing the heaviest work, are
refreshed by an occasional sip of the precious con-
tents of the water barrels — as long as it lasts. By
night of the second day of this drive every drop of
water is consumed, and thereafter, with tongues
parched and swollen by the clouds of dust raised by
the moving multitude, thin, drawn, and famished for
water, men, horses, and cattle push madly ahead.
Come at last within fifteen miles of the Pecos, even
the leaders, the strongest of the herd, are staggering
along with dull eyes and drooping heads, apparently
ready to fall in their tracks. Suddenly the whole
appearance of the cattle changes ; heads are eagerly
raised, ears pricked up, eyes brighten; the leaders
till
THE RED-BLOODED
step briskly forward and break Into a trot. Cow-
hunters say they smell the water. Perhaps they do,
or perhaps it is the last desperate struggle for exist-
ence. Anyway, the tide is resistless. Nothing can
check them, and four men gallop in the lead to control
and handle them as much as possible when they reach
the stream. Behind, the weaker cattle follow at the
best pace they can. In this way over the last stage a
single herd is strung out over a length of four or five
miles.
Great care is needed when the stream is reached to
turn them in at easy waterings, for in their maddened
state they would bowl over one another down a bluff
of any height; and they often do so, for men and
horses are almost equally wild to reach the water,
and indifferent how they get there.
However, the Pecos was reached and the herds
watered with comparatively small losses, and both
Loving's and Goodnight's outfits lay at rest for three
days to recuperate at Horsehead Crossing. Then
the drive up the wide, level valley of the Pecos was
begun, through thickets of tornilla and mesquite,
horses and cattle grazing belly-deep in the tall, juicy
zacaton.
The perils of the Llano Estacado were behind
them, but they were now in the domain of the Co-
manche and in hourly danger of ambush or open at-
tack. They found a great deal of Indian "sign,"
LOVING'S BEND
their trails and camps ; but the " sign " was ten days
or two weeks old, which left ground for hope that the
war parties might be out on raids in the east or south.
After travelling four days up the Pecos without en-
countering any fresh "sign," they concluded that
the Indians were off on some foray; therefore it was
decided that Loving might with reasonable safety
proceed ahead of the herds to make arrangements at
Fort Sumner for their delivery, provided he travelled
only by night, and lay in concealment during the day.
In Loving's outfit were two brothers, Jim and Bill
Scott, who had accompanied his two previous Pecos
drives, and were his most experienced and trusted
men. He chose Jim Scott for his companion on the
dash through to Fort Sumner. When dark came.
Loving mounted a favorite mule, and Jim his best
horse; then, each well armed with a Henry rifle and
two six-shooters, with a brief " So long, boys ! " to
Goodnight and the men, they trotted off up the trail.
Riding rapidly all night, they hid themselves just
before dawn in the rough hills below Pope's Crossing,
ate a snack, and then slept undisturbed till nightfall.
As soon as it was good dusk they slipped down a ra-
vine to the river, watered their mounts, and resumed
the trail to the north. This night also was unevent-
ful, except that they rode into, and roused, a great
herd of sleeping buffalo, which ran thundering away
over the Plain.
[13]
THE RED-BLOODED
Dawn came upon them riding through a level coun-
try about fifteen miles below the present town of
Carlsbad, without cover of any sort to serve for their
concealment through the day. They therefore de-
cided to push on to the hills above the mouth of Dark
Canon. Here was their mistake. Had they ridden a
mile or two to the west of the trail and dismounted
before daylight, they probably would not have been
discovered. It was madness for two men to travel by
day in that country, whether fresh sign had been
seen or not. But, anxious to reach a hiding place
where both might venture to sleep through the day,
they pressed on up the trail. And they paid dearly
the penalty of their foolhardiness.
Other riders were out that morning, riders with
eyes keen as a hawk's, eyes that never rested for a mo-
ment, eyes set in heads cunning as foxes and cruel as
wolves. A war party of Comanches was out and on
the move early, and, as is the crafty Indian custom,
was riding out of sight in the narrow valley below
the well-rounded hills that lined the river. But while
hid themselves, their scouts were out far ahead, creep-
ing along just beneath the edge of the Plain, scanning
keenly its broad stretches, alert for quarry. And
they soon found it.
Loving and Jim hove in sight!
To be sure they were only two specks in the
[14]
LOVING'S BEND
distance, but the trained eyes of these savage sleuths
quickly made them out as horsemen, and white men.
Halting for the main war party to come up, they
held a brief council of war, which decided that the at-
tack should be delivered two or three miles farther
up the river, where the trail swerved in to within a
few hundred yards of the stream. So the scouts
mounted, and the war party jogged leisurely north-
ward and took stand opposite the bend in the trail.
On came Loving and Jim, unwarned and unsus-
pecting, their animals jaded from the long night's
ride. They reached the bend. And just as Jim,
pointing to a low round hill a quarter of a mile to the
west of them, remarked, "Thar'd be a blame good
place to stan' off a bunch o' Injuns," they were
startled by the sound of thundering hoofs off on
their right to the east. Looking quickly round they
saw a sight to make the bravest tremble.
Racing up out of the valley and out upon them,
barely four hundred yards away, came a band of
forty or fifty Comanche warriors, crouching low on
their horses' withers, madly plying quirt and heel to
urge their mounts to their utmost speed.
Their own animals worn out, escape by running
was hopeless. Cover must be sought where a stand
could be made, so they whirled about and spurred
away for the hill Jim had noted. Their pace was
[ 16 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
slow at the best. The Indians were gaining at every
jump and had opened fire, and before half the dis-
tance to the hill was covered a ball broke Loving's
thigh and killed his mule. As the mule pitched over
dead, providentially he fell on the bank of a buffalo-
wallow — a circular depression in the prairie two or
three feet deep and eight or ten feet in diameter,
made by buffalo wallowing in a muddy pool during
the rains.
Instantly Jim sprang to the ground, gave his bri-
dle to Loving, who lay helpless under his horse, and
turned and poured a stream of lead out of his Henry
rifle that bowled over two Comanches, knocked down
one horse, and stopped the charge.
While the Indians temporarily drew back out of
range, Jim pulled Loving from beneath his fallen
mule, and, using his neckerchief, applied a tourni-
quet to the wounded leg which abated the hemorrhage,
and then placed him in as easy a position as possible
within the shelter of the wallow, and behind the fallen
carcass of the mule. Then Jim led his own horse to
the opposite bank of the wallow, drew his bowie knife
and cut the poor beast's throat: they were in for a
fight to the death, and, outnumbered twenty to one,
must have breastworks. As the horse fell on the low
bank ^nd Jim dropped down behind him, Loving
called out cheerily :
"Reckon we're all right now, Jim, and can down
[16]
LOVING'S BEND
half o' them before they get us. Hell! Here they
come again!"
A brief " Bet yer life, ole man.' We'll make 'em set-
tle now," was the only reply.
Stripped naked to their waist-cloths and mocca-
sins, with faces painted black and bronze, bodies
striped with vermilion, with curling buffalo horns
and streaming eagle feathers for their war bonnets,
no warriors ever presented a more ferocious appear-
ance than these charging Comanches. Their horses,
too, were naked except for the bridle and a hair rope
loosely knotted round the barrel over the withers.
On they came at top speed until within range, when
with that wonderful dexterity no other race has quite
equalled, each pushed his bent right knee into the
slack of the hair rope, seized bridle and horse's mane
in the left hand, curled his left heel tightly into the
horse's flank, and dropped down on the animal's right
side, leaving only a hand and a foot in view from the
left. Then, breaking the line of their charge, the
whole band began to race round Loving's entrench-
ment in single file, firing beneath their horses' necks
and gradually drawing nearer as they circled.
Loving and Jim wasted no lead. Lying low behind
their breastworks until the enemy were well within
range, they opened a fire that knocked over six horses
and wounded three Indians. Balls and arrows were
flying all about them, but, well sheltered, they re-
[ n ]
THE RED-BLOODED
mained untouched. The fire was too hot for the Co-
manches and they again withdrew.
Twice again during the day the Indians tried the
same tactics with no better result. Later they tried
sharpshooting at long range, to which Loving and
Jim did not even reply. At last, late in the afternoon,
they resorted to the desperate measure of a direct
charge, hoping to ride over and shoot down the two
white men. Up they came at a dead run five or six
abreast, the front rank firing as they ran. But, badly
exposed in their own persons, the fire from the buffalo-
wallow made such havoc in their front ranks that the
savage column swerved, broke, and retreated.
Night shut down. Loving and Jim ate the few bis-
cuits they had baked and some raw bacon. Then they
counselled with one another. Their thirst was so
great, it was agreed they must have water at any
cost. They knew the Indians were unlikely to attempt
another attack until dawn, and so they decided to at-
tempt to reach the stream shortly after midnight.
Although it was scarcely more than fifteen hundred
yards, that was a terrible journey for Loving. Com-
pelled to crawl noiselessly to avoid alarming the
enemy, Jim could give him little assistance. But going
slowly, dragging his shattered leg behind him without
a murmur. Loving followed Jim, and they reached the
river safely and drank.
It was now necessary to find new cover. For long
[18]
LOVING'S BEND
distances the banks of the Pecos are nearly perpen-
dicular, and ten to twenty feet high. At flood the
swift current cuts deep holes and recesses in these
banks. Prowling along the margin of the stream,
Jim found one of these recesses wide enough to hold
them both, and deep enough to afford good defence
against a fire from the opposite shore. Above them
the bank rose straight for twenty feet. Thus they
could not be attacked by firing, except from the other
side of the river ; and while the stream was only thirty
yards wide, the opposite bank afforded no shelter for
the enemy.
In the gray dawn the Indians crept in on the first
entrenchment and sprang inside the breastworks with
upraised weapons, only to find it deserted. However,
the trail of Loving's dragging leg was plain, and they
followed it down to the river, where, coming unex-
pectedly in range of the new defences, two of their
number were killed outright.
Throughout the day they exhausted every device
of their savage cunning to dislodge Loving, but with-
out avail. They soon found the opposite bank too
exposed and dangerous for attack from that direc-
tion. Burning brush dropped from above failed to
lodge before the recess, as they had hoped it might.
The position seemed impregnable, so they surrounded
the spot, resolved to starve the white men out.
Loving and Jim had leisure to discuss their situa-
[19]
THE RED-BLOODED
tion. Loving was losing strength from his wound.
Thej had no food but a little raw bacon. Without
relief they must inevitably be starved out. It was
therefore agreed that Jim should try to reach Good-
night and bring aid. It was a forlorn hope, but the
only one. The herds must be at least sixty miles back
down the trail. Jim was reluctant to leave, but Lov-
ing urged it as the only chance.
As soon as it was dark, Jim removed all but his
underclothing, hung his boots round his neck, slid
softly into the river, and floated and swam down
stream for more than a quarter of a mile. Then he
crept out on the bank. On the way he had lost his
boots, which more than doubled the difficulty and
hardship of his journey. Still he struck bravely out
for the trail, through cactus and over stones. He
travelled all night, rested a few hours in the morning,
resumed his tramp in the afternoon, and continued it
well-nigh through the second night.
Near morning, famished and weak, with feet raw
and bleeding, totally unable to go farther, Jim lay
down in a rocky recess two or three hundred yards
from the trail, and went to sleep.
It chanced that the two outfits lay camped scarcely
a mile farther down the trail. At dawn they were
again eVf routes and both passed Jim without rousing
or discovering him. Then a strange thing happened.
[«0]
LOVING'S BEND
Three or four horses had strayed away from the
" horse wrangler " during the night, and Jim's brother
Bill was left behind to hunt them. Circling for their
trail, he found and followed it, followed it until it
brought him almost upon the figure of a prostrate
man, nearly naked, bleeding, and apparently dead.
Dismounting and turning the body over. Bill was
startled to find it to be his brother Jim. With great
difficulty Jim was roused; he was then helped to
mount Bill's horse, and hurried on to overtake the
outfit. Coffee and a little food revived him so that
he could tell his story.
Neither danger nor property was considered where
help was needed, in those days. Goodnight instantly
ordered six men to shift saddles to their strongest
horses, left the outfits to get on as best they might,
and spurred away with his little band to his partner's
relief.
Loving had a close call the day after Jim left. The
Comanches had other plans to carry out, or perhaps
they were grown impatient. In any event, they
crossed the river and raced up and down the bluff,
firing beneath their horses' necks. It was a miracle
Loving was not hit ; but, lying low and watching his
chance, he returned such a destructive fire that the
Comanches were forced to draw off. The afternoon
passed without alarm. As a matter of fact, the re-
[21]
THE RED-BLOODED
maining Comanches had given up the siege as too dear
a bargain, and had struck off southwest toward
Guadalupe Peak.
When night came, Loving grew alarmed over his
situation. Jim might be taken and killed. Then no
chance would remain for him where he lay. He must
escape through the Indians and try to reach the trail
at the crossing in the big bend four miles north. Here
his own outfits might reach him in time. Therefore,
he started early in the night, dragged himself pain-
fully up the blufiP, and reached the plain. He might
have lain do^vn by the trail near by; but supposing
the Comanches still about, he set himself the task of
reaching the big bend.
Starving, weak from loss of blood, his shattered
thigh compelling him to crawl, words cannot describe
the horror of this journey. But he succeeded. Love
of life carried him through. And so, late the next
afternoon, the afternoon of the day Goodnight started
to his relief, Loving reached the crossing, lay down
beneath a mesquite bush near the trail, and fell into
a swoon. Ever since, this spot has been known as
Loving's Bend. It is half a mile below the present
town of Carlsbad.
At dusk of the evening on which Loving reached
the ford, a large party of Mexican freighters, trav-
elling south from Fort Sumner to Fort Stockton, ar-
rived and pitched their camp near where he lay. But
[ 33 ]
LOVING'S BEND
Loving did not hear them. He was far into the dark
valley and within the very shadow of Death. Help
must come to him ; he could not go to it. Luckily it
came.
While some were unharnessing the teams, others
went out to fetch firewood. In the darkness one Mex-
ican, thinking he saw a big mesquite root, seized it
and gave a tug. It was Loving's leg. Startled and
frightened, the Mexican yelled to his mates :
" Que vienen, hombresi Que vienen por el amor de
Dios! A qui est a un muerto.^'
Others came quickly, but it was not a dead man
they found, as their mate had called. Dragged from
under the mesquite and carried to the fire. Loving
was found still breathing. The spark of life was very
low, however, and the mescal given him as a stimulant
did not serve to rouse him from his stupor. But the
next morning, rested somewhat from his terrible hard-
ships and strengthened by more mescal, he was able
to take some food and tell his story. The Mexicans
bathed and dressed his wound as well as they could,
and promised to remain in camp until his friends
should come up.
Before noon Goodnight and his six men galloped
in. They had reached his entrenchment that morn-
ing, guided by the Indian sign around about it, and
had discovered and followed his trail. Goodnight
hired a party of the Mexicans to take one of
[23]
THE RED-BLOODED
their carretas and convey Loving through to Fort
Sumner. With the Fort still more than two hundred
miles away, there was small hope he could survive the
journey, but it must be tried. A rude hammock was
improvised and slung beneath the canvas cover of the
carreta, and, placed within it, Loving was made as
comfortable as possible. After a nine days' forced
march, made chiefly by night, the Mexicans brought
their crazy old carreta safely into the post.
While with rest and food Loving had been gaining
in strength, the heat and the lack of proper care were
telling badly on his wound. Goodnight had returned
to the outfits, and, after staying with them a week,
he had brought them through as far as the Rio
Penasco without further mishap. Then placing the
two herds in charge of the Scott brothers, he himself
made a forced ride that brought him into Sumner
only one day behind Loving.
Goodnight found his partner's condition critical.
Gangrene had attacked the wound. It was apparent
that nothing but amputation of the wounded leg could
save him. The medical officer of the post was out
with a scouting cavalry detail, and only a hospital
steward was available for the operation. To trust the
case to this man's inexperience seemed murder.
Therefore, Goodnight decided to send a rider through
to Las Vegas, the nearest point where a surgeon could
be obtained.
[24]
LOVING'S BEND
Here arose what seemed insuperable difficulties.
From Fort Sumner to Las Vegas the distance is one
hundred and thirty miles. Much travelled by freight
teams carrying government supplies, the road was
infested throughout with hostile Navajos, for whom
the freight trains were the richest spoils they could
have. Offer what he would, Goodnight could find no
one at the Fort bold enough to ride through alone
and fetch a surgeon. He finally raised his offer to
a thousand dollars for any one who would make the
trip. It was a great prize, but the danger was
greater than the prize. No one responded. To go him-
self was impossible; their contract must be fulfilled.
At this juncture a hero appeared. His name was
Scot Moore. Moore was the contractor then furnish-
ing wood and hay to the post. Coming in from one of
his camps and learning of the dilemma, himself a
friend of Loving, he instantly went to Goodnight.
"Charlie," he said, "why in the world did you
not send for me before ? Joe shall not die here like a
dog if I can save him. I've got a young Kentucky
saddle mare here that's the fastest thing on the Pecos.
I'll be in Vegas by sun-up to-morrow morning, and
I'll be back here sometime to-morrow night with a
doctor, if the Navajos don't get us. Pay.?* Pay be
damned. I'm doing it for old Joe ; he'd go for me in
a minute. If I'm not back by nine o'clock to-morrow
[26]
THE RED-BLOODED
night, Charlie, send another messenger and just tell
old Joe that Scot did his best."
"It's mighty good of you, Scot," replied Good-
night, " I never will forget it, nor will Joe. You know
I'd go myself if I could."
"That's all right, pardner," said Scot. "Just
come over to my camp a spell and look over some
papers I want you to attend to if I don't show up."
And they strolled away. Officers and other by-
standers shook their heads sadly.
" Devilish pity old Scot had to come in."
" Might 'a known nobody could hold him from go-
in'."
" He'll make Vegas all right in a night run if the
mare don't give out, but God help him when he starts
back with a doctor in a wagon ; ain't one chance in
a thousand he'll get through."
" Well, if any man on earth can make it, bet your
alee Scot will."
These were some of the comments. Scot Moore
was known and loved from Chihuahua to Fort Lyon.
One of the biggest-hearted, most amiable and gener-
ous of men, he was known as the coolest and most
utterly fearless in a country where few men were
cowards.
At nightfall, the mare well fed and groomed and
lightly saddled, Scot mounted, bearing no arms but
his two pistols, called a careless ^^ Hast a luego, ami"
[26]
LOVING'S BEND
gos " to his friends, and trotted off up the road. For
two hours he jogged along easily over the sandy
stretches beyond the Bosque Redondo. Then getting
out on firmer ground, the mare well warmed, he gave
her the rein and let her out into a long, low, easy lope
that scored the miles off famously. And so he swept
on throughout the night, with only brief halts to cool
the mare and give her a mouthful of water, through
Puerta de Luna, past the Canon Pintado, up the Rio
Gallinas, past sleeping freighters' camps and Mex-
ican placitas. Twice he was fired upon by alarmed
campers who mistook him for a savage marauder, but
luckily the shots flew wild.
The last ten miles the noble mare nearly gave out,
but, a friend's life the stake he was riding for, Scot's
quirt and spurs lifted her through.
Half an hour after sunrise, before many in the
town w^ere out of bed, Scot rode into the plaza of Las
Vegas and turned out the doctor, whom he knew.
Dr. D was no coward by any means, but it
took all Scot's eloquence and persuasiveness to induce
him to consent to hazard a daylight journey through
to Sumner, for he well knew its dangers. Scarcely a
week passed without news of some fearful massacre
or desperate defence. But, stirred by Scot's own
heroism or perhaps tempted by the heavy fee to be
earned, he consented.
Having breakfasted and gotten the best team in
[27]
THE RED-BLOODED
town hitched to a light buckboard, Scot and the doc-
tor were rolling away into the south on the Sumner
trail before seven o'clock, over long stretches of level
grassy mesa and past tall black volcanic buttes.
Driving on without interruption or incident,
shortly after noon they approached the head of the
Arroyo de los Enter os, down which the trail de-
scended to the lower levels of the great Pecos Valley.
Enteros Canon is about three miles long, rarely more
than two hundred yards wide, its sides rocky, precip-
itous, and heavily timbered, through which wound the
wagon trail, exposed at every point to a perfect am-
buscade. It was the most dreaded stretch of the
Vegas-Sumner road, but Scot and the doctor drew
near it without a misgiving, for no sign of the savage
enemy had they seen.
Just before reaching the head of the canon, the
road wound round a high butte. Bowling rapidly
along, Scot half dozing with fatigue, the doctor, un-
used to the plains, alert and watchful, they suddenly
turned the hill and came out upon the immediate head
of the canon, when suddenly the doctor cried, seizing
Scot's arm:
" Good God, Scot, look ! For God's sake, look ! "
And it was time. There on either hand, to their
right apd to their left, tied by their lariats to droop-
ing pifion bough, stood fifty or sixty Navajo ponies.
The ponies were bridled and saddled. Upon some were
[28]
LOVING'S BEND
tied lances and on others arms. All were dripping
with sweat and heaving of flank, their knife-marked
ears drooping with fatigue ; not more than five min-
utes could have elapsed since their murderous riders
had left them. Apparently it was an ambush laid
for them, and they were already surrounded. Even
the cool Scot shook himself in surprise to find that
he was still alive.
Overcome with terror, the doctor cried: "Turn,
Scot ! Turn, for Heaven's sake ! It 's our only chance
to pull for Vegas."
But Scot had been reflecting. With wits sharpened
by a thousand perils and trained in scores of desper*
ate encounters, he answered: "Doc, you're wrong;
dead wrong. We're safe as if we were in Fort Union.
If they were laying for us we'd be dead now. No,
they are after bigger game. They have sighted a big
freight outfit coming up from the Pecos, and are lay-
ing for that in the canon. We can slide through
without seeing a buck or hearing a shot. We'll go
right on down Enteros, old boy."
"Scot, you're crazy," said the doctor. "I will
not go a step. Let's run for Vegas. Any instant we
may be attacked. Why, damn your fool soul, they've
no doubt got a bead on us this minute."
With a sharp stroke of his whit), Scot started the
team into a smart trot down into the canon. Then
he turned to the doctor and quietly answered : " Doc,
[29]
THE RED-BLOODED
you seem to forget that Joe Loving is dying, and that
I promised to fetch you. Reckon you'll have to go ! "
And down they went into what seemed the very jaws
of death.
But Scot was right. It was a triumph of logic.
The Navajos were indeed lying for bigger game.
And so it happened that, come safely through the
canon, out two miles on the plain they met a train of
eight freight teams travelling toward Vegas. They
stopped and gave the freighters warning, told what
they had seen, begged them to halt and corral their
wagons. But it was no use. The freighters thought
themselves strong enough to repel any attack, and
drove on into the canon.
None of them came out.
And to this day the traveller through Enteros may
see pathetic evidence of their foolhardiness in a scat-
tered lot of weather-worn and rusted wheel tires and
hub bands.
Before midnight Scot and the doctor reached Sum-
ner, having changed teams twice at Mexican placitas.
Covering two hundred and sixty miles in less than
thirty hours, Scot Moore had kept his word ! Unhap-
pily, however, Joe Loving had become so weak that
he died under the shock of the operation.
Now Scot Moore himself is dead and gone, but the
memory of his heroic ride should live as long as noble
deeds are sung.
CHAPTER n
THE recent death of Shanghai Rhett, at Llano,
Texas, makes another hole in the rapidly
thinning ranks of the pioneer Texas cow-
hunters. Cow-hunting in early days was the industry
upon which many of the greatest fortunes of the State
were founded, and from it sprang the great cattle-
ranch industry that between the years 1866 and 1885
converted into gold the rich wild grasses of the ten-
antless plains and mountains of Texas, New Mexico,
the Indian Territory, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado,
Wyoming, Dakota, and Montana.
The economic value of this great industrial move-
ment in promoting the settlement and development of
that vast region of the West lying between the ninety-
eighth and one hundred and twentieth meridians, and
embracing half the total area of the United States, is
comprehended by few who were not personally famil-
iar with the conditions of its rise and progress. There
can be no question that the ranch industry hastened
the occupation and settlement of the Plains by at
least thirty years. Farming in those wilds was then
an impossibility. Remote from railways, unmapped,
[31]
THE RED-BLOODED
and untrod by white men, it was under the sway of
hostile Indians, before whose attacks isolated farming
settlements, with houses widely scattered, would have
been defenceless, — alike in their position and in their
inexperience in Indian warfare. Then, moreover,
there was neither a market nor means of transporta-
tion for the farmer's product. All these conditions
the Texas cow-hunters changed, and they did it in
little more than a decade.
In Texas were bred the leaders and the rank and
file of that great army of cow-hunters whose destiny
it was to become the pioneers of this vast region. Pis-
tol and knife were the treasured toys of their, child-
hood; they were inured to danger and to hardship;
they were expert horsemen, trained Indian-fighters,
reckless of life but cool in its defence ; and thus they
were an ideal class for the pacification of the Plains.
Shanghai Rhett's death removed one of the com-
paratively few survivors of this most interesting and
eventful past.
In Texas after the war, when Shang was young, a
pony, a lariat, a six-shooter, and a branding iron
were sufficient instruments for the acquisition of
wealth. A trained eye and a practised hand were nec-
essary for the effective use of pistol and lariat; the
running iron anybody could wield; therefore, wJiile
a necessary feature of equipment, the iron was a sec-
ondary affair. The pistol was useful in settling an-
[32]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
noying questions of title ; the horse and the lariat, in
taking possession after title was settled; the iron, in
marking the property with a symbol of ownership.
The property in question was always cattle.
Before the war, cattle were abundant in Texas.
Fences were few. Therefore, the cattle roamed at will
over hill and plain. To determine ownership each
owner adopted a distinctive "mark and brand." The
owner's mark and brand were put upon the young be-
fore they left their mothers, and upon grown cattle
when purchases were made. Thus the broad sides and
quarters of those that changed hands many times were
covered over with this barbarous record of their
various transfers.
The system of marking and branding had its origin
among the Mexicans. Marking consists in cutting the
ears or some part of the animal's hide in such a way
as to leave a permanent distinguishing mark. One
owner would adopt the "swallow fork," a V-shaped
piece cut out of the tip of the ear; another, the
" crop, " the tip of the ear cut squarely off ; another,
the " under-half crop," the under half of the tip of
the ear cut away ; another, the " over-half crop," the
reverse of the last ; another, the " under-bit," a round
nick cut in the lower edge of the ear; another, the
" over-bit," the reverse of the last ; another, the " un-
der-slope," the under half of the ear removed by cut-
ting diagonally upward ; another, the " over-slope,"
[33]
THE RED-BLOODED
tlie reverse of the last ; another, the " grub," the ear
cut off close to the head; another, the "wattle," a
strip of the hide an inch wide and two or three inches
long, either on forehead, shoulder, or quarters,
skinned 'and left hanging by one end, where before
healing it leaves a conspicuous lump; another, the
" dewlap," three or four inches of the loose skin un-
der the throat skinned down and left hanging.
Branding consists in applying a red-hot iron to any
part of the animal for six or eight seconds, until the
hide is seared. Properly done, hair never again
grows on the seared surface and the animal is
"branded for life." A small five-inch brand on a
young calf becomes a great twelve-to-eighteen-inch
mark by the time the beast is fully grown.
In Mexico the art of branding dates back to the
time when few men were lettered and most men used a
ruhrica mark or flourish instead of a written signa-
ture. Thus, in Mexico the brand is always a device,
whatever complex combination of lines and circles the
whim of the owner may conceive. In this country the
brand was usually a combination of letters or numer-
als, though sometimes shapes and forms are repre-
sented. Branding and marking cattle and horses is
certainly a most cruel practice, but under the old
conditions of the open range, where individual owner-
ships numbered thousands of head, no other means
existed of contradistinguishing title.
[34]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
During the war these vast herds grew and in-
creased unattended, neglected by owners, who were in
the field with the armies of the Confederacy. So it
happened that hundreds of thousands of cattle
ranged the plains of Texas after the war, unmarked
and unbranded, wild as the native game, to which no
man could establish title. This situation afforded an
opportunity which the hard-riding and desperate men
who found themselves stranded on this far frontier
after the wreck of the Confederacy were quick to
seize. Shang Rhett was one of them. From chasing
Federal soldiers they turned to chasing unbranded
steers, and found the latter occupation no less excit-
ing and much more profitable than the former.
First, bands of free companions rode together and
pooled their gains. Then the thrift of some and the
improvidence of others set in motion the immutable
laws of distribution. Soon a class of rich and power-
ful individual owners was created, who employed
great outfits of ten to fifty men each, splendidly
mounted and armed. These outfits were in continually
moving camps, and travelled light, without wagons or
tents. The climate being mild even in winter, seldom
more than two blankets to the man were carried for
bedding. The cooking paraphernalia were equally
aimple, at the most consisting of a coffee pot, a
frying-pan, a stew kettle, and a Dutch oven. Each
man carried a tin cup tied to his saddle. Plates,
[35]
THE RED-BLOODED
knives, and forks were considered unnecessary luxu-
ries, as every man wore a bowie knife at his belt, and
was dexterous in using his slice of bread as a plate to
hold whatever delicacy the frying-pan or kettle might
contain. Sometimes even the Dutch oven was dis-
pensed with, and bread was baked by winding thin
rolls of dough round a stick and planting the stick
in the ground, inclined over a bed of live coals. Often
the frying-pan was left behind, and the meat roasted
on a stick over the fire ; and no meat in the world was
ever so delicious as a good fat side of ribs so roasted.
The wild, unbranded cattle were everywhere — in
the cross-timbers of the Palo Pinto, in the hills and
among the post oaks of the Concho and the Llano,
on the broad savannas of the Lower Guadalupe and
the Brazos, in the plains and mesquite thickets of the
Nueces and the Frio. And through these wild regions,
on the outer fringe of settlement, ranged the cow-
hunters, as merry and happy a lot as ever courted
adventure, careless of their lives.
Of adventure and hazard the cow-hunters had quite
enough to keep the blood tingling. They had to deal
with wild men as well as wild cattle. Comanches and
Kiowas, the old lords of the manor, were bitterly dis-
puting every forward movement of the settler along
the whole frontier. No community, from Griffin to
San Antonio, escaped their attacks and depredations.
[86]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
Indeed, these incursions were regular monthly visita-
tions, made always "in the light of the moon." A
war party of naked bucks on naked horses, the light-
est and most dexterous cavalry in the world, would
slip softly near some isolated ranch or lonely camp by
night. The cleverest and cunningest would dismount
and steal swiftly in upon their quarry. Slender, sin-
ewy, bronze figures creeping and crouching like
panthers, crafty as foxes, fierce and merciless as
maddened bulls, their presence was rarely known until
the blow fell. Sometimes they were content to steal
the settlers' horses, and by daylight be many miles
away to the west or north. Sometimes they fired
buildings and shot down the inmates as they ran out.
Sometimes they crept silently into camps, knifed or
tomahawked one or more of the sleepers, and stole
away, all so noiselessly that others sleeping near were
undisturbed. Sometimes they lay in ambush about a
camp till dawn, and then with mad war-whoops
charged among the sleepers with their deadly arrows
and tomahawks.
Against these wily marauders the cow-hunters
could never abate their guard. And it was these same
cow-hunters the Indians most dreaded, for they were
tireless on a trail and utterly reckless in attack. It
was not often the Indians got the best of them, and
then only by ambush or overwhelming numbers. Bet-
[37]
THE RED-BLOODED
ter armed, of stouter hearts in a stand-up fight, little
bands of these cow-hunters often soundly thrashed
war parties outnumbering them ten to one.
Then it not infrequently fell out that collisions oc^
curred between rival outfits of cow-hunters, disputes
over territory or cattle, which led to bitter feuds
not settled till one side or the other was killed
off or run out of the country. Battles royal were
fought more than once in which a score or more of
men were killed, wherein the casus belli was a differ-
ence as to the ownership of a brindle steer.
These men were a law unto themselves. Courts
were few and far between on the line of the outer set-
tlements. Powder and lead came cheaper than at-
torneys' fees, and were, moreover, found to be more
effective. Thus the rifle and pistol were almost invari-
ably the cow-hunters' court of first and last resort for
disputes of every nature. Except in rare instances
where there happened to be survivors among the fam-
ilies of the original plaintiff and defendant, this form
of litigation was never prolonged or tiresome. When
there were any survivors the case was sure to be re-
argued.
Occasionally, of course, in the immediate settle-
ments a case would be brought to formal trial before
a judge and jury. While, as a rule, the procedure
of these courts conformed to the statutes and was for-
mal enough, rather startling informalities sometimes
[38]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
characterized their sessions. A case in point, of
which Shang Rhett was the hero, occurred at Llano.
At that time the town of Llano could boast of only
one building, a big rough stone house, loop-holed for
defence against the Indians. Under this one roof the
enterprising owner assembled a variety of industries
and performed a variety of functions that would dis-
may the most versatile man of any older community.
Here he kept a general store, operated blacksmith
and wheelwright shops, served as post-master, ran a
hotel, and sat as justice of the peace. Indeed, he got
so much in the habit of self-reliance in all emergen-
cies, that in more than one instance he subjected him-
self to some criticism by calmly sitting as both judge
and jury in cases wherein he had no jurisdiction. Get-
ting a jury at Llano was no easy task. Often the
country for miles around might be scoured without
producing a full panel.
Llano being the county seat, and this the only house
in town, it somewhat naturally from time to time en-
joyed temporary distinction as a court house, when
at long intervals the Llano County court met. The
accommodations, however, were inconveniently lim-
ited — so limited in fact that on one occasion at least
they were responsible for a sad miscarriage of justice.
A murder trial was on. One of the earliest settlers,
a man well known and generally liked, had killed a
newcomer. It was felt that he had given his victim no
[39]
THE RED-BLOODED
chance for his life, else he probably would not have
been brought to trial at all. And even in spite of the
prevailing disapproval, there was an undercurrent
of sympathy for him in the community.
However, court met and the case was called. Sev-
eral settlers were witnesses in the case. It was, there-
fore, considered a remarkable and encouraging evi-
dence of Llano County's growth in population when
the District Attorney succeeded in raking together
enough men for a jury. At noon of the second day
of the trial the evidence was all in, arguments of coun-
sel finished, and the case given to the jury. The pris-
oner's case seemed hopeless. A clearly premeditated
murder had been proved, against which scarcely any
defence was produced.
Judge, jury, prisoner, and witnesses all had din-
ner together in the " court room," which was always
demeaned from its temporary dignity as a hall of jus-
tice, to the humble rank of a dining-room as soon as
court adjourned. Directly after dinner the jury
withdrew for deliberation, in custody of two bailiffs.
The house was large, to be sure, but its capacity
was already so far taxed that it could not provide a
jury room. It was therefore the custom of the bail-
iffs to use as a jury room an open, mossy glade
shaded by a great live oak tree on the farther bank
of the Llano, and distant two or three hundred yards
from the court house. Here, therefore, the jury were
[40]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
conducted, the bailiffs retired to some distance, and
discussion of a verdict was begun. In spite of the
weight of evidence against him, two or three were for
acquittal. The others said they were " damned sorry ;
Jim was a mighty good feller, but it 'peared like
they 'd have to foller the evidence." So the discussion
pro and con ran on into the mid-afternoon without
result.
It was an intensely hot afternoon, the air close and
heavy with humidity, an hour when all Texans who
can do so take a siesta. Judge and counsel were
snoozing peacefully on the gallery of the distant
court house, and the two bailiffs guarding the "jury
room," overcome by habit and the heat, were
stretched at full length on the ground, snoring in con-
cert. This situation made the opportunity for a
friend at court. Shang Rhett was the friend await-
ing this opportunity. Stepping lightly out of the
brush where he had been concealed, a few paces
brought him among the jurors.
"Howdy! boys.?" Shang drawled. "Pow'ful hot
evenin', ain't it.? Moseyin' roun' sort o' lonesome
like, I thought mebbe so you fellers 'd be tired o'
talkin' law, an' I'd jes' step over an' pass the time o'
day an' give you a rest."
A rude diplomat, perhaps, Shang was nevertheless
a cunning one. Several jurors expressed their appre-
ciation of his sympathy and one answered : " Tired
THE RED-BLOODED
o' talkin'! Wall, I reckon so. I'm jes' tireder an'
dryer 'n if I'd been tailin' down beef steers all day.
My ol' tongue's been a-floppin' till thar ain't nary
'nother flop left in her 'nless I could git to ile her up
with a swaller o' red-eye, an' — " regretfully — "I
reckon thar ain't no sort o' chanst o' that. "
"Thar ain't, hey.?" replied Shang, producing a
big jug from the brush near by. " 'Pears like, 'nless
I disremember, thar's some red-eye in this yere jug."
Upon examination the jug was found to be nearly
full; but, passed and repassed around the "jury
room," it was not long before the jug was empty, and
the jury full.
Shrewdly seizing the proper moment before the
jurors got drunk enough to be obstinate and combat-
ive, Shang made his appeal. " Fellers, " he said, " I
allows you all knows that Jim's my friend, an' I
reckon you cain't say but what he 's been a mighty
good friend to more'n one o' you. Course, I knov.-
he got terrible out o' luck when he had t' kill this yer
Arkinsaw feller. But then, boys, Arkinsawyers don't
count fer much nohow, do they? Powful onery, no
account lot, sca'cely fit to practise shootin' at. We
fellers ain't a-goin' to lay that up agin Jim, air we?
We ain't a-goin' to help this yer jack-leg prosecutin'
attorney send oP Jim up. Why, fellers, we knows
well enough that airy one o' us might 'a done
the same thing ef we 'd been out o' luck, like Jim was,
[4«]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
in meetin' up with this yer Arkinsawjer afore we'd
had our mornin' coffee. What say, boys? Bein' as
how any o' us might be in Jim's boots mos' any day,
reckon we'll have to turn him loose ? "
Shang's pathetic appeal for Jim's life clearly won
outright more than half the jury, but there were sev-
eral who, while their sympathies were with Jim,
" 'lowed they'd have to bring a verdic' accordin' to
the evidence. "
"Verdic'? Why, fellers," retorted Jim's advocate,
"whar's the use of a fool verdic'? 'Sposin' we fel-
lers was goin' to be verdicked? This is a time for us
fellers to stan' together, shua'. I'll tell you what le's
do; le's all slip off inter th' brush, cotch our bosses
an' pull our freight fer home. This yer court ain't
goin' to git airy jury but us in Llano 'till a new one's
growed, an' if we skip I reckon they'll have to turn
Jim loose. "
This alternative met all objections. In a moment
the "jury room" was empty.
Shortly thereafter the two bailiffs, awakened by a
clatter of hoofs over the rocky hills behind them, were
doubly shocked to find the only tenant of the "jury
room" an empty jug.
One of the bailiffs sighted some of the escaping ju-
rors and opened fire ; the other hastened to alarm the
court. The latter, running toward the house, met
the judge and counsel who had been roused by the
[43]
THE RED-BLOODED
firing, and yelled out: " Jedge, the hull jury's stam-
peded! Bill's winged two o' them. Gi' me a fast
hoss an' a lariat an' mebbe so I'll cotch some
more. "
Two or three jurors who were too much fuddled
with drink to saddle and mount were quickly cap-
tured. The rest escaped. Of course, the court was
outraged and indignant, but it was powerless. So
Jim was released, thanks to Shang's diplomacy and
eloquence. And, by the way, in the dark days that
came to ranchmen in 1885, Jim, risen to be a well-
known and powerful banker in City, furnished
the ready money necessary to save Shang's imperilled
fortune ; and when at length he heard that Shang was
at death's door, Jim found the time to leave his large
affairs and come all the way up from to Llano
to bid his old friend farewell.
For two or three years after the war the cow-
hunters were busy accumulating cattle. From Palo
Pinto to San Diego great outfits were working inces-
santly, scouring the wilds for unbranded cattle.
Directly an animal was sighted, one or two of these
mad riders would spur in pursuit, rope him by horns
or legs, and throw him to the ground. Then dismount-
ing and springing nimbly upon the prostrate beast,
they quickly fastened the beast's feet with a "hog-
tie" hitch so that he could not rise, a fire was built,
the short saddle iron heated, and the beast branded.
[44]
A COW-HUNTERS* COURT
The feet were then unbound and the cow-liunter made
a flying leap into his saddle, and spurred away to es-
cape the infuriated charge sure to be delivered by his
maddened victim.
In this work horses were often fatally gored and
not a few men lost their lives. Notwithstanding the
fact that it was such a downright desperate task, the
men became so expert that they did not even hesitate
to tackle, alone and single-handed, great bulls of
twice the weight of their small ponies; they roped,
held, threw, and branded them. The least accident
or mistake, a slip of the foot, a stumble by one's
horse, a breaking cinch, a failure to maintain full ten-
sion on the lariat, slowness in dismounting to tie an
animal or in mounting after it was untied — any one
of these things happening meant death, unless the
cow-hunter could save himself with a quick and ac-
curate shot. Indeed the boys so loved this work and
were so proud of their skill, that when an unusually
vicious old " moss-back " was encountered, each strove
to be the first to catch and master him. And God
knows they should have loved it, as must any man
with real red blood coursing through his veins, for it
was not work ; I libel it to call it work ; it was rather
sport, and the most glorious sport in the world. Rid-
ing to hounds over the stiffest country, or hunting
grizzly in juniper thickets, is tame beside cow-hunt-
ing in \he old days.
[45]
THE RED-BLOODED
The happiest period of my life was my first five
years on the range in the early seventies. Indeed it
was a period so happy that memory plays me e^
shabby trick to recall its incidents and fire me with
longings for pleasures I may never again experience.
Its scenes are all before me now, vivid as if of yes-
terday.
The night camp is made beside a singing stream or
a bubbling spring; the night horses are caught and
staked ; there is a roaring, merry fire of fragrant ce-
dar boughs; a side of fat ribs is roasting on a spit
before the fire, its sweet juices hissing as they drop
into the flames, and sending off odors to drive one
ravenous; the rich amber contents of the coffee pot
is so full of life and strength that it is well-nigh
bursting the lid with joy over the vitality and stim-
ulus it is to bring you. Supper eaten, there follow
pipe and cigarette, jest and badinage over the day's
events ; stories and songs of love, of home, of mother ;
and rude impromptu epics relating the story of vic-
tories over vicious horses, wild beasts, or savage In-
dians. When the fire has burnt low and become a
mass of glowing coals, voices are hushed, the camp is
still, and each, half hypnotized by gazing into the
weirdly shifting lights of the dying embers, is
wrapped in introspection. Then, rousing, you lie
down, your canopy the dark blue vault of the heav-
ens, your mattress the soft, curling buffalo grass.
[46]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
After a night of deep refreshing sleep you spring at
dawn with every faculty renewed and tense. Break-
fast eaten, you catch a favorite roping-horse,
square and heavy of shoulder and quarter, short of
back, with wide nervous nostrils, flashing eyes, ears
pointing to the slightest sound, pasterns supple and
strong as steel, and of a nerve and temper always re-
minding you that you are his master only by suffer-
ance. Now begins the day's hunt. Riding softly
through cedar brake or mesquite thicket, slipping
quickly from one live oak to another, you come upon
your quarry, some great tawny yellow monster with
sharp-pointed, wide-spreading horns, standing start-
led and rigid, gazing at you with eyes wide with cu-
riosity, uncertain whether to attack or fly. Usually
he at first turns and runs, and you dash after him
through timber or over plain, the great loop of your
lariat circling and hissing about your head, the noble
horse between your knees straining every muscle in
pursuit, until, come to fit distance, the loop is cast.
It settles and tightens round the monster's horns, and
your horse stops and braces himself to the shock that
may either throw the quarry or cast horse and rider
to the ground, helpless, at his mercy. Once he is
caught, woe to you if you cannot master and tie him,
for a struggle is on, a struggle of dexterity and intel-
ligence against brute strength and fierce temper, that
cannot end till beast or man is vanquished !
[47]
THE RED-BLOODED
Thus were the great herds accumulated in Texas
after the war. But cattle were so abundant that their
local value was trifling. Markets had to be sought.
The only outlets were the mining camps and Indian
agencies of the Northwest, and the railway construc-
tion camps then pushing west from the Missouri
River. So the Texans gathered their cattle into
herds of two thousand to three thousand head each,
and struck north across the trackless Plains. Indeed
this movement reached such proportions that, except-
ing in a few narrow mining belts, there is scarcely one
of the greater cities and towns between the ninety-
eighth and one hundred and twentieth meridians
which did not have its origin as a supply point for
these nomads. Figures will emphasize the magnitude
of the movement. The cattle-drive northward from
Texas between the years 1866 and 1885 was approxi-
mately as follows:
1866 260,000 1877 201,000
1867 35,000 1878 265,649
1868...." 75,000 1879 257.927
1869 350,000 1880 394,784
1870 350,000 1881 250,000
1871 600,000 1882 250,000
1872 350,000 1883 265,000
1873 404,000 1884 416,000
1874... 166,000 1885 350,000
1875 151,618
1876 321,998 Total 5,713,976
[48]
A COW-HUNTERS' COURT
The range business on a large and profitable scale
was long since practically done and ended. In Texas
there remain very few open ranges capable of turning
off fair grass beef. With the good lands farmed and
the poor lands exhausted, the ranges have become
narrower every year ; and every year the cost of get-
ting fat grass steers has been eating deeper and
deeper into the rangeman's pocket. Of course, there
are still isolated ranges where the rangemen still hang
on, but they are not many, and most of them must
soon fall easy prey to the ploughshare.
When the rangeman was forced to lease land in
Texas, or buy water fronts in the Territories and
build fences, his fate was soon sealed. With these
conditions, he soon found that the sooner he reduced
his numbers, improved his breed, and went on tame
feed, the better. A corn shock is now a more profita-
ble close herder than any cow-puncher who ever wore
spurs. This is a sad thing for an old rangeman to
contemplate, but it is nevertheless the simple truth.
Soon the merry crack of the six-shooter will no more
be heard in the land, its wild and woolly manipulator
being driven across the last divide, with faint show
of resistance, by an unassuming granger and his all-
conquering hoe.
The rangeman, like many another in the past, has
served his purpose and survived his usefulness. His
work is practically done, and few realize what a noble
[ 49 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
work it has been, or what its cost in hardship and
danger.
I refer, of course, not alone to the development of
a great industry, which in its time has added millions
to the material wealth of the country, but to its col-
lateral results and influence. But for the venture-
some rangeman and his rifle, millions of acres, from
the Gulf in the South to Bow River in the far Cana-
dian Northwest, now constituting the peaceful, pros-
perous homes of hundreds of thousands of thrifty
farmers, would have remained for many years longer
what it had been from the beginning — a hunting and
battle ground for Indians, and a safe retreat for wild
game.
What was the hardship, and what the personal risk
with which this great pioneer work was accomplished,
few know except those who had a hand in it, and they,
as a rule, were modest men who thought little of what
they did, and now that it is done, say less.
[50]
CHAPTER III
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
SOME think it fair to give a man warnin' you
intend to kill him on sight, an' then get right
down to business as soon as you meet. But
that ain't no equal chance for both. The man that
sees his enemy first has the advantage, for the other is
sure to be more or less rattled.
'* Others consider it a square deal to stan' back to
back with drawn pistols, to walk five paces apart an'
then swing and shoot. But even this way is open to
objections. While both may be equally brave an' de-
termined, one may be blamed nervous, like, an' excita-
ble, while the other is cool and deliberate ; one may be
a better shot than the other, or one may have bad
eyes.
" I tell you, gentlemen, none o' these deals are fair ;
they are murderous. If you want to kill a man in a
neat an' gentlemanly way that will give both a per-
fectly equal show for life, let both be put in a narrow
hole in the ground that they can't git out of, their left
arms securely tied together, their right hands holdin'
bowie knives, an' let them cut, an' cut an' cut till one
is down. "
[51]
THE RED-BLOODED
His heavy brow contracted into a fierce frown ; his
black eyes narrowed and glittered balefully ; his surg-
ing blood reddened the bronzed cheeks.
"Let them cut, I say, cut to a finish. That's
fightin', an' fightin' dead fair. Ah!" and the hard
lines of the scarred face softened into a look of infinite
longing and regret, " if only I could find another man
with nerve enough to fight me that way ! "
The speaker was Mr. Clay Allison, formerly of
Cimarron, later domiciled at Pope's Crossing. His
listeners were cowboys. The scene was a round-up
camp on the banks of the Pecos River near the mouth
of Rocky Arroyo. Mr. Allison was not dilating upon
a theory. On the contrary, he was eminently a man
of practice, especially in the matters of which he was
speaking. Indeed he was probably the most expert
taker of human life that ever heightened the prevail-
ing dull colors of a frontier community. Early in
his career the impression became general that his
favorite tint was crimson.
And yet Mr. Allison was in no sense an assassin.
I never knew him to kill a man whom the community
could not very well spare. While engaged as a ranch-
man in raising cattle, he found more agreeable occu-
pation for the greater part of his time in thinning out
the social weeds that are apt to grow quite too lux-
uriantly for the general good in new Western settle-
ments. His work was not done as an officer of the law
m
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
either. It was rather a self-imposed task, in which -
he performed, at least to his own satisfaction, the
double functions of judge and executioner. And in
the unwritten code governing his decisions all offences
had a common penalty — death.
Mr. Allison was born with a passion for fighting,
and he indulged the passion until it became a mania.
The louder the bullets whistled, the redder the gleam-
ing blades grew, the more he loved it.
Yet no knight of old that rode with King Arthur
was ever a more chivalrous enemy. He hated a foul
blow as much as many of his contemporaries loved
"to get the drop," which meant taking your oppo-
nent unawares and at hopeless disadvantage. In fact
in most cases he actually carried a chivalry so far as
to warn the doomed man, a week or two in advance,
of the precise day and hour when he might expect to
die. And as Mr. Allison was known to be most scru-
pulous in standing to his word, and as the victim knew
there was no chance of a reprieve, this gave him
plenty of time to settle up his affairs and to prepare
to cross the last divide. Thus the estates of gentle-
men who happened to incur Mr. Allison's disap-
proval were usually left in excellent condition and
gave little trouble to the probate courts.
Of course the gentlemen receiving these warnings
were under no obligations to await Mr. Allison's
pleasure. Some suddenly discovered that they had
[S3]
THE RED-BLOODED
imperative business in other and remote parts of the
country. Others were so anxious to save him unnec-
essary trouble that they frequented trails he was
known to travel, and lay sometimes for hours and
days awaiting him, making themselves as comfortable
as possible in the meantime behind some convenient
boulder or tall nopal, or in the shady recesses of a
mesquite thicket. But they might as well have saved
all this bother, for the result was the same. Mr. Alli-
son could always spare the time to journey even from
New Mexico to Montana where it was necessary to the
fulfilment of a promise to do so.
To those who were impatient and sought him out
in advance, he was ever obliging and proved ready to
meet them where and when and how 11: cj pleased. It
was all the same to him. To avoid annoying legal
complications, he was known to have more than once
deliberately given his opponent the first shot.
In the early eighties a band of horse rustlers were
playing great havoc among the saddle stock in nortli-
eastem New Mexico. It was chiefly through Mr. Alli-
son's industry and accurate marksmanship that their
numbers were reduced below a convenient working
majority. The leader vowed vengeance on Allison.
One day they met unexpectedly in the stage ranch at
the crossing of the Cimarron.
Mr. Allison invited the rustler to take a drink. The
invitation was accepted. It was remarked by the by-
[54]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
standers that while they were drinking neither seemed
to take any especial interest in the brazen pictures
that constituted a feature of the Cimarron bar and
were the pride of its proprietor. The next manoeuvre
in the game was a proposition by Mr. Allison that
they retire to the dining-room and have some oysters.
Unable to plead any other engagement to dine, the
rustler accepted. As they sat down at table, both
agreed that their pistols felt heavy about their waists,
and each drew his weapon from the scabbard and laid
it on his knees.
While the Cimarron ranch was noted for the best
cooking on the trail, other gentlemen at dinner seemed
oddly indifferent to its delicacies, nervously gulped
down a few mouthfuls and then slipped quietly out
of the room, leaving loaded plates.
Presently Mr. Allison dropped a fork on the floor
— perhaps by accident — and bent as if to pick it up.
An opening in his enemy's guard the rustler could
not resist: he grabbed the pistol lying in his lap and
raised it quickly, but in doing so he struck the muzzle
beneath the edge of the table, causing an instant's
delay. It was, however, enough ; Allison had pitched
sideways to the floor, and, firing beneath the table,
converted a bad rustler into a good one.
Dodge City used to be one of the hottest places on
the Texas trail. It was full of thugs and desperadoes
of the worst sort, come to prey upon the hundreds ct
[55]
THE RED-BLOODED
cowboys who were paid off there. This money had
to be kept in Dodge at any cost. Usually the boys
were easy game. What money the saloons failed to
get was generally gambled off against brace games
of faro or monte. And those who would neither drink
nor play were waylaid, knocked down, and robbed.
On one occasion when the Hunter and Evans " Jin-
glebob" outfits were in town, they objected to some
of these enforced levies as unreasonably heavy. A
pitched battle on the streets resulted. Many of the
boys were young and inexperienced, and they were
getting quite the worst of it, when Clay Allison hap-
pened along and took a hand.
The fight did not last much longer. When it was
over, it was discovered that several of Dodge's most
active citizens had been removed from their field of
usefulness. For the next day or two, "Boot Hill"
(the local graveyard) was a scene of unusual activity.
From all this it fell out that a few days later when
Clay Allison rode alone out of Dodge returning home,
he was ambushed a few miles from town by three men
and shot from his horse. Crippled too badly to re-
sist, he lay as if dead. Thinking their work well done,
the three men came out of hiding, kicked and cursed
him, shot two or three more holes in him, and rode
back to town. But Allison, who had not even lost
consciousness, had recognized them. A few hours
later the driver of a passing wagon found him and
[56]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
hauled him into town. After lingering many weeks
between life and death, Allison recovered. As soon
as they heard that he was convalescing, the three who
had attacked him wound up their affairs and fled the
town.
When able to travel Allison sold his ranch. Ques-
tioned by his friends as to his plans, he finally ad-
mitted that he felt it a duty to hunt down the men who
had ambushed him; remarked that he feared they
might bushwhack some one else if they were not re-
moved.
Number One of the three men he located in Chey-
enne, Wyoming. Cheyenne was then a law-abiding
community, and Allison could not afford to take any
chances of court complications that would interfere
with the completion of his work. He therefore spent
several days in covertly watching the habits of his
adversary. From the knowledge thus gained he was
able one morning suddenly to turn a street comer and
confront Number One. Without the least suspicion
that AlHson was in the country, the man, knowing
that his life hung by a thread, jerked his pistol and
fired on the instant. As Allison had shrewdly calcu-
lated, his enemy was so nervous that his shot flew wild.
Number One did not get a second shot. At the in-
quest several witnesses of the affray swore that Alli-
son did not even draw until after the other had fired.
Several weeks later Number Two was found in
[57]
THE RED-BLOODED
Tombstone, Arizona, a town of the good old frontier
sort that had little use for coroners and juries, so the
fighting was half fair. Half an hour after landing
from the stage-coach, Allison encountered his man in
a gambling-house. Number Two remained in Tomb-
stone — permanently — while Mr. Allison resumed
his travels by the evening coach.
The hunt for Number Three lasted several months.
Allison followed him relentlessly from place to place
through half a dozen States and Territories, until he
was located on a ranch near Spearfish, Dakota.
They met at last, one afternoon, within the shadow
of the Devil's Tower. In the duel that ensued, Alli-
son's horse was killed under him. This occasioned
him no particular inconvenience, however, for he
found that Number Three's horse, after having a few
hours' rest, was able to carry him into Deadwood,
where he caught the Sidney stage.
With this task finished, Mr. Allison was able to re-
turn to commercial pursuits. He settled at Pope's
Crossing on the Pecos River, in New Mexico, bought
cattle, and stocked the adjacent range. Pecos City,
the nearest town, lay fifty miles to the south.
Started as a "front camp" during the construc-
tion of the Texas Pacific Railway in 1880, for five
or six years Pecos contrived to rock along without
any of the elaborate municipal machinery deemed es-
sential to the government and safety of urban com-
[58]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
munities in the effete East. It had neither council,
mayor, nor peace officer. An early experiment in
government was discouraging.
In 1883 the Texas Pacific station-agent was elected
mayor. His name was Ewing, a little man with fierce
whiskers and mild blue eyes. Two nights after the
election a gang of boys from the " Hash Knife " out-
fit were in town ; fearing circumscription of some of
their privileges, the election did not have their ap-
proval. Gleaming out of the darkness fifty yards
away from the Lone Wolf Saloon, the light of Mayor
Ewing's office window offered a most tempting target.
What followed was very natural — in Pecos.
The Mayor was sitting at his table receiving train
orders, when suddenly a bullet smashed the telegraph
key beside his hand and other balls whistled through
the room bearing him a message he had no trouble in
reading. Rushing out into the darkness, he spent the
night in the brush, and toward morning boarded an
east-bound freight train. Mayor Ewing had ab-
dicated. The railway company soon obtained an-
other station-agent, but it was some years before the
town got another mayor.
On Pecos carnival nights like this, when some of the
cowboys were in town, prudent people used to sleeji
on the floor of Van Slyke's store with bags of grain
piled round their blankets two tiers deep, for no Pecos
house walls were more than inch boards.
[59]
THE RED-BLOODED
At this early period of its history the few wander-
ing advance agents of the Gospel who occasionally
visited Pecos were not well received. They were not
abused; they were simply ignored. When not other-
wise occupied, the average Pecosite had too much
whittling on hand to find time to " 'tend meetin' " ; of
this every pine dry goods box in the town bore mute
evidence, its fair sides covered with innumerable rude
carvings cut by aimless hands.
This prevailing indifference to religion shocked Mr.
Allison. As opportunity offered he tried to remedy it,
and as far as his evangelical work went it was success-
ful. One Tuesday morning about ten o'clock he
walked into the Lone Wolf Saloon, laid two pistols on
the end of the bar next the front door, and remarked
to Red Dick, the bartender, that he intended to turn
the saloon into a church for a couple of hours and did
not want any drinks sold or cards thrown during the
services.
Taking his stand just within the doorway, pistol
in hand, Mr. Allison began to assemble his congrega-
tion. The first comer was Billy Jansen, the leading
merchant of the town. As he was passing the door
Clay remarked:
*' Good-mornin', Mr. Jansen, won't you please step
inside? Religious services will be held here shortly
an' I reckon you '11 be useful in the choir. "
The only reply to Billy's protest of urgent business
[60]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
was a gesture that made Billy think going to church
would be the greatest pleasure he could have that
morning.
Mr. Allison never played favorites at any game,
and so all passers were stopped: merchants, railway
men, gamblers, thugs, cowboys, freighters — all were
stopped and made to enter the saloon. The least fur-
tive movement to draw a gun or to approach the back
door received prompt attention from the impromptu
evangelist that quickly restored order in the congre-
gation. When fifty or sixty men had been brought
into this improvised fold, Mr. Allison closed the door
and faced about.
"Fellers," he said, "this meetin' bein' held on the
Pecos, I reckon we'll open her by singin' ' Shall We
Gather at the River.? ' Of course we're already gath-
ered, but the song sort o' fits. No gammon now, fel-
lers ; everybody sings that knows her. "
The result was discouraging. Few in the audience
knew any hymn, much less this one. Only three or
four managed to hoarsely drawl through two verses.
The hymn finished — as far as anybody could sing
it — Mr. Allison said:
" Now, fellers, we'll pray. Everybody down ! "
Only a few knelt. Among the congregation were
some who regarded the affair as sacrilegious, and
others of the independent frontier type were unac-
customed to dictation. However, a slight narrowing
[61]
THE RED-BLOODED
of the cold black eyes and a significant sweep of the
six-shooter brought every man of them to his knees,
with heads bowed over faro lay-outs and on monte
tables.
"O Lord!" began Allison, "this yere's a mighty
bad neck o' woods, an' I reckon You know it. Fellers
don' think enough o' their souls to build a church, an'
when a pa'son comes here they don' treat him half
white. O Lord ! make these fellers see that when they
gits caught in the final round-up an' drove over the
last divide, they don' stan' no sort o' show to git to
stay on the heavenly ranch 'nless they believes an'
builds a house to pray an' preach in. Right here I
subscribes a hundred dollars to build a church, an' if
airy one o' these yere fellers don' ante up accordin'
to his means, Lord, make it Your pers'n'l business
to see that he wears the Devil's brand and ear mark
an' never gits another drop o' good spring water.
"Of course, I allow You knows I don' sport no
wings myself, but I want to do what 's right ef You '11
sort o' give me a shove the proper way. An' one thing
I want You to understand' ; Clay Allison 's got a fast
horse an' is tol'able handy with his rope, and he's
goin' to run these fellers into Your corral even if he
has to rope an' drag 'em there. Amen. Everybody
git up!"
While he prayed in the most reverent tone he could
command, and while his attitude was one of simple
[62]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
supplication, Mr. Allison never removed his keen eyes
from the congregation.
" Reckon we 'U sing again, boys, an' I want a little
more of it. Le's see what you-all knows. "
At length six or eight rather sheepishly owned to
knowing " Old Hundred, " and it was sung.
Then the sermon was in order.
" Fellers, " he began, " my ole mammy used to tell
me that the only show to shake the devil off your trail
was to believe everythin' the Bible says. What yer
mammy tells you 's bound to be right, dead right, so I
think I '11 take the sentiment o' this yere round-up on
believin'. O' course, as a square man I'm boun' to
admit the Bible tells some pow'ful queer tales, onlike
any thin' we-'uns strikes now days. Take that tale
about a fish swallerin' a feller named Jonah; why, a
fish 't could swaller a man 'od have to be as big in
the barrel as the Pecos River is wide an' have an
openin' in his face bigger'n Phantom Lake Cave. No-
body on the Pecos ever see such a fish. But I wish
you fellers to distinctly understan' it 's a fact. I be-
lieves it. Does you ? Every feller that believes a fish
swallered Jonah, hold up his right hand ! "
It is sad to have to admit that only two or three
hands were raised.
"Well, I'll be durned," the evangelist continued,
*' you air tough cases. That's what's the matter with
you ; you are shy on faith. You fellers has got to be
[63]
THE RED-BLOODED
saved, an' to be saved you got to believe, an' believe
hard, an' I 'm agoin' to make you. Now hear me^ an'
mind you don' forget it 's Clay Allison talkin' to you :
I tells you that when that thar fish had done swallerin'
Jonah, he swum aroun' fer a hull hour lookin' to see
if thar was a show to pick up any o' Jonah's family
or friends. Now what I tells you I reckon you 're all
bound to believe. Every feller that believes that
Jonah was jes' only a sort of a snack fer the fish, hold
up his right hand ; an' if any feller don' believe it, this
yere ol' gun o' mine will finish the argiment. "
Further exhortation was unnecessary; all hands
went up.
And so the sermon ran on for an hour, a crude
homily full of rude metaphor, with little of sentiment
or pleading, severely didactic, mandatory as if spoken
in a dungeon of the Inquisition. When Red Dick
passed the hat among the congregation for a subscrip-
tion to build a church, the contribution was general
and generous. Many who early in the meeting were
full of rage over the restraint, and vowing to them-
selves to kill Allison the first good chance they got,
finished by thinking he meant all right and had taken
about the only practicable means " to git the boys to
'tend meetin'. "
In the town of Toyah, twenty miles west of Pecos,
a gentleman named Jep Clayton set the local spring
styles in six-shooters and bowie knives, and settled tha
[64]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
hash of anybody who ventured to question them. A
reckless buUy, he ruled the town as if he owned it.
One day John McCullough, Allison's brother-in-
law and ranch foreman, had business in Toyah.
Clayton had heard of Allison but knew little about
him. Drunk and quarrelsome, he hunted up McCul-
lough, called him every abusive name he could think
of before a crowd, and then suggested that if he did
not like it he might send over his brother-in-law Alli-
son, who was said to be a gun fighter. A mild and
peaceable man himself, McCullough avoided a diffi-
culty and returned to Pecos.
Two days later a lone horseman rode into Toyah,
stopped at Youngblood's store, tied his horse, and
went in. Approaching the group of loafers curled
up on boxes at the rear of the store, he inquired :
" Can any of you gentlemen tell me if a gentleman
named Clayton, Jep Clayton, is in town, an' where I
can find him ? "
They replied that he had been in the store an hour
before and was probably near by.
As the lone horseman walked out of the door, one of
the loungers remarked:
"I believe that's Clay Allison, an' ef it is it's all
up with Jep. "
He slipped out and gave Jep warning, told him
Allison was in town, that he had known him years
before, and that Jep had better quit town or say his
[65]
THE RED-BLOODED
prayers. Concluding, he said, "You done barked
up the wrong tree this time, sure. "
Allison went on from one saloon to another, at each
making the same polite inquiry for Mr. Clayton's
whereabouts. At last, out on the street Allison met
a party of eight men, a crowd Clayton had gathered,
and repeated his inquiry. A man stepped out of the
group and said : " My name 's Clayton, an' I reckon
yours is Allison. Look here, Mr. Allison, this is all a
mistake. I "
"Why, what's a mistake.'' Didn't you meet Mr.
McCuUough the other day.?"
"Yes."
" Did n't you abuse him shamefully ? "
"Well, yes, but "
*' Did n't you send me an invite to come over here ? "
** Well, yes, I did, but it was a mistake, Mr. Allison ;
I was drunk. It was whiskey talkin'; nothin' more.
I'm terrible sorry. It was jes' whiskey talk. "
"Whiskey talk, was it? Well, Mr. Clayton, le's
^tep in the saloon here and get some whiskey an' see if
it won't set you goin' again. I believe I'd enjoy hear-
in' jes' a few words o' your whiskey talk. "
They entered a saloon. For an hour Clayton was
plied with whiskey, taunted and jeered until those who
had admired him slunk away in disgust, and those
who had feared him laughed in enjoyment of his hu-
[66]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
miliation. But no amoant of whiskey could rouse
him that day.
Allison's scarred, impassive face, low, quiet tones,
and glittering black eyes held him cowed. The ter-
ror of Toyah had found his master, and knew it.
At last, in utter disgust, Allison concluded:
"Mr. Clayton, your invitation brought me twenty
miles to meet a gun fighter. I find you such a cur
that if ever we meet again I '11 lash you into strips with
a bull whip. "
A month later Mr. Clayton was killed by his own
brother-in-law. Grant Tinnin, one of the quiet good
men of the country, who never failed to score in any
real emergency.
" I wonder how it will all end ! " Allison used often
to remark while lying idly staring into the camp-fire.
" Of course I know I can 't keep up this sort o' thing ;
some one's sure to get me. An I'd jes' give anything
in the world to know how I'm goin' to die — by pistol
or knife. "
It turned out that Fate had decreed other means
for his removal.
One day Allison and his brother-in-law John Mc-
Cullough had a serious quarrel. Allison left the
ranch and rode into town to think it over. In his later
years killing had become such a mania with him that
his best friend could never feel entirely safe against
[67]
THE EED-BLOODED
his deadly temper ; the least difference might provoke
a collision. McCullough was therefore not greatly
surprised to get a letter from Allison a few days later,
sent out by special messenger, telling him that Allison
would reach the ranch late in the afternoon of the
next day and would kill him on sight.
Early in the morning of the appointed day Allison
left town in a covered hack. He had been drink-
ing heavily and had whiskey with him. About half-
way between town and the ranch he overtook George
Larramore, a freighter, seated out in the sun on top
of his heavy load.
" Hello, George ! " called Allison ; " mighty hot up
there, ain't it.?"
" Howd'y, Mr. Allison. I don' mind the heat ; I 'm
used to it, " answered Larramore.
" George, " called Allison, after driving on a short
distance, *' 'pears to me the good things o' this world
ain't equally divided. I don't see why you should sit
up there roasting in the sun an' me down here in the
shade o' the hack. We '11 jes' even things a little right
here. You crawl down off that load an' jump into the
hack an' I '11 get up there an' drive your team."
"Pow'ful good o' you, Mr. Allison, but "
"Crawl down, I say, George, it's Clay tellin'
you!^'
And the change was made without further delay.
Five miles farther up the road John McCullough
168]
A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER
and two friends lay in ambush all that day and far
into the night, with ready Winchesters, awaiting Alli-
son. But he never came.
Shortly after taking his seat on top of the high
load in the broiling sun, plodding slowly along in the
dust and heat, Allison was nodding drowsily, when
suddenly a protruding raesquite root gave the wagon
a sharp jolt that plunged Clay headlong into the road,
where, before he could rise, the great wheels crunched
across his neck.
CHAPTER IV
TEIGGERFINGERITIS*
ON the Plains thirty years ago there were two
types of man-killers; and these two types
were subdivided into classes.
The first type numbered all who took life in con-
travention of law. This type was divided into three
classes: A, Outlaws to whom blood-letting had be-
come a mania; B, Outlaws who killed in defence of
their spoils or liberty; C, Otherwise good men who
had slain in the heat of private quarrel, and either
" gone on the scout " or " jumped the country " rather
than submit to arrest.
The second type included all who slew in support
of law and order. This type included six classes:
A, United States marshals; B, Sheriffs and their
deputies; C, Stage or railway express guards, called
" messengers " ; D, Private citizens organized as Vigi-
lance Committees — these often none too discrimi-
nating, and not infrequently the blind or willing
instruments of individual grudge or greed; E, Un-
organized bands of ranchmen who took the trail of
* Triggerfingeritis is an acute irritation of the sensory
nerves of the index finger of habitual gun-packers; usually
fatal — to some one.
[TO]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
marauders on life or property and never quit it;
F, "Inspectors" (detectives) for Stock Growers'
Associations.
Throughout the seventies and well into the eighties,
in Wyoming, Dakota, western Kansas and Nebraska,
New Mexico, and west Texas, courts were idle most
of the time, and lawyers lived from hand to mouth.
The then state of local society was so rudimentary
that it had not acquired the habit of appeal to the law
for settlement of its differences. And while it may
sound an anachronism, it is nevertheless the simple
truth that while life was far less secure through that
period, average personal honesty then ranked higher
and depredations against property were fewer than
at any time since.
As soon as society had advanced to a point where
the victim could be relied on to carry his wrongs to
court, judges began working overtime and lawyers
fattening. But of the actual pioneers who took their
lives in their hands and recklessly staked them in
their everyday goings and comings (as,. for instance,
did all who ventured into the Sioux country north of
the Platte between 1875 and 1880) few long stayed —
no matter what their occupation — who were slow on
the trigger: it was back to Mother Earth or home
for them.
Of the supporters of the law in that period Boone
May was one of the finest examples any frontier com-
THE RED-BLOODED
munity ever boasted. Early in 1876 he came to
Cheyenne with an elder brother and engaged in
freighting thence overland to the Black Hills. Quite
half the length of the stage road was then infested by
hostile Sioux. This meant heavy risks and high pay.
The brothers prospered so handsomely that, toward
the end of the year, Boone withdrew from freighting,
bought a few cattle and horses, and built and occupied
a ranch at the stage-road crossing of Lance Creek,
midway between the Platte and Deadwood, in the very
heart of the Sioux country. Boone was then well
under thirty, graceful of figure, dark-haired, wore a
slender downy moustache that served only to empha-
size his youth, but possessed that reserve and repose
of manner most t3^ical of the utterly fearless.
The Sioux made his acquaintance early, to their
grief. One night they descended on his ranch and
carried off all the stage horses and most of Boone's.
Although the "sign" showed there were fifteen or
twenty in the party, at daylight Boone took their
trail, alone. The third day thereafter he returned
to the ranch with all the stolen stock, besides a dozen
split-eared Indian ponies, as compensation for his
trouble, taken at what cost of strategy or blood
Boone never told.
Learning of this exploit from his drivers, Al. Pat-
rick, the superintendent of the stage line, took the
next coach to Lance Creek and brought Boone back
[72]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
to Deadwood, enlisted in his corps of " messengers " ;
he was too good timber to miss.
At that time every coach south-bound from Dead-
wood to Cheyenne carried thousands in its mail-
pouches and express-boxes ; and once a week a
treasure coach armored with boiler plate, carrying no
passengers, and guarded by six or eight "messen-
gers " or " sawed-off shotgun men, " conveyed often
as high as two hundred thousand dollars of hard-won
Black Hills gold bars.
Thus it naturally followed that, throughout 1877
and 1878, it was the exception for a coach to get
through from the Chugwater to Jenny's stockade
without being held up by bandits at least once.
Any that happened to escape Jack Wadkins in the
south were likely to fall prey to Dune Blackburn
in the north — the two most desperate bandit-leaders
in the country.
In February, 1878, I had occasion to follow some
cattle thieves from Fort Laramie to Deadwood. Re-
turning south by coach, one bitter evening we pulled
into Lance Creek, eight passengers inside, Boone May
and myself on the box with 'Gene Barnett the driver ;
Stocking, another famous messenger, roosted behind
us atop of the coach, fondling his sawed-off shotgun.
From Lance Creek southward lay the greatest
danger zone. At that point, therefore, Boone and
Stocking shifted from the coach to the saddle, and, as
[73]
THE RED-BLOODED
'Gene popped his whip and the coach crunched away
through the snow, both dropped back perhaps thirty
yards behind us.
An hour later, just as the coach got well within a
broad belt of plum bushes that lined the north bank
of Old Woman's Fork, out into the middle of the road
sprang a lithe figure that threw a snap shot over
'Gene's head and halted us.
Instantly six others surrounded the coach and
ordered us down. I already had a foot on the nigh
front wheel, to descend, when a shot out of the brush
to the west (Boone's, I later learned) dropped the
man ahead of the team.
Then followed a quick interchange of shots for per-
haps a minute, certainly no more, and then I heard
Boone's cool voice:
" Drive on, 'Gene ! "
** Move an' I '11 kill you ! " came in a hoarse bandit's
voice from the thicket east of us.
" Drive on, 'Gene, or I ^11 kill you, " came then from
Boone, in a tone of such chilling menance that 'Gene
threw the bud into the leaders, and away we flew at
a pace materially improved by three or four shots the
bandits sent singing past our ears and over the team !
The next down coach brought to Cheyenne the com-
forting news that Boone and Stocking had killed four
of the bandits and stampeded the other three.
Within six months after Boone was employed, both
[74]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
Dune Blackburn and Jack Wadkins disappeared
from the stage road, dropped out of sight as if the
earth had opened and swallowed them, as it probably
had. Boone had a way of absenting himself for days
from his routine duties along the stage road. He
slipped off entirely alone after this new quarry pre-
cisely as he had followed the Sioux horse-raiders and,
while he never admitted it, the belief was general that
he had run down and " planted " both. Indeed it is
almost a certainty this is true, for beasts of their type
never change their stripes, and sure it is that neither
were ever seen or heard of after their disappearance
from the Deadwood trail.
Late in the Autumn of the same year, 1878, and
also at or near the stage-crossing of Old Woman's
Fork, Boone and one companion fought eight bandits
led by a man named Tolle, on whose head was a large
reward. This was earned by Boone at a hold-up of
a U. P. express train near Green River.
This band was, in a way, more lucky, for five of the
eight escaped; but of the three otherwise engaged
one furnished a head which Boone toted in a gunny
sack to Cheyenne and exchanged for five thousand
dollars, if my memory rightly serves.
This incident was practically the last of the serious
hold-ups on the Cheyenne road. A few pikers fol-
lowed and " stood up " a coach occasionally, but the
strong organized bands were extinct.
[75]
THE RED-BLOODED
Throughout 1879 Boone's activities were trans-
ferred to the Sidney-Deadwood road, where for sev-
eral months before Boone's coming, Curly and Lame
Johnny had held sway. Lame Johnny was shortly
thereafter captured, and hanged on the lone tree that
gave the Big Cottonwood Creek its name. A few
months later, Curly was captured by Boone and an-
other, but was never jailed or tried: when nearing
Deadwood, he tried to escape from Boone, and failed.
With the Sioux pushed back within the lines of
their new reservation in southern Dakota and semi-
pacified, and with the Sidney road swept clean of
road-agents, life in Boone's old haunts became for
him too tame. Thus it happened that, while trap-
ping was then no better within than without the Sioux
reservation, the Winter of 1879-80 found Boone and
four mates camped on the Cheyenne River below the
mouth of Elk Creek, well within the reserve, trapping
the main stream and its tributaries. For a month
they were undisturbed, and a goodly store of fur was
fast accumulating. Then one fine morning, while
breakfast was cooking, out from the cover of an ad-
jacent hill and down upon them charged a Sioux war
party, one hundred and fifty strong.
Boone's four mates barely had time to take cover
below the hard-by river bank — under Boone's orders
— before fire opened. Down straight upon them the
Sioux charged in solid mass, heels kicking and quirts
[76]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
pounding their split-eared ponies, until, having come
within a hundred yards, the mass broke into single file
and raced past the camp, each warrior lying along
the off side of his pony and firing beneath its neck —
the usual but utterly stupid and suicidal Sioux tac-
tics, for accurate fire under such conditions is of
course impossible.
Meantime Boone stood quietly by the camp-fire,
entirely in the open, coolly potting the enemy as regu-
larly and surely as a master wing-shot thinning a
flight of ducks. Three times they so charged and
Boone so received them, pouring into them a steady,
deadly fire out of his Winchester and two pistols.
And when, after the third charge, the war party drew
off for good, forty-odd ponies and twenty-odd war-
riors lay upon the plain, stark evidence of Boone's
wonderful nerve and marksmanship. Shortly after
the fight one of his mates told me that while he and
the three others were doing their best, there was no
doubt that nearly all the dead fell before Boone's fire.
A type diametrically opposite to that of the debo-
nair Boone May was Captain Jim Smith, one of the
best peace-officers the frontier ever knew. Of Cap-
tain Smith's early history nothing was known, except
that he had served with great credit as a captain of
artillery in the Union Army. He first appeared on
the U. P. during construction days in the late sixties.
[77]
THE RED-BLOODED
Serving in various capacities as railroad detective,
marshal, stock inspector, and the like, for eighteen
years Captain Smith wrote more red history with his
pistol (barring May's work on the Sioux) than any
two men of his time.
The last I knew of him he had enough dead outlaws
to his credit — thirty-odd — to start, if not a respec-
table, at least, a fair-sized graveyard. Captain Jim's
mere look was almost enough to still the heart-beat
and paralyze the pistol hand of any but the wildest
of them all. His great burning black eyes, glowering
deadly menace from cavernous sockets of extraordi-
nary depth, were set in a colossal grim face; his
straight, thin-lipped mouth never showed teeth; his
heavy, tight-curling black moustache and stiff black
imperial always had the appearance of holding the
under lip closely glued to the upper. In years of inti-
macy, I never once saw on his lips the faintest hint of
a smile. He had tremendous breadth of shoulders
and depth of chest; he was big-boned, lean-loined,
quick and furtive of movement as a panther. In
short. Captain Jim was altogether the most fearsome-
looking man I ever saw, the very incarnation of a re-
lentless, inexorable, indomitable, avenging Nemesis.
Like most men lacking humor. Captain Jim was
devoid of vices ; like all men lacking sentiment, he cul-
tivated no intimacies. Throughout those years he
loved nothing, animate or inanimate, but his guns —
[78]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
the full length " 45 " that nestled in its breast scab-
bard next his heart, and the short " 45, " sawed off
two inches in front of the cylinder, that he always
carried in a deep side-pocket of his long sack coat.
This was often a much patched pocket, for Jim was
a notable economist of time, and usually fired from
within the pocket. That he loved those guns I know,
for often have I seen him fondle them as tenderly as
a mother her first-born.
In 1879 Sidney, Neb., was a hell-hole, filled with
the most desperate toughs come to prey upon over-
land travellers to and from the Black Hills. Of these
toughs McCarthy, proprietor of the biggest saloon
and gambling-house in town, was the leading spirit
and boss. Nightly, men who would not gamble were
drugged or slugged or leaded. Town marshals came
and went — either feet first or on a keen run.
So long as its property remained unmolested the
U. P. management did not mind. But one night the
depot was robbed of sixty thousand dollars in gold
bullion. Of course, this was the work of the local
gang. Then the U. P. got busy. Pete Shelby sum-
moned Captain Jim to Omaha and committed the Sid-
ney situation to his charge. Frequenting haunts
where he knew the news would be wired to Sidney, Jim
casually mentioned that he was going out there to
clean out the town, and purposed killing McCarthy
on sight. This he rightly judged would stampede,
[79]
THE RED-BLOODED
or throw a chill into, many of the pikers — and
simplify his task.
Arrived in Sidney, Jim found McCarthy absent,
at North Platte, due to return the next day. Coming
to the station the next morning, Jim found the express
reported three hours late, and returned to his room
in the Railway House, fifty yards north of the depot.
He doffed his coat, shoulder scabbard, and boots, and
lay down, shortly falling into a doze that nearly cost
him his life. Most inconsiderately the train made up
nearly an hour of its lost time. Jim's awakening
was sudden, but not soon enough. Before he had
time to rise at the sound of the softly opening door,
McCarthy was over him with a pistol at his head.
Jim's left hand nearly touched the gun pocket of
his coat, and his right lay in reach of the other gun ;
but his slightest movement meant instant death.
" Heerd you come to hang my hide up an' skin the
town, but you're under a copper and my open play
wins. Black Jim ! See ? " growled McCarthy.
"Well, Mac," coolly answered Jim, "you're a
bigger damn fool than I allowed. Never heard of
you before makin' a killin' there was nothin' in.
What's the matter with you and your gang.? I'm
after that bullion, and I 've got a straight tip : Lame
Johnny's the bird that hooked onto it. If you're
standing in with him, you better lead me a plenty,
for if you don't I 'II sure get him. "
[80]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
" Honest ? Is that right, Jim ? Ain't lyin' none ? "
queried McCarthy, relieved of the belief thp.t his gang
were suspected.
" Sure, she's right, Mac. "
" But I heerd j^ou done said you was comin' to do
me," persisted McCarthy.
"Think I'm fool enough to light in diggin' my
own grave, by sendin' love messages like that to a
gun expert like you, Mac.'"' asked Captain Jim.
Whether it was the subtle flattery or Jim's argu-
ment, Mac lowered his gun, and while backing out of
the room, remarked : " Nothin' in mixin' it with you,
Jim, if you don't want me. "
But Mac was no more than out of the room when
Jim slid off the bed quick as a cat ; softly as a cat, on
his noiseless stockinged feet he followed Mac down
the hall ; crafty as a cat, he crept down the creaking
stairs, tread for tread, a scant arm's length behind
his prey — why, God alone knows, unless for a savage
joy in longer holding another thug's life in his hands.
So he hung, like a leech to the blood it loves, across
the corridor and to the middle of the trunk room that
lay between the hall and the hotel office. There Jim
spoke :
"Oh! Mr. McCarthy!"
Mac whirled, drawing his gun, just in time to re-
ceive a bullet squarely through the heart.
During the day Jim got two more scalps. The
[81]
THE RED-BLOODED
rest of the McCarthy gang got the impression that it
was up to them to pull their freight out of Sidney,
and acted on it.
In 1882 the smoke of the Lincoln County War still
hung in the timber of the Ruidoso and the Bonito, a
feud in which nearly three hundred New Mexicans
lost their lives. Depredations on the Mescalero Res-
ervation were so frequent that the Indians were near
open revolt.
Needing a red-blooded agent, the Indian Bureau
sought and got one in Major W. H. H. Llewellyn,
since Captain of Rough Riders, Troop H then a
United States marshal with a distinguished record.
The then Chief of the Bureau offered the Major two
troops of cavalry to preserve order among the Mes-
caleros and keep marauders off the reservation, and
was astounded when Llewellyn declined and said he
would prefer to handle the situation with no other aid
than that of one man he had in mind.
Captain Jim Smith was the man. And pleased
enough was he when told of the turbulence of the
country and the certainty of plenty doing in his line.
But by the time they reached the Mescalero
Agency, the feud was ended ; the peace of exhaustion
after years of open war and ambush had descended
upon Lincoln County, and the Mescaleros were glad
[8«]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
enough quietly to draw their rations of flour and cof-
fee, and range the Sacramentos and Guadalupes for
game. For Jim and the band of Indian police which
he quickly organized there was nothing doing.
Inaction soon cloyed Captain Jim. It got on his
nerves. Presently he conceived a resentment toward
the agent for bringing him down there under false
pretences of daring deeds to be done, that never mate-
rialized. One day Major Llewellyn imprudently
countermanded an order Jim had given his Chief of
Police, under conditions which the Captain took as
a personal affront. The next thing the Major knew,
he was covered by Jim's gun and listening to his death
sentence.
'^ Major, " began Captain Jim, " right here is where
you cash in. Played me for a big fool long enough.
Toted me off down here on the guarantee of the best
show of fightin' I've heard of since the war — here
where there ain't a man in the Territory with nerve
enough left to tackle a prairie dog, 's far 's I can see.
Lied to me a plenty, didn't you.^* Anything to say
before you quit.?"
Since that time Major Llewellyn has become (and
is now) a famous pleader at the New Mexican bar,
but I know he will agree that the most eloquent plea
he has to this day made was that in answer to
Captain Jim's arraignment. Luckily it won.
[83]
THE RED-BLOODED
A month later Jim called on me at El Paso. At
the time I was President of the West Texas Cattle
Growers' Association, organized chiefly to deal with
marauding rustlers.
" Howdy, Ed, " Jim began, " I 've jumped the Mes-
calero Reservation, headed north. Nothin' doin'
down here now. But, say, Ed, I hear they're
crowdin' the rustlers a plenty up in the Indian Ter-
ritory and the Pan Handle, and she's a cinch they '11
be down on you thick in a few months. And, say,
Ed, don't forget old Jim; when the rustlers come,
send for him. You know he 's the cheapest proposi-
tion ever — never any lawyers' fees or court costs,
nothin' to pay but just Jim's wages. "
That was the last time we ever met, and lucky it
will probably be for me if we never meet again; for
if Jim still lives and there is aught in this story he
sees occasion to take exception to, I am sure to be due
for a mix-up I can very well get on without.
From 1878 to 1880 Billy Lykins was one of the
most efficient inspectors of the Wyoming Stock Grow^
ers' Association, a short man of heavy muscular
physique and a round, cherubic, pink and white face,
in which a pair of steel-blue glittering eyes looked
strangely out of place. A second glance, however,
showed behind the smiling mouth a set of the jaw that
did not belie the fighting eyes. So far as I can now
[841
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
recall, Billy never failed to get what he went after
while he remained in our employ.
Probably the toughest customer Billy ever tackled
was Doc Middleton. As an outlaw, Doc was the
victim of an error of judgment. When he first came
among us, hailing from Llano County, Texas, Doc
was as fine a puncher and jolly, good-tempered range-
mate as any in the Territory. Sober and industri-
ous, he never drank or gambled. But he had his bit
of temper, had Doc, and his chunk of good old Llano
nerve. Thus, when a group of carousing soldiers,
in a Sidney saloon, one night lit in to beat Doc up with
their six-shooters for refusing to drink with them, the
inevitable happened in a very few seconds ; Doc killed
three of them, jumped his horse, and split the wind
for the Platte.
And therein lay his error.
The killing was perfectly justifiable; surrendered
and tried, he would surely have been acquitted. But
his breed never surrender, at least, never before their
last shell is emptied. Flight having made him an
outlaw, the Government offered a heavy reward for
him, dead or alive. For a time he was harbored
among his friends on the different ranches; indeed
was a welcome guest of my Deadman Ranch for sev-
eral days ; but in a few weeks the hue and cry got so
hot that he had to jump for the Sand Hills south of
the Niobrara.
[85]
THE RED-BLOODED
Ever pursued, he found that honest wage-earning
was impossible. Presently he was confronted with
want, not of much, indeed of very little, but that
want was vital — he wanted cartridges. At this time
the Sand Hills were full of deer and antelope; and
therefore to him cartridges meant more even than de-
fence of his freedom, they meant food. It was this
want that drove him into his first actual crime, the
stealing of Sioux ponies, which he ran into the set-
tlements and sold.
The downward path of the criminal is like that of
the limpid, clean-faced brook, bred of a bubbling
spring nestled in some shady nook of the hills, where
the air is sweet and pure, and pollution cometh not.
But there it may not stay; on and yet on it rushes,
as helpless as heedless, till one day it finds itself
plunged into some foul current carrying the off-
scourings of half a continent. So on and down
plunged Doc; from stealing Indian ponies to lifting
ranch horses was no long leap in his new code.
Then our Stock Association got busy and Billy
Lykins took his trail. Oddly, in a few months the
same type of accident in turn saved the life of each.
Their first encounter was single-handed. With the
better horse, Lykins was pressing Doc so close that
Doc raced to the crest of a low conical hill, jumped
off his mount, dropped flat on the ground and cov-
[86]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
ered Ljkins with a Springfield rifle, meantime yell-
ing to him :
"Duck, you Httle Dutch fool; I don't want to
kill you"; for they knew each other well, and in a
way were friends.
But Billy never knew when to stop. Deeper into
his pony's flank sank the rowels, and up the hill on
Doc he charged, pistol in hand. At thirty yards Doc
pulled the trigger, when — wonder of wonders — the
faithful old Springfield missed fire. Before Doc
could throw in another shell or draw his pistol, Billy
was over him and had him covered.
If my memory rightly serves, the Sidney jail held
Doc almost a fortnight. A few weeks later Doc had
assembled a strong gang about him, rendezvoused on
the Piney, a tributary of the lower Niobrara. There
he was far east of Lykins's bailiwick, but a good many
degrees within Lykins's disposition to quit his trail.
Accompanied by Major W. H. H. Llewellyn and an
Omaha detective (inappropriately named Hassard),
Lykins located Doc's camp, and the three lay near
for several days studying their quarry.
One morning Llewellyn and Hassard started up
the creek, mounted, on a scout, leaving Lykins and
his horse hidden in the brush near the trail. At a
sharp bend of the path the two ran plunk into Doc
and five of his men. Both being unknown to Doc's
[87]
THE RED-BLOODED
gang, and the position and odds forbidding hostili-
ties, they represented themselves as campers hunting
lost stock, and turned and rode back down the trail
with the outlaws, alert for any play their leader might
make.
Recognizing his man, Billy lay with his " 45 " and
"70" Sharps comfortably resting across a log; and
when the band were come within twenty yards of him,
he drew a careful bead on Doc's head and pulled the
trigger. By strange coincidence his Sharps missed
fire, precisely as had Doc's Springfield a few weeks
before.
Hearing the snap of the rifle hammer, with a curse
Doc jerked his gun and whirled his horse toward the
brush, just as Billy sprang out into the open and
threw a pistol shot into Doc that broke his thigh.
Swaying in the saddle. Doc cursed Hassard for lead-
ing him into a trap, and shot him twice before himself
pitching to the ground. Hassard stood idly, stunned
apparently by a sort of white-hot work he was not
used to, and received his death wound without any
effort even to draw. Meantime, the firm of Lykins
and Llewellyn accounted for two more before Doc's
mates got out of range. Thus, like the brook. Doc
had drifted down the turbid current of crime till he
found himself impounded in the Lincoln penitentiary
with the offscourings of the State.
While it is true that back into such impounding
[88]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
most who once haye been there soon return, Doc
turned out to be one of the rare exceptions proving
the rule ; for the last I heard of him, he was the lame
but light-hearted and wholly honest proprietor of a
respectable Rushville saloon.
When in the early eighties the front camps of the
Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe and the Texas Pa-
cific met at El Paso, then a village called Franklin,
within a few weeks the population jumped from a
few hundred to nearly three thousand. Speculators,
prospectors for business opportunities, mechanics,
miners, and tourists poured in — a chance-taking,
high-living, free-spending lot that offered such rich
pickings for the predatory that it was not long before
nearly every fat pigeon had a hungry, merciless vul-
ture hovering near, watching for a chance to fasten
its claws and gorge itself.
The low one-story adobes, fronted by broad, arched
portals, that then lined the west side of El Paso Street
for several blocks, was a long solid row of variety
theatres, dance halls, saloons, and gambling-houses,
never closed by day or by night. They were packed
with a roistering mob that drifted from one joint to
another, dancing, gambling, carousing, fighting.
Naturally, at first the predatory confined their atten-
tions to the roisterers.
Of course every lay-out was a brace ;S;ame, from
[89]
THE RED-BLOODED
which no player arose with any notable winning ex-
cept occasionally when the " house " felt it a good bit
of advertising to graduate a handsome winner — and
then it was usually a " capper, " whose gains were in
a few minutes passed back into the till.
The faro boxes were full of springs as a watch;
faro decks were carefully cut " strippers. " An
average good dealer would shuffle and arrange as he
liked the favorite cards of known high-rollers.
These had been neatly split on either edge and a mi-
nute bit of bristle pasted in, which no ordinary touch
would feel, but which the sand-papered finger tips of
an expert dealer would catch and slip through on the
shuffle and place where they would do (the house) the
most good. The '^ tin horns " gave out few but false
notes ; the roulette balls were kicked silly out of the
boxes representing heavily played numbers. Not
content with the " kitty's " rake-off, every stud poker
table had one or more " cappers " sitting in, to whom
the dealers could occasionally throw a stiff pot. The
backs of poker decks were so cunningly marked that
while the wise ones could read their size and suit
across the table, no untaught eye could detect their
guile.' And wherever a notable roll was once flashed,
greedy eyes never left it until it was safe in the till of
some game, or its owner " rolled " and relieved of it
by force.
For months orgy ran riot and the predatory band
[90]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
grew bolder and cruder in their methods. Killings
were frequent. Few nights passed without more or
less street hold-ups — usually more. Respectable cit-
izens took the middle of the street, literally gun in
hand, when forced to be out of nights. The Mayor
and City Council were powerless. City marshals and
deputies they hired in bunches, but all to no purpose.
Each fresh lot of appointees were short-lived, liter-
ally or officially — mostly literally. Finally, a vigi-
lance committee was formed, made up of good citizens
not a few of whom were gun experts with their own
bit of red record. But nothing came of it. The
predatories openly flouted and defied them.
On one notable night when the committee were as-
sembled in front of the old Grand Central Hotel, a
mob of two hundred toughs lined up before the thirty-
odd of the committee and dared them to open the
ball; and it was a miracle the little Plaza was not
then and there turned into a slaughter pen bloody as
the Alamo. It really looked as if nothing short of
martial law and a strong body of troops could pacify
the town.
But one night, into the chamber of the City Council
stalked a man, the man of the hour, unheralded
and unknown. He gave the name of Bill Stouden-
mayer. About all that was ever learned of him was
that he hailed from Fort Davis. His type was that
of a coarse, brutal, Germanic gladiator, devoid of
[91]
THE RED-BLOODED
strategy ; a bluff, stubborn, give-and-take fighter, who
drove bull-headed at whatever opposed him. But El
Paso soon learned that he could handle his guns with
as deadly dexterity as did his forebears their nets
and tridents.
Asked his business with the Council, he said he
had heard they had failed to find a marshal who could
hold the town down, and allowed he'd like to try the
job if the Council would make it worth his while.
Questioned as to his views, he explained that he was
there to make some good money for himself and save
the city more ; if they would pay him five hundred dol-
lars a month for two months, they could discharge
all their deputies and he would go it alone and agree
to clear the town of toughs or draw no pay. The
Mayor and Council were paralyzed in a double sense :
by the wild audacity of this proposal, and by their
memory of recent threats of the thug-leaders that they
would massacre the Council to a man if any further
attempts were made to circumscribe their activities.
Some were openly for declining the offer, but in the
end a majority gained heart of Stoudenmayer's own
hardihood sufficiently to hire him.
The rest of the night Stoudenmayer employed in
quietly familiarizing himself with the personnel of
the enemy. He lost no time. At daylight the next
morning, several notices, manually written in a rude
band and each bearing the signature of the rude hand
[92]
TRiGGEKFlNGERITIS
that wrote it, were found conspicuously posted be-
tween Oregon Street and the Plaza. The signature
was, "Bill Stoudenmayer, City Marshal."
The notice was brief but pointed :
" Any of the hold-ups named below I find in town
after three o'clock to-day, I 'm goin' to kill on sight. "
Then followed seventy names. The list was care-
fully chosen : all " pikers " and " four-flushers " were
omitted ; none but the elite of the gun-twirling, black-
jack swinging toughs was included. Hardly a sin-
gle man was named in the list lacking a more or less
gory record.
By the toughs Stoudenmayer was taken as a jest,
by respectable citizens as a lunatic. Heavy odds
were offered that he would not last till noon, with
few takers. And yet throughout the morning
Stoudenmayer quietly walked the streets, unaccom-
panied save by his two guns and his conspicuously
displayed marshal's star.
Nothing happened until about two o'clock, when
two men sprang out from ambush behind the big Cot-
tonwood tree that then stood on the northeast corner
of El Paso and San Antonio Streets, one armed with
a shotgun and the other with a pistol, and started to
" throw down " on Stoudenmayer, who was approach-
ing from the other side of the street. But before
either got his artillery into action, the Marshal jerked
his two pistols and killed both, then quietly continued
[93]
THE RED-BLOODED
his stroll, over their prostrate bodies, and past
them, up the street. It was such an obviously work-
manlike job that it threw a chill into the hardiest of
the sixty-eight survivors, — so much of a chill that,
though Stoudenmayer paraded streets and threaded
saloon and dance-hall throngs all the rest of the after-
noon, seeking his prey, not a single man of them could
he find ; all stayed close in their dens.
But that the thug-leaders were not idle Stouden-
mayer was not long learning. In the last moments
of twilight, just before the pall of night fell upon
the town, the Marshal was standing on the east side
of El Paso Street, midway between Oregon and San
Antonio Streets, no cover within reach of him. Sud-
denly, without the slightest warning, a heavy fusillade
opened on him from the opposite side of the street,
a fusillade so heavy it would have decimated a com-
pany of infantry. At least a hundred men fired at
him at the word, and it was a miracle he did not go
down at the first volley. But he was not even scathed.
Drawing his pistols, Stoudenmayer marched upon the
enemy, slowly but steadily, advancing straight, it
seemed, into the jaws of death, but firing with such
wonderful rapidity and accuracy that seven of his
foes were killed and two wounded in almost as many
seconds, although all kept close as possible behind the
shelter of the portal columns. And every second he
was so engaged, at least a hundred guns, aimed by
[94]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
cruel trained eyes, that scarce ever before had missed
whatever they sought to draw a bead on, were pouring
out upon him a hell of lead that must have sounded
to him like a flight of bees.
But stand his iron nerve and fatal snap-shooting
the thugs could not. Before he was half way across
the street, the hostile fire had ceased, and his would-be
assassins were flying for the nearest and best cover
they could find. Out of the town they slipped that
night, singly and in squads, boarding freight trains
north and east, stages west and south, stealing
teams and saddle stock, some even hitting the trails
afoot, in stark terror of the man. The next morning
El Paso found herself evacuated of more than two
hundred men who, while they had been for a time her
most conspicuous citizens, were such as she was glad
1^ enough to spare. In twenty-four hours Bill Stouden-
mayer had made his word good and fairly earned his
wages; indeed he had accomplished single-handed
what the most hopeful El Pasoites had despaired of
seeing done with less authority and force than two or
three troops of regular cavalry.
Then El Paso settled down to the humdrum but
profitable task of laying the foundations for the great
metropolis of the Farther Southwest. Since then,
an occasional sporadic case of triggerfingeritis has
developed in El Paso, usually in an acute form; but
never once since the night Stoudenmayer turned the
[95]
THE RED-BLOODED
El Paso Street portals into a shambles has it threat-
ened as an epidemic.
Unluckily, Bill Stoudenmayer did not last long to
enjoy the glory of his deed. He was a marked man,
not merely from motives of revenge harbored by
friends of the departed (dead or live), but as a man
with a reputation so big as to hang up a rare prize in
laurels for. any with the strategy and hardihood to
down him. It was therefore matter of no general
surprise when, a few weeks after his resignation
as City Marshal, he fell the victim of a private
quarrel.
A few years later, Hal Gosling was the U. S. Mar-
shal for the Western District of Texas. Early in
Gosling's regime, Johnny Manning became one of his
most efficient and trusted deputies. The pair were
wide opposites: Gosling, a big, bluff, kindly, rollick-
ing dare-devil afraid of nothing, but a sort that would
rather chaff than fight; Manning a quiet, reserved,
slender, handsome little man, not so very much bigger
than a full-grown " 46," who actually sought no quar-
rels but would rather fight than eat. Each in his
own way, the pair made themselves a holy terror to
such of the desperadoes as ventured any liberties
with Uncle Sam's belongings.
One of their notable captures was a brace of road-
agents who had appropriated the Concho stage road
[96]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
and about everything of value that travelled it. The
two were tried in the Federal Court at Austin and
sentenced to hard labor at Huntsville. Gosling and
Manning started to escort them to their new field of
activity. Handcuffed but not otherwise shackled,
the two prisoners were given a seat together near the
middle of a day coach. By permission of the Mar-
shal, the wife of one and the sister of the other sat
immediately behind them — dear old Hal Gosling
never could resist any appeal to his sympathies.
The seat directly across the aisle from the two pris-
oners was occupied by Gosling and Manning. With
the car well filled with passengers and their men
ironed, the Marshal and his Deputy were off their
guard. When out of Austin barely an hourj the
train at full speed, the two women slipped pistols into
the hands of the two convicted bandits, unseen by the
officers. But others saw the act, and a stir of alarm
among those near by caused Gosling to whirl in his
seat next the aisle, reaching for the pistol in his breast
scabbard. But he was too late. Before he was half
risen to his feet or his gun out, the prisoners fired
and killed him.
Then ensued a terrible duel, begun at little more
than arm's length, between Manning and the two pris-
oners, who presently began backing toward the rear
door. Quickly the car filled with smoke, and in it
pandemonium reigned, women screaming, men curs-
[97]
THE RED-BLOODED
ing, all who had not dropped in a faint ducking be-
neath the car seats and trying their best to burrow
in the floor. When at length the two prisoners
reached the platform and sprang from the moving
train, Johnny Manning, shot full of holes as a sieve,
lay unconscious across Hal Gosling's body; and the
sister of one of the bandits hung limp across the back
of the seat the prisoners had occupied, dead of a
wild shot.
But Johnny had well avenged Hal's death and his
own injuries; one of the prisoners was found dead
within a few yards of the track, and the other was
captured, mortally wounded, a half-mile away.
After many uncertain weeks, when Manning's sys-
tem had successfully recovered from the overdose of
lead administered by the departed, he quietly resumed
his star and belt, and no one ever discovered that the
incident had made him in the least gun-shy.
Whenever the history of the Territory of New
Mexico comes to be written, the name of Colonel Al-
bert J. Fountain deserves and should have first place
in it. Throughout the formative epoch of her evo-
lution from semi-savagery to civilization, an epoch
spanning the years from 1866 to 1896, Colonel Foun-
tain ^as far and away her most distinguished and
most useful citizen. As soldier, scholar, dramatist,
lawyer, prosecutor, Indian fighter, and desperado-
[98]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
hunter, his was the most picturesque personality I
have ever known. Gentle and kind-hearted as a wo-
man, a lover of his books and his ease, he neverthe-
less was always as quick to take up arms and undergo
any hazard and hardship in pursuit of murderous
rustlers as he was in 1861 to join the California Col-
umn (First California Volunteers) on its march
across the burning deserts of Arizona to meet and
defeat Sibley at Val Verde. A face fuller of the hu-
manities and charities of life than his would be hard
to find; but, roused, the laughing eyes shone cold as
a wintry sky. He despised wrong, and hated the
criminal, and spent his whole life trying to right the
one and suppress or exterminate the other. In this
work, and of it, ultimately, he lost his life.
In the early eighties, while the New Mexican courts
were well-nigh idle, crime was rampant, especially in
Lincoln, Dona Ana, and Grant Counties. To the
east of the Rio Grande the Lincoln County War was
at its height, while to the west the Jack Kinney gang
took whatever they wanted at the muzzle of their guns ;
and they wanted about everything in sight. County
peace officers were powerless.
At this stage Fountain was appointed by the Gov-
ernor " Colonel of State Militia," and given a free
hand to pacify the country. As an organized mili-
tary body, the militia existed only iij name. And so
Fountain left it. Serious and effective as was Ins
[99]
THE RED-^BLOODED
work, no man loved a grand-stand play more than he.
He liked to go it alone, to be the only thing in the
spot light. Thus most of his work as a desperado-
hunter was done single-handed.
On only one occasion that I can recall did he ever
have with him on his raids more than one or two men,
always Mexicans, temporarily deputized. That was
when he met and cleaned out the Kinney gang over
on the Miembres, and did it with half the number of
the men he was after. Among those who escaped was
Kinney's lieutenant. A few weeks later Colonel
Fountain learned that this man was in hiding at Con-
cordia, a placita two miles below El Paso. He was
one of the most desperate Mexican outlaws the border
has ever known, a man who had boasted he would
never be taken alive, and that he would kill Fountain
before he was himself taken dead, a human tiger,
whom the bravest peace officer might be pardoned for
wanting a great deal of help to take. Yet Fountain
merely took his armory's best and undertook it alone :
and by mid-afternoon of the very next day after the
information reached him he had his man safely man-
acled at the El Paso depot of the Santa Fe Railway.
While waiting for the train, Colonel George Bay-
lor, the famous Captain of Texas Rangers, chided
Fountain for not wearing a cord to fasten his pistol
to his belt, as then did all the Rangers, to prevent its
loss from the scabbard in a running fight ; and he fin-
[100]
TRIGGERFINGERltlS ' ^ '
ished by detaching his own cord, and looping one end
to Fountain's belt and the other to his pistol. Then
Fountain bade his old friend good-bye and boarded
the train with his prisoner, taking a seat near the
centre of the rear car.
When well north of Canutillo and near the site
of old Fort Fillmore, Fountain rose and passed for-
ward to speak to a friend who was sitting a few seats
in front of him, a safe enough proceeding, appar-
ently, with his prisoner handcuffed and the train do-
ing thirty-five miles an hour. But scarcely had he
reached his friend's side, when a noise behind him
caused him to turn — just in time to see his Mexican
running for the rear door. Instantly Fountain
sprang after him, but before he got to the door the
man had leaped from the platform. Without the
slightest hesitation. Fountain jumped after him, hit-
ting the ground only a few seconds behind him but
thirty or forty yards away, rolling like a tumble-
weed along the ground. By the time Fountain had
regained his feet, his prisoner was running at top
speed for the mesquite thickets lining the river, in
whose shadows he must soon disappear, for it was
already dusk. Reaching for his pistol and finding it
gone — lost evidently in the tumble — and fearing to
lose his prisoner entirely if he stopped to hunt for it,
Fountain hit the best pace he could in pursuit. But
almost at the first jump something gave him a thump
1 101 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
on the shin that nearly broke it, and, looking down,
there, dangling on Colonel Baylor's pistol-cord, he
saw his gun.
Always a cunning strategist. Fountain dropped to
the ground, sky-lined his man on the crest of a little
hillock he had to cross, and took a careful two-handed
aim, which enabled Rio Grande ranchers thereafter
to sleep easier of nights.
And now, just as I am finishing this story, the
wires bring the sad news that dear old Pat Garrett,
the dean and almost the last survivor of the famous
man-hunters of west Texas and New Mexico, has
gone the way of his kind — " died with his boots on."
I cannot help believing that he was the victim of a
foul shot, for in his personal relations I never knew
him to court a quarrel or fail to get an adversary.
Many a night we have camped, eaten, and slept to-
gether. Barring Colonel Fountain, Pat Garrett had
stronger intellectuality and broader sympathies than
any of his kind I ever met. He could no more do
enough for a friend than he could do enough to an
outlaw. In his private affairs so easy-going that he
began and ended a ne'er-do-well, in his official duties
as a peace officer he was so exacting and painstaking
that he ne'er did ill. His many intrepid deeds are
too well known to need recounting here.
All his life an atheist, he was as stubbornly con-
[ 102 ]
TRIGGERFINGERITIS
tentious for his unbelief as any Scotch Covenanter
for his best-loved tenets.
Now, laid for his last rest in the little burying-
ground of Las Cruces, a tiny, white-paled square of
sandy, hummocky bench land where the pink of frag-
ile nopal petals brightens the graves in Spring and
the mesquite showers them with its golden pods in
Summer; where the sweet scent of the juajilla loads
the air, and the sun ever shines down out of a bright
and cloudless sky ; where a diminutive forest of crosses
of wood and stone symbolize the faith he in life re-
fused to accept — now, perhaps, Pat Garrett has
learned how widely he was wrong.
Peace to his ashes, and repose to his dauntless
spirit !
[108]
CHAPTER V
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
THIS is the story of a man, a virile, strong, re-
sourceful man, all of whose history from his
youth to his untimely death thrills one at the
reading and points lessons worth learning.
The most careful study and the most just compari-
son would doubtless concede to Washington Harrison
Donaldson the high rank — high, indeed, in a double
sense — of having been the greatest aeronaut the
world has ever known.
While a few men have done some great deeds in
aeronautics which he did not accomplish, nevertheless
Donaldson did more things never even undertaken
by any other aeronaut than any man who has ever
lived. Indeed, much of his work would be deemed by
mankind at large downright absurd, hair-brained,
foolhardy, and reckless to the point of actual mad-
ness ; and yet no man ever possessed a saner mind
than Donaldson ; no man was ever more fond of fam-
ily, friends, and life in general, or normally more
reluctjant to undertake what he regarded as a need-
lessly hazardous task. His boldest and most seem-
ingly reckless feats were to him no more than the
[104]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
everyday work of a man of a strong mind, of a stout
heart, and of a perfectly trained body, who had so
completely mastered every detail of his profession as
gymnast, acrobat, and aeronaut, that he had come to
have absolute faith in himself, downright abiding cer-
tainty that within his sphere of work not only must
he succeed, but that, in the very nature of things it
was quite impossible for him to fail.
Donaldson's story may well serve as an inspira-
tion, as does that of every man who, with a cool head
and high courage, takes his life in his hands for
adventure into the world's untrodden fields. While
he was regarded by average onlookers as little better
than a "Merry Andrew," a public shocker, doing
feats before the multitude to still the heart and freeze
the blood, those whose fortune it was to know him
intimately realized him to be a man of the most seri-
ous purpose, with a great faith in the future of aerial
navigation. He seemed to be possessed by the con-
viction that it was one day to become wholly practi-
cable and generally useful; for he was keen to do all
he could to popularize and advance it, and to demon-
strate its large measure of safety where practised
under reasonable conditions.
To many still living his memory is dear — to all in-
deed who ever knew him well, and it is to his memory
and to the surviving friends who held him dear I dedi-
cate this little story.
[ 105 ] :
THE RED-BLOODED
Washington Harrison Donaldson was the son of
David L. Donaldson, an artist of no mean ability of
Philadelphia, where' the boy was born October 10,
1840. The mother, of straight descent from a line
of patriots active during the Revolution, gave the boy
the name of Washington; the father, an ardent
worker for General Harrison's candidacy for the
presidency in the " Tippecanoe-and-Tyler-too " cam-
paign, added the name of Harrison. It is not incon-
ceivable that this christening with two names so closely
linked with notable deeds of high emprise in the early
history of this country, had its influence upon the
boy.
As a mere youth he showed the most adventurous
spirit and ardent ambition to excel his mates, to do
deeds of skill and dexterity that others could not do.
When still a child he was running up an unsupported
eight-foot ladder, and balancing himself upon the
topmost round in a way to startle the cleverest pro-
fessional athletes. A little later, getting hold of any
old rope, stretching it in any old way as a '^ slack
rope," he was busy perfecting himself as a slack-rope
walker. Naturally, school held him only a very few
years, for his type of mind obviously was not that of
a student.
While still in early youth, he got his father's con-
sent to work in the parental studio, and persevered
long enough to acquire some ability in sketching.
[106]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
Later he employed this art in illustrating some of his
aerial voyages. During these studio days he studied
legerdemain and ventriloquism, and became one of
the most expert sleight-of-hand wizards and ventrilo-
quial entertainers of his time.
Donaldson's first appearance before the public was
at the old Long's Varieties on South Third Street
in Philadelphia. His feats as a rope-walker have
probably never been surpassed. In 1862 a rope
tw^elve hundred feet long was stretched across the
Schuylkill River at Philadelphia at a height of twelve
hundred feet above the water. After passing back
and forth repeatedly over this rope, he finished his
exhibition by leaping from a rope into the river from
a height of approximately ninety feet. Two years
later he successfully walked a rope eighteen hundred
feet long and two hundred feet high, stretched across
the Genesee Falls at Rochester, N. Y. Five years
later he was riding a velocipede on a tight-wire from
stage to gallery of a Philadelphia theatre, the first to
do this performance.
Thus his years were spent between 1857 and 1871 ;
and great as were the dangers and severe the tasks
incident to this period of his career, to him it was not
work but the play he loved. While the work in itself
was not one to emulate — for there are perhaps few
less useful tasks than those that made up his occu-
pation — nevertheless, he was training himself for his
[107]
THE RED-BLOODED
career ; and the absolute mastery over it which he ac-
complished, the boldness with which he did it, the
readiness, certainty, and complete success with which
he carried out everything he undertook make a lesson
worth studying.
Donaldson's career as an aeronaut was brief. His
first ascent was made August 30, 1871 ; his last, July
15, 1875. The story of the first is characteristic of
the man. In his lexicon there was no such word as
" fail." His balloon was small, holding only eight
thousand cubic feet of gas. The gas was of poor
quality, and when ready to rise he found it impossible
even to make a start until all ballast had been thrown
from the basket; and when at length the start was
made, it was only to alight in a few minutes on the
roof of a neighboring house. Bent upon winning
and doing at all hazards what he had undertaken,
Donaldson quickly cast overboard all loose objects in
the basket — ropes, anchors, provisions, even down
to his boots and coat. Thus relieved of weight, he
was able to make a voyage of about eighteen
miles.
There are two essentials to safe ballooning: first,
the easy working of the cord which controls the safety
valve at the top of the netting, by which descent may
be effected when the balloon is going too high; and
surplus ballast, which may be thrown out to lighten
the balloon when approaching the ground, to
[108]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
avoid striking the earth at dangerously rapid speed.
Hence it followed that, his car having been stripped
of every bit of weight to obtain the ascent, Donald-
son's descent was so violent that he was not a little
bruised before he got his balloon safely anchored
again upon the earth.
The difficulties and risks of this first trip, arising
from the poor appliances he had, were enough to
discourage, if not deter, a heart less bold than his,
but to him a new difficulty only meant the letting out
of another reef in his resolution to conquer it. Thus
it was that immediately upon his return from this, his
first trip, he not only announced that he would make
another ascent the ensuing week, but that he would
undertake something never previously undertaken in
aerial navigation, namely, that he would dispense with
the basket or car swung beneath the concentrating ring
of every normal balloon, and in its place would have
nothing but a simple trapeze bar suspended beneath
the ring, upon which in mid-air, at high altitude, he
proposed to perform all feats done by the most highly
trained gymnasts in trapeze performances.
His experience on this first trip, to quote his own
phraseology, was "so glorious that I decided to
abandon the tight-rope forever."
The second ascent was made in a light breeze.
When approximately a mile in height, to quote a
chronicler :
[ 109 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
"Suddenly the aeronaut threw himself backward and
fell, catching with his feet on the bar, thus sending a
thrill through the crowd; but with another spring he was
upstanding on the bar, and then followed one feat after
another — hanging by one hand, one foot, by the back of
his head, etc., until the blood ceased to curdle in the
veins of the awe-stricken crowd, and they gave vent to
their feelings in cheer after cheer. His glittering dress
sparkled in the sun long after his outline was lost to the
naked eye."
Intending no long journey, Donaldson climbed
from the trapeze into the concentrating ring, where
he seized the cord operating the safety valve and
sought to open the valve. But the valve stuck and did
not open readily, thus when Donaldson gave a more
violent tug at the cord in his effort to open the valve,
a great rent was torn in the top of the gas bag,
through which the gas poured, causing the balloon to
fall with appalling rapidity. Long afterwards Don-
aldson said that this was the first time in his life that
he had ever felt actually afraid. Luckily he dropped
into the top of a large tree, which broke his fall suf-
ficiently to enable him to land without any serious
injury.
Donaldson's sincerity and downright joy in his
work, and the poetic temperament, which in him was
always struggling for utterance, are pointed out by
a chronicler in the words added by him to the descrip-
tion Donaldson gave of his trip after his return to
Norfolk in 1872:
[110]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
*'The people of Norfolk cannot form the remotest
conception of the grand appearance of Norfolk from a
balloon. The city looks almost surrounded by water,
and the various tributaries to the Elizabeth River ap-
pear magnificently beautiful, looking like streams of
silver. Floating over a field of foliage, the trees appear
all blended together like blades of grass."
The chronicler adds:
"Donaldson seemed to be perfectly enraptured by his
subject, as was evinced by the beaming expression of his
countenance while relating his experience. The motion
of the balloon he describes as delightful, particularly in
ascent, as it appears to be perfectly motionless, and
every object within view beneath looks as if it were re-
ceding from you."
As a token of appreciation of this particular ex-
ploit, a handsome gold medal was given to Donaldson
by the citizens of Norfolk.
A later ascent from Norfolk resulted in one of the
most perilous experiences ever endured by any aero-
naut, and indeed developed conditions from which
none could possibly have hoped to escape with life
except a perfectly trained and fearless aeronaut.
His experience on this trip he told as follows :
"After cutting the basket loose, the balloon shot up
very rapidly. I pulled the valve cord and the gas
escaped too freely. I was then almost at the water's
edge, and going at the rate of one mile a minute. Quick
work must be done, or a watery grave. I had either to
cut a hole in the balloon or go to sea, and as there were
no boats in sight, I chose the lesser evil. Seizing three
of the cords, I swung out of the ring, into the netting,
the balloon careening on her side. I climbed half way
up the netting, opened my knife with my teeth, and cut
a hole about two feet long. The instant I cut the hole
[111]
THE RED-BLOODED
the gas rushed out so fast that I could scarcely get back
to the ring. After reaching the ring I lashed myself
fast to it with a rope. While I was climbing up the rig-
ging to cut the hole in the side of the balloon, my cap
fell off, and so fast did I descend that before I got half
way down I caught up with and passed the cap. Con-
tinuing to descend, I struck the ground in a large corn
field, and was dragged nearly a thousand feet, the wind
blowing a perfect gale. Crashing against a rail fence,
I was rendered insensible. When I came to, I found
myself hanging to one side of a tree, and the balloon
to the other side, ripped to shreds. This was the last
tree, I could have thrown a stone into the ocean from
where I landed. On this trip I travelled ten miles in
seven minutes.
"Many want to know if the wind blows hard up there.
They do not stop to think that I am carried by the wind,
and whether I am in a dead calm or sailing at the rate
of one hundred miles an hour, I am perfectly still; and
when I went the ten miles in seven minutes I did not
feel the slightest breeze ; and when I cannot see the eartli
it is impossible to tell whether I am going or hanging
still."
Just as Donaldson was a bit of an artist and left
many sketches illustrating his experiences, so also he
was a bit of a poet and left many pieces describing in
lofty thought, but crude versification, the sentiments
inspired by his ascents. The following is one of
them:
"There's pleasure in a lively trip when sailing through
the air.
The word is given, 'Let her go!* To land I know not
where ;
The view is grand, *t is like a dream, when many miles
from home.
My castle in the air, I love above the clouds to roam/*
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
In prose Donaldson was very much more at home
than in verse; indeed many of his descriptions equal
in clearness and beauty anything ever written of the
impressions that come to fliers in cloudland. Take,
for example, the following:
"It*s a pleasure to be up here, as I sit and look at the
grand cloud pictures, the most splendid effects of light,
unknown to all that cling to the surface of the earth.
The ever-shifting scenes, the bright, dazzling colors, the
soft roseate and purple hues, the sudden light and fiery
sun . . , and on I go as if carried by spiritual
wings, far above the diminutive objects of a liliputian
world. We rise in the midst of splendor, where light and
silence combine to make one wish he never need return."
Donaldson was a many-sided man — among other
things, in no small measure a philosopher, as when
he commented as follows :
"I have noticed on different occasions a class of people
who were only half alive and who find fault with my ex-
ercise, which to them looks frightful. Their nervous
system is not properly balanced. They have too much
nerves for their system, which is caused by want of a
little moderate exercise up where the air is pure, instead
of which they spend hours in a place which they call
their office. They sit themselves in a dark corner, hidden
from the sun's rays, and in one position remain for
hours, inhaling the poisonous air with the room full of
carbonic acid gas, which is as poisonous to man as
arsenic is to rats; and in addition to this, will fill their
lungs with tobacco smoke, and to steady their nerves re-
quire a stimulation of perhaps eight or ten brandies a
day. If I were as helpless as this class of people, then
my life would be swinging by a thread, and I would wind
up with a broken neck."
[113]
THE RED-BLOODED
About as sound philosophy and scientific hygiene
as could well be found.
And yet another side to his character: the kindly
nature, the gentleness and generous thought for oth-
ers, the reluctance to cause needless injury or pain,
which is always the characteristic of any man of real
courage. This beautiful side of his nature he once
hinted at as follows:
**I cannot look at a person cutting a chicken's head
off, and as for shooting a poor, innocent bird for sport,
I think it is a great wrong and should not be allowed.
Did you ever think what a barbarous set we were —
worse than Indians or Fiji Islanders.'* There is nothing
living but what we torture and kill. As for fear . . .
my candid opinion is that the only time one is out of
danger is when sailing through the air in a balloon."
Early in 1873, after having made twenty-five or
thirty ascents, and well-nigh exhausted people's ca-
pacity for sensations and excitements afforded by
ballooning over terra firma, Donaldson began making
plans for a balloon of a capacity and equipment ade-
quate, in his judgment, to enable him to make a suc-
cessful crossing of the Atlantic to England or the
Continent. So soon as his plans became publicly
known. Professor John Wise, who as early as 1843
had done his best to raise the funds necessary for a
transatlantic journey by balloon, joined forces with
Donaldson, and together they made application to
the authorities of the city of Boston for an adequate
[114]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
appropriation. This was voted by one Board but
vetoed by another. Thereupon, The Daily Graphic
took up their proposition, and undertook the finan-
cing of the expedition under a formal contract
executed June 27, 1873. As a consequence of this con-
tract, Donaldson proceeded to build the largest bal-
loon ever constructed, of a gas capacity of 600,000
cubic feet, and a lifting power of 14,000 pounds.
The total weight of the balloon, including its car, life-
boat, and equipment, was 7,100 pounds, thus leaving
approximately 6,000 pounds surplus lifting capacity
for ballast, passengers, etc.
Of course, a liberal supply of provisions was to
be carried, with tools, guns, and fishing tackle, to be
available for meeting any emergency arising from a
landing in a wild, unsettled region. Moreover, a care-
fully selected set of scientific instruments was em-
braced in the equipment for making observations and
records of changing conditions en route.
The inflation of this aerial monster began in
Brooklyn at the Capitoline Grounds September 10,
1873. A high wind prevailed, and after the bag had
received 100,000 cubic feet of gas, she became so
nearly uncontrollable, notwithstanding 300 men and
100 sacks of ballast, each sack weighing 200 pounds,
were holding her down, that Donaldson and his asso-
ciates decided to empty her.
On the twelfth of September inflation was again
[115]
THE RED-BLOODED
undertaken, although a high wind again prevailed.
When something more than half full, the bag burst,
and the aeronauts concluded that she was of a size
impossible to handle. The bag and rigging were
thereupon taken in hand, and she was reduced one-
half ; that is, to a capacity of 300,000 cubic feet of
The remodelling was finished early in October, and
inflation of this new balloon was begun at 1 p. m. on
Sunday, October 6, and by 10:30 p. m. of that day
the inflation was completed, the life-boat was at-
tached, and she was firmly secured for the night.
At nine the next morning the crew took their places
in the boat. Donaldson as aeronaut; Alfred Ford
as correspondent for the Graphic; George Ashton
Lunt, an experienced seaman, as navigator. Ascent
was made without incident, the balloon drifting first
to the north, and then to the southward toward Long
Island Sound.
Unhappily this voyage was brief, and very nearly
tragical in its finish. About noon the balloon en-
tered the field of a storm of wind and rain of extraor-
dinary violence, and before long the cordage, etc.,
was so heavily loaded with moisture, that although
practically all available ballast was disposed of, the
balloon descended in spite of them. The speed of
the balloon was so great that Donaldson did not dare
hazard a dash against some house, or into some for-
[116]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
est or other obstacle, but selected a piece of open
ground, and advised his companions to hang by their
hands over the side of the boat and drop at the word.
The word at length given by Donaldson, both he and
Ford dropped — a distance of about thirty feet,
happily without serious injury other than a severe
shaking up. Lunt, curious about the distance and
the effect of such a fall, as well as unfamiliar with the
action of a balloon when relieved of weight, hung
watching the descent of his companions — only to
realize quickly that he was shooting up into the air
like a rocket. Then he clambered back into the boat.
However, it was not long before, again weighted and
beaten down by the continuing rain, the balloon de-
scended upon a forest, where Lunt swung himself Into
a tree-top, whence he dropped through its branches
to the earth, practically unhurt.
Thus ended the transatlantic voyage of the
Graphic balloon, a voyage that constitutes the only
serious failure I can recall of anything In the line of
his profession as an aeronaut that Donaldson ever
undertook to do. This failure is not to be counted
to his discredit, for precisely as a good soldier does
not surrender until his last round of ammunition is
spent, so Donaldson did not give in until his last
pound of ballast was exhausted.
In all respects the most brilliant aerial voyage ever
made by Donaldson was his sixty-first ascension, on
[117]
THE RED-BLOODED
July S4, 1874, a voyage which continued for twenty-
six hours. This was the longest balloon voyage in
point of hours ever made up to that time, and indeed
it remained a world's record for endurance up in the
air until 1900, and the endurance record in the
United States, until the recent St. Louis Cup Race.
The ascent was made from Barnum's "Great Ro-
man Hippodrome," which for some years occupied
the site of what is now Madison Square Garden, in a
balloon built by Mr. Barnum to attempt to break the
record for time and distance of all previous balloon
voyages. An account of this thrilling trip is given
in the following chapter of this book.
The history of the ascent Donaldson made from
Toronto, Canada, on June S3, 1875, i.^ in itself a suf-
ficient refutation of the charge? made less than a
month later, that on his last trip he sacrificed his pas-
senger, Grimwood, to save his own life. On his To-
ronto trip he was accompanied by Charles Pirie, of
the Globe; Mr. Charles, of the Leader; and Mr.
Devine, of the Advertiser. On this occasion Don-
aldson accepted the three passengers under the
strongest protest, after having told them plainly that
the balloon was leaky, the wind blowing out upon the
lake, and that the ascent must necessarily be a pecu-
liarly dangerous one. Nevertheless, they decided to
take the hazard. Later they regretted their temer-
ity. Husbanding his ballast as best he could, never-
[ 118 ]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
theless, the loss of gas through leakage was such that
by midnight, when well over the centre of Lake On-
tario, the balloon descended into a rough, tempestuous
sea, and was saved from immediate destruction only
by the cutting away of both the anchor and the drag
rope. This gave them a temporary lease of life, but
at one o'clock the car again struck the waters and
dragged at a frightful speed through the lake, com-
pelling the passengers to stand on the edge of the
basket and cling to the ropes, the cold so intense they
were well-nigh benumbed. At length they were res-
cued by a passing boat, but this was not until after
three o'clock in the morning.
Of Donaldson's conduct in these hours of terrible
extremity, a passenger wrote:
"But for his judicious use of the ballast, his complete
control of the balloon as far as it could be controlled,
his steady nerve, kindness, and coolness m the hour of
danger, the occupants would never have reached land.
. . . The party took no provisions with them except-
ing twc small pieces of bread two inches square, which
Mr. Devine happened to have in his pocket. At eleven at
night, the Professor, having had nothing but a noon
lunch, was handed up the bread. . . . About three
o'clock in the morning, when the basket was wholly im-
mersed in the water, and the inmates clinging almost
lifelessly to the ropes, the Professor climbed down to
them, and they were surprised to see in his hand the two
small pieces of bread they had given him the night be-
fore. He had hoarded it up all night, and instead of
eating it he said with cheery voice, 'Well, boys, all is
up. Divide this among you. It may give you strength
enough to swim.* There was not a man among them that
[119]
THE RED-BLOODED
would touch it until the Professor first partook of it. It
was only a small morsel for each. . . . He said that
he liad but one life-preserver on board, and suggested we
should draw lots for the man who should leave and
lighten the balloon."
While this discussion was on, the boat approached
that saved them.
This simple story of Donaldson's true courage,
cheerfulness, self-denial, readiness to sacrifice himself
for others, is no less than an epic of the noblest hero-
ism that stands an irrefutable answer to the charge
later made that Donaldson sacrificed Grimwood.
Three weeks later — to be precise, on the fifteenth
of July — Donaldson and his beloved airship, the
P. T. Barnum, made their last ascent, from Chicago.
The balloon was already old — more than a year old
— the canvas weakened and in many places rent and
patched, the cordage frail. In short, the balloon was
in poor condition to stand any extraordinary stress
of weather.
His companion on this trip was Mr. Newton S.
Grimwood, of The Chicago Evening Journal. Don-
aldson had expected to be able to take two men ; and
Mr. Maitland, of the Post ^ Mail, was present with
the other two in the basket immediately before the
hour of starting. At the last moment Donaldson
concluded that it was unwise to take more than one,
and required lots to be drawn. Maitland tossed a
coin, called "Heads," and won; but Mr. Thomas,
[1«0]
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
the press agent, insisted that the usual method of
drawing written slips from a hat be followed, and on
this second lot-casting Maitland lost his place in the
car, but won his life.
The ascent was made about 5 p. m., the prevailing
wind carrying them out over Lake Michigan. About
7 p. m. a tug-boat sighted the balloon, then about
thirty miles off shore, trailing its basket along the
surface of the lake. The tug changed her course to
intercept the balloon, but before it was reached, prob-
ably through the cutting away of the drag rope and
anchor, the balloon bounded into the air, and soon
disappeared, and never again was aught of Donald-
son or the balloon Barnum seen by human eye. A
little later a storm of extraordinary fury broke over
the lake — a violent electric storm accompanied by
heavy rain.
Weeks passed with no news of the voyagers or their
ship. A month later the body of Grimwood was
found on the shores of Lake Michigan and fully
identified.
The precise story of that terrible night will never
be written, but knowing the man and his trade, se-
quence of incident is as plain to me as if told by one
of the voyagers. Evidently the balloon sprung a
leak early. The last ballast must have been spent
before the tug saw her trailing in the lake. Then
anchor and drag ropes were sacrificed. This would
t nt ]
THE RED-BLOODED
inevitably give the balloon travelling power for a
considerable time, — time of course depending on the
measure of the leak of gas, — but ultimately she must
again have descended upon the raging waters of the
lake, where Grimwood, of untrained strength, soon
became exhausted while trying to hold himself secure
in the ring, and fell out into the lake. Thus again
relieved of weight, the balloon received a new lease
of life, and travelled on probably, to a fatal final de-
scent in some untrodden corner of the northern for-
est, where no one ever has chanced to stumble across
the wreck. For had the balloon made its final de-
scent into the lake, it would have been only after the
basket was utterly empty, all the loose cordage cut
away, and a type of wreck left that would float for
weeks or months and would almost certainly have
been found. Indeed, for months afterwards the
writer and many others of Donaldson's friends held
high hopes of hearing of him returned in safety from
some remote distance in the wilds. But this was not
to be.
One more incident and I have done.
Six or seven years ago I read in the columns of
the Sun an article copied from a Chicago paper, evi-
dently written by some close friend of the unfortunate
Grimwood, making a bitter attack upon Donaldson
for having sacrificed his passenger's life to save his
own. The story moved me so much that I wrote
[mil
A JUGGLER WITH DEATH
an open letter to the Sun over mj own signature, in
which I sought to refute the charge by recounting the
story of Donaldson's noble conduct, and his constant
readiness for self-sacrifice in other situations quite
as dire.
A few days later, sitting in my office, I was frozen
with astonishment when a written card was handed
in to me bearing the name " Washington H. Donald-
son " ! As soon as I could recover myself, the bearer
of the card was asked in. He was a man within
a year or two of my friend's age at the time of his
death. Wash Donaldson's very self in face and figure !
He had the same bright, piercing eye, that looked
straight into mine; the same lean, square jaws and
resolute mouth; the same waving hair, the same low,
cool, steady voice — such a resemblance as to dull my
senses, and make me wonder and grope to understand
how my friend could thus come back to me, still young
after so many years.
It was Donaldson's son, a babe in arms at the time
his father sailed away to his death!
In a few simple words he told me that he and his
family lived in a small village. With infinite grief
they had read the article charging his father with
unmanly conduct — a grief that was the greater be-
cause they possessed no means to refute the charge.
Brokenly, with tears of gratitude, he told of their
joy in reading my statements in his father's defence,
THE RED-BLOODED
and how he had been impelled to come and try In
person to express to me the gratitude he felt he could
not write.
Poor though this man may be in this world's goods,
in the record of his father's character and deeds he
owns a legacy fit to give him place among the Peers
of Real Manhood.
Through some mischance I have lost the address
of Donaldson's son. Should he happen to read these
lines I hope he will communicate with me.
im]
CHAPTER VI
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
IN the history of contests since man first began
striving against his fellows, seldom has a record
performance stood so long unbroken as that of
the good airship Barnum. made thirty-three years
ago. Of her captain and crew of five men, six all
told, the writer remains the sole survivor, the only
one who may live to see that record broken in this
country.
The Barnum rose at 4 p. m. July 26, 1874, from
New York and made her last landing nine miles north
of Saratoga at 6 :07 p. m. of the twenty-seventh, thus
finishing a voyage of a total elapsed time of twenty-
six hours and seven minutes. In the interim she made
four landings, the first of no more than ten minutes ;
the second, twenty ; the third, ten ; the fourth, thirty-
five; and these descents cost an expenditure of gas
and ballast which shortened her endurance capacity
by at least two or three hours.
Tracing on a map her actual route traversed, gives
a total distance of something over four hundred
miles, which gave her the record of second place in
the history of long-distance ballooning in this coun-
try, a record which she still holds.
[125]
THE RED-BLOODED
So far as my knowledge of the art goes, and I have
tried to read all of its history, tlic Barnum*s voyage
of twenty-six hours, seven minutes was then and re-
mained the world's endurance record until 1900 ; and
it still remains, in point of hours up, the longest
balloon voyage ever made in the United States.
The longest voyage in point of distance ever made
in this country was that of John Wise and La Moun-
tain, in the fifties, from St. Louis, Mo., to Jefferson
County, N. Y., a distance credited under the old cus-
tom of a little less than twelve hundred miles, while
the actual distance under the new rules is between
eight hundred and nine hundred miles, the time being
nineteen hours. This voyage also remained, I believe,
the world's record for distance until 1900, and still
remains the American record — and lucky, indeed,
will be the aeronaut who beats it.
P. T. Barnum's "Great Roman Hippodrome,"
now for many years Madison Square Garden, was
never more densely crowded than on the afternoon of
July 26, 1874. Early in the Spring of that year Mr.
Bamum had announced the building of a balloon
larger than any theretofore made in this country.
His purpose in building it was to attempt to break all
previous records for time and distance, and he invited
each of five daily city papers of that time to send rep-
resentatives on the voyage. So when the day set for
[1«6]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
the ascent arrived, not only was the old Hippodrome
packed to the doors, but adjacent streets and squares
were solid black with people, as on a fete day like
the Dewey parade.
Happily the day was one of brilliant sunshine
and clear sky, with scarcely a cloud above the
horizon.
The captain of the Barnum was Washington H.
Donaldson, by far the most brilliant and daring pro-
fessional aeronaut of his day, and a clever athlete and
gymnast. For several weeks prior to the ascent of
the Barnum, Donaldson had been making daily short
ascents of an hour or two from the Hippodrome in a
small balloon — as a feature of the performance.
Sometimes he ascended in a basket, at other times with
naught but a trapeze swinging beneath the concen-
trating ring of his balloon, himself in tights perched
easily upon the bar of the trapeze. And when at a
height to suit his fancy — of a thousand feet or more
— many a time have I seen him do every difficult feat
of trapeze work ever done above the security of a net.
Such was Donaldson, a man utterly fearless, but
reckless only when alone, of a steadfast, cool courage
and resource when responsible for the safety of others
that made him the man out of a million best worth
trusting in any emergency where a bold heart and
ready wit may avert disaster.
[ 127 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
Donaldson's days were never dull.
The day preceding our ascent his balloon was re-
leased with insufficient lifting power. As soon as he
rose above neighboring roofs, a very high southeast
wind caught him, and, before he had time to throw
out ballast, drove his basket against the flagstaff on
the Gilsey House with such violence that the staff was
broken, and the basket momentarily upset, dumping
two ballast bags to the Broadway sidewalk where
they narrowly missed several pedestrians.
That he himself was not dashed to death was a
miracle. But to him this was no more than a bit
unusual incident of the day's work.
The reporters assigned as mates on this skylark
in the Barnum were Alfred Ford, of the Graphic;
Edmund Lyons, of the Sun; Samuel MacKeever, of
the Herald; W. W. Austin, of the World (every
one of these good fellows now dead, alas!) and my-
self, representing the Tribune,
Lyons, MacKeever, and myself were novices in bal-
looning, but the two others had scored their bit of
aeronautic experience. Austin had made an ascent
a year or two before at San Francisco, was swept
out over the bay before he could make a landing,
and, through some mishap, dropped into the water
midway of the bay and well out toward Golden Gate,
where he was rescued by a passing boat. Ford had
[128]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
made several balloon voyages, the most notable in
1873, in the great Graphic balloon.
After the voyage of the Barnum was first an-
nounced and it became known that the Tribune would
have a pass, everybody on the staff wanted to go.
For weeks it was the talk of the office. Even grave
graybeards of the editorial rooms were paying court
for the preference to Mr. W. F. G. Shanks, that
prince of an earlier generation of city editors, who of
course controlled the assignment of the pass. But
when at length the pass came, the enthusiasm and anx-
iety for the distinction waned, and it became plain
that the piece of paper " Good for One Aerial Trip, "
etc., must go begging.
At that time I was assistant night city editor, and
a special detail to interview the Man in the Moon was
not precisely in the line of my normal duties. I was
therefore greatly surprised (to put it conservatively)
when, the morning before the ascent, Mr. Shanks, in
whose family I was then living, routed me out of bed
to say:
" See here, Ted, you know Barnum's balloon starts
to-morrow on her trial for the record, but what you
don't know is that we are in a hole. Before the ticket
came every one wanted to go, from John R. G. Has-
sard down to the office boy. Now no one will go — -
all have funked it, and I suppose you will want to
follow suit!"
[ 129 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
Thus diplomatically put, the hinted assignment
was not to be refused without too much personal
chagrin.
So it happened that about 3 :30 p. m. the next day
I arrived at the Hippodrome, loaded down with wraps
and a heavy basket nigh bursting with good things
to eat and drink, which dear Mrs. Shanks had insisted
on providing.
The Barnum was already filled with gas, tugging
at her leash and swaying restlessly as if eager for the
start. And right here, at first sight of the great
sphere, I felt more nearly a downright fright than at
any stage of the actual voyage ; the balloon appeared
such a hopelessly frail fabric to support even its own
car and equipment. The light cord net enclosing
the great gas-bag looked, aloft, where it towered
above the roof, little more substantial than a film of
lace ; and to ascend in that balloon appeared about as
safe a proposition as to enmesh a lion in a cobweb.
Already my four mates for the voyage were assem-
bled about the basket, and Donaldson himself was
busy with the last details of the equipment. My
weighty lunch basket had from my mates even a
heartier reception than I received, but their joy over
the prospect of delving into its generous depths was
short-lived. The load as Donaldson had planned it
was all aboard, weight carefully adjusted to what he
[130]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
considered a proper excess lifting power to carry us
safely up above any chance of a collision with another
flagstaff, as on the day before above the Gilsey
House. Thus the basket and all its bounty (save
only a small flask of brandy I smuggled into a hip
pocket) were given to a passing acrobat.
At 4 p. m. the old Hippodrome rang with applause ;
a brilliant equestrian act had just been finished.
Suddenly the applause ceased and that awful hush fell
upon the vast audience which is rarely experienced
except in the presence of death or of some impending
disaster ! We had been seen to enter the basket, and
people held their breath.
Released, the balloon bounded seven hundred feet
into the air, stood stationary for a moment, and then
drifted northwest before the prevailing wind.
In this prodigious leap there was naught of the
disagreeable sensation one experiences in a rapidly
rising elevator. Instead it rather seemed that we
were standing motionless, stationary in space, and
that the earth itself had gotten loose and was drop-
ping away beneath us to depths unknown. Every
cord and rope of the huge fabric was tensely taut, the
basket firm and solid beneath our feet. Indeed, the
balloon, with nothing more substantial in her con-
struction than cloth and twine, and hempen ropes and
willow wands (the latter forming the basket), has
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THE RED-BLOODED
always, while floating in mid-air free of the drag
rope's tricks, the rigid homogeneity of a rock, a solid-
ity that quickly inspires the most timid with perfect
confidence in her security.
Ballast was thrown out by Donaldson, — a little.
At Seventh Avenue and Forty-second Street our alti-
tude was ^,000 feet. The great city lay beneath
us like an unrolled scroll. White and dusty, the
streets looked like innumerable strips of Morse tele-
graph paper — the people the dots, the vehicles the
dashes. Central Park, with its winding waters, was
transformed into a superb mantle of dark green vel-
vet splashed with silver, worthy of a royal fete. Be-
hind us lay the sea, a vast field of glittering silver.
Before us lay a wide expanse of Jersey's hills and
dales that from our height appeared a plain, with
many a reddish-gray splash upon its verdant
stretches that indicated a village or a town.
Above and about us lay an immeasurable space of
which we were the only tenants, and over which we
began to feel a grand sense of dominion that wrapped
us as in royal ermine: if we were not lords of this
aerial manor, pray, then, who were? Beneath us, lay
— home. Should we ever see it again.'* This thought
I am sure came to all of us. I know it came to me.
But the perfect steadiness of the balloon won our
confidence, and we soon gave ourselves up to the grat-
[132]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
ification of our enviable position; and enviable indeed
it was. For who has not envied the eagle his power
to skim the tree-tops, to hover above Niagara, to cir-
cle mountain peaks, to poise himself aloft and survey
creation, or to mount into the zenith and gaze at the
sun?
Indeed our sense of confidence became such that,
while sitting on the edge of the basket to reach and
pass Donaldson a rope he asked for, I leaned so far
over that the bottle of brandy resting in my hip
pocket slipped out and fell into the Hudson.
Oddly, Ford, who was the most experienced bal-
loonist of the party after Donaldson himself, seemed
most nervous and timid, but it was naught but an
I expression of that constitutional trouble (dizziness)
r so many have when looking down from even the minor
height of a step-ladder. In all the long hours he was
I with us, I do not recall his once standing erect in the
basket, and when others of us perched upon the bas-
ket's edge, he would beg us to come down. But mind,
there was no lack of stark courage in Alfred Ford,
sufficiently proved by the fact that he never missed
a chance for an ascent.
! But safe.'' Confident.'' Why, before we were up
ten minutes, Lyons and MacKeever were sitting on
the edge of the basket, with one hand holding to a
stay, tossing out handfuls of small tissue paper cir-
[133]
THE RED-BLOODED
ciilars bearing "News from the Clouds." Many-
colored, these little circulars as they fell beneath us
looked like a flight of giant butterflies, and we kept
on throwing out handfuls of them until our pilot
warned us we were wasting so much weight we should
soon be out of easy view of the earth! Indeed, the
balance of the balloon is so extremely fine that when
a single handful of these little tissue circulars was
thrown out, increased ascent was shown on the dial
of our aneroid barometer!
At 4 :30 p. m. we had drifted out over the Hudson
at an altitude of 2,500 feet. Here Donaldson de-
scended from the airy perch which he had been oc-
cupying since our start on the concentrating ring,
when one of us asked how long he expected the cruise
to last. He replied that he hoped to be able to sail
the Barnum at least three or four days.
"But," he added, "I shall certainly be unable to
carry all of you for so long a journey, and shall be
compelled to drop you one by one. So you had best
draw lots to settle whom I shall drop first, and in
- what order the rest shall follow. "
Sailing then 2,500 feet above the earth, Lyons
voiced a thought racing from my own brain for
utterance when he blurted out: "What the deuce
do you mean by *drop' us?" Indeed, the
question must have been on three other tongues as
[184]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
well, for Donaldson's reply, "Oh, descend to the
earth and let you step out then, " was greeted by all
five of us with a salvo of deep, lusty sighs of relief.
Then we drew lots for the order of our going, Mac-
Keever drawing first, Austin second, Lyons third,
Pord fourth, and I fifth.
Meantime, beneath us on the river vessels which
from our height looked like the toy craft on the lake
in Central Park were whistling a shrill salute that,
toned down by the distance, was really not unmusical.
Having crossed the Hudson and swept above Wee-
hawken, we found ourselves cruising northwest over
the marshes of the Hackensack.
As the heat of the declining sun lessened, our cool-
ing gas contracted and the balloon sank steadily until
at 5 :10 we were 250 feet above the earth and 100 feet
of our great drag rope was trailing on the ground.
Within hailing distance of people beneath us, a curi-
ous condition was observed. We could hear distinctly
all they^ said, though we could not make them under-
stand a word: our voices had to fill a sphere of air;
theirs, with the earth beneath them, only a hemisphere.
Thus the modern megaphone is especially useful to
aeronauts.
Hereabouts our fun began. Many countrymen
thought the balloon running away with us and tried
to stop and save us — always by grasping the drag
[ 135 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
rope, bracing themselves, and trying literally to hold
us ; when the slack of the rope straightened, they per-
formed somersaults such as our pilot vowed no acro-
bat could equal. And yet the balance of the balloon
iz so fine that even a child of ten can pull one down,
if only it has strength enough to withstand occasional
momentary lifts off the ground. Occasionally one
more clever would run and take a quick turn of the
rope about a gate or fence — and then spend the rest
of the evening gathering the scattered fragments and
repairing the damage.
And when there was not fun enough below, Don-
aldson himself would take a hand and put his steed
through some of her fancy paces — as when, ap-
proaching a large lake, he told us to hold tightly to
the stays, let out gas and dropped us, bang! upon
the lake. Running at a speed of twelve or fifteen
miles an hour, we hit the water with a tremendous
shock, bounded thirty or forty feet into the air,
descended again and literally skipped in great leaps
along the surface of the water, precisely like a well-
thrown " skipping stone. " Then out went ballast
and up and on we went, no worse for the fun beyond
a pretty thorough wetting!
At 6:20 p. m. we landed on the farm of Garrett
Harper in Bergen County, twenty-six miles from New
York. After drinking our fill of milk at the farm-
house, we rose again and drifted north over Ram-
[136]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
apo until, at 7:30, a dead calm came upon us
and we made another descent. We then found that
we had landed near Bladentown on the farm of Miss
Charlotte Thompson, a charming actress of the day
whose "Jane Eyre" and "Fanchon" are still pleas-
ant memories to old theatre-goers. Loading our
balloon with stones to anchor it, our party paid her
a visit and were cordially received. An invitation
to join us hazarded by Donaldson, Miss Thompson
accepted with delight. I do not know if she is still
living, but if she is, she cannot have forgotten her
half-hour's cruise in the good airship Barnum, wafted
silently by a gentle evening breeze^ the lovely pan-
orama beneath her half hid, half seen through the
purple haze of twilight.
After landing Miss Thompson at 8 :18 we ascended
for the night, for a night's bivouac among the stars.
The moon rose early. We were soon sailing over
the Highlands of the Hudson. Off in the east we
could see the river, a winding ribbon of silver. We
were running low, rarely more than 200 feet high.
Below us the great drag rope was hissing through
meadows, roaring over fences, crashing through tree-
tops. And all night long we were continually ascend-
ing and descending, sinking into valleys and rising
over hills, following closely the contours of the local
topography.
During the more equable temperature of night the
£137]
THE RED-BLOODED
balloon's height is governed by the drag rope.
Leaving a range of hills and floating out over a val-
ley, the weight of the drag rope pulls the balloon
down until the same length of rope is trailing through
the valley that had been dragging on the hill. This
habit of the balloon produces startling effects.
Drifting swiftly toward a rocky, precipitous hillside
against which it seems inevitable you must dash to
your death, suddenly the trailing drag rope reaches
the lower slopes and you soar like a bird over the hill,
often so low that the bottom of the basket swishes
through the tree-tops.
But, while useful in conserving the balloon's en-
ergy, the drag rope is a source of constant peril to
aeronauts, of terror to people on the earth, and of
damage to property. It has a nasty clinging habit,
winding round trees or other objects, that may at
any moment upset basket and aeronauts. On this
trip our drag rope tore sections out of scores of
fences, upset many hay stacks, injured horses and
cattle that tried to run across it, whipped off many
a chimney, broke telegraph wires, and seemed to take
malicious delight in working some havoc with every-
thing it touched.
At > ten o'clock we sighted Cozzen's Hotel, and
shortly drifted across the parade ground of West
Point, its huge battlemented gray walls making one
[ 188 ]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
fancy he was looking down into the inner court of
some great mediaeval castle. Then we drifted out
over the Hudson toward Cold Spring until, caught by
a different current, we were swept along the course
of the river.
As we sailed over mid-stream and two hundred feet
above it, with the tall cliffs and mysterious, dark
recesses of the Highlands on either hand, the waters
turned to a livid gray under the feeble light of the
waning moon. No part of our voyage was more im-
pressive, no scene more awe-inspiring. It was a re-
gion of such weird lights and gruesome shadows as
no fancy could people with aught but gaunt goblins
and dread demons, come down to us through genera-
tions untold, an unspent legacy of terror, from half-
savage, superstitious ancestors.
Suddenly Ford spoke in a low voice: "Boys, I
was in nine or ten battles of the Civil War, from
Gaines's Mill to Gettysburg, but in none of them was
there a scene which impressed me as so terrible as
this, no situation that seemed to me so threatening
of irresistible perils. "
Nearing Fishkill at eleven, a land breeze caught
and whisked us off eastward. At midnight we struck
the town of Wappinger's Falls — and struck it hard.
Our visitation is doubtless remembered there yet.
The town was in darkness and asleep. We were
[139]
THE RED-BLOODED
running low before a stiff breeze, half our drag rope
on the ground. The rope began to roar across roofs
and upset chimneys with shrieks and crashes that
set the folk within believing the end of the world had
come. Instantly the streets were filled with flying
white figures and the air with men's curses and
women's screams. Three shots were fired beneath us.
Two of our fellows said they heard the whistle of the
balls, so Donaldson thought it prudent to throw out
ballast and rise out of range.
Here the moon left us and we sailed on throughout
the remainder of the night in utter darkness and
without any extraordinary incident, all but the watch
lying idly in the bottom of the basket viewing the
stars and wondering what new mischief the drag rope
might be planning.
The only duty of the watch was to lighten ship
upon too near descent to the earth, and for this pur-
pose a handful of Hippodrome circulars usually
proved sufficient. Indeed, only eight pounds of bal-
last were used from the time we left Miss Thompson
till dawn, barring a half-sack spent in getting out
of range of the Wappinger's Falls sportsmen, who
seemed to want to bag us.
Fot*d and Austin were assigned as the lookout from
12:00 to 2:00, Lyons and myself from 2:00 to 3:00,
and Donaldson and MacKeever from 3:00 to 4:00.
[140]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
From midnight till 3:00 a. m. Donaldson slept as
peaceful as a baby, curled up in the basket with a
sand-bag for a pillow. The rest of us slept little
through the night and talked less, each absorbed in
the reflections and speculations inspired by our novel
experience.
At the approach of dawn we had the most unique
and extraordinary experience ever given to man.
The balloon was sailing low in a deep valley. To
the east of us the Berkshires rose steeply to sum-
mits probably fifteen hundred feet above us. Be-
neath us a little village lay, snuggled cosily between
two small meeting brooks, all dim under the mists of
early morning and the shadows of the hills. No
flush of dawn yet lit the sky. Donaldson had been
consulting his watch. Suddenly he rose and called,
pointing eastward across the range:
"Watch, boys! Look there!"
He then quickly dumped overboard half the con-
tents of a ballast bag. Flying upward like an arrow,
the balloon soon shot up above the mountain-top,
when, lo! a miracle. The phenomenon of sunrise
was reversed! We our very selves instead had risen
on the sun ! There he stood, full and round, peeping
at us through the trees crowning a distant Berkshire
hill, as if startled by our temerity.
Shortly thereafter, when we had descended to our
1 141 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
usual level and were running swiftly before a stiff
breeze over a rocky hillside, Donaldson yelled:
"Hang on, boys, for your lives!"
The end of the drag rope had gotten a hitch about
a large tree limb. Luckily Donaldson had seen it
in time to warn us, else we had there finished our
careers. We had barely time to seize the stays when
the rope tautened with a shock that nearly turned
the basket upside down, spilled out our water-bucket
and some ballast, left MacKeever and myself hang-
ing in space by our hands, and the other four on the
lower side of the basket, scrambling to save them-
selves. Instantly, of course, the basket righted and
dropped back beneath us.
And then began a terrible struggle.
The pressure of the wind bore us down within a
hundred feet of the ragged rocks. Groaning under
the strain, the rope seemed ready to snap. Like a
huge leviathan trapped in a net, the gas-bag writhed,
twisted, bulged, shrank, gathered into a ball and
sprang fiercely out. The loose folds of canvas
sucked up until half the netting stood empty, and
then fold after fold darted out and back with all the
angry menace of a serpent's tongue and with the
ominous crash of musketry.
It seemed the canvas must inevitably burst and
we be dashed to death. But Donaldson was cool
[142]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
and smiling, and, taking the only precaution possi-
ble, stood with a sheath-knife ready to cut away the
drag rope and relieve us of its weight in case our
canvas burst.
Happily the struggle was brief. The limb that
held us snapped, and the balloon sprang forward in
mighty bounds that threw us off our feet and tossed
the great drag rope about like a whip-lash. But we
were free, safe, and our stout vessel soon settled down
to the velocity of the wind.
By this time we all were beginning to feel hungry,
for we had supped the night before in mid-air from
a lunch basket that held more delicacies than sub-
stantial. So Donaldson proposed a descent and
began looking for a likely place. At last he chose
a little village, which upon near approach we learned
lay in Columbia County of our own good State.
We called to two farmers to pull us down, no easy
task in the rather high wind then blowing. They
grasped the rope and braced themselves as had others
the night before, and presently were flying through
the air in prodigious if ungraceful somersaults.
Amazed but unhurt, they again seized the rope and
got a turn about a stout board fence, only to see a
section or two of the fence fly into the air as if in
pursuit of us.
Presently the heat of the rising sun expanded our
[143]
THE RED-BLOODED
gas and sent us up again 2,000 feet, making
breakfast farther off than ever. Thus, it being clear
that we must sacrifice either our stomachs or our gas,
Donaldson held open the safety valve until we were
once more safely landed on mother earth, but not
until after we had received a pretty severe pounding
about, for such a high wind blew that the anchor was
slow in holding.
This landing was made at 5 :24 a. m. on the farm
of John W. Coons near the village of Greenport, four
miles from Hudson City, and about one hundred and
thirty miles from New York.
Here our pilot decided our vessel must be lightened
of two men, and thus the lot drawn the night before
compelled us to part, regretfully, with MacKeever of
the Herald, and Austin of the World. Ford, how-
ever, owing allegiance to an afternoon paper, the
Graphic, and always bursting with honest journal-
istic zeal for a "beat," saw an opportunity to win
satisfaction greater even than that of keeping on with
us. So he, too, left us here, with the result that the
Graphic published a full story of the voyage up to
this point, Saturday afternoon, the twenty-fifth,
the Herald and the World trailed along for second
place in their Sunday editions, while Sun and Tribune
readers had to wait till Monday morning for such
" News from the Clouds " as Lyons and I had to give
them, for wires were not used as freely then as now.
[144]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
Our departing mates brought us a rare good break-
fast from Mr. Coons' generous kitchen — a four-
teen-quart tin pail, well-nigh filled with good things,
among them two currant pies on yellow earthen plates,
gigantic in size, pale of crust, though anything but
anaemic of contents. Lyons finished nearly the half
of one before our reascent, to his sorrow, for scarcely
were we off the earth before he developed a colic that
seemed to interest him more, right up to the finish of
the trip, than the scenery.
Bidding our mates good-bye, we prepared to re-
ascend. Many farmers had been about us holding
to our ropes and leaning on the basket, and later we
realized we had not taken in sufficient ballast to offset
the weight of the three men who had left us.
Released, the balloon sprang upward at a pace
that all but took our breath away. Instantly the
earth disappeared beneath us. We saw Donaldson
pull the safety valve wide open, draw his sheath knife
ready to cut the drag rope, standing rigid, with his
eyes riveted upon the aneroid barometer. The hand
of the barometer was sweeping across the dial at a
terrific rate. I glanced at Donaldson and saw him
smile. Then I looked back at the barometer and saw
the hand had stopped — at 10,200 feet! How long
we were ascending we did not know. Certain it is
that the impressions described were all there was time
for, and that when Donaldson turned and spoke we
[ 145 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
saw his lips move but could hear no sound. Our speed
had been such that the pressure of the air upon the
tympanum of the ear left us deaf for some minutes.
We had made a dash of two miles into cloudland and
had accomplished it, we three firmly believed, in little
more than a minute.
Presently Donaldson observed the anchor and
grapnel had come up badly clogged with sod, and a
good heavy tug he and I had of it to pull them in, for
Lyons was still much too busy with his currant pie
to help us. Nor indeed were the currant pies yet
done with us, for at the end of our tug at the anchor
rope, I found I had been kneeling very precisely in
the middle of pie No. 2, and had contrived to absorb
most of it into the knees of my trousers. Thus at
the end of the day, come to Saratoga after all shops
were closed, I had to run the gauntlet of the porch and
office crowd of visitors at the United States Hotel
in a condition that only needed moccasins and a war
bonnet to make me a tolerable imitation of an Indian.
We remained aloft at an altitude of one or two
and one-half miles for three hours and a half, stayed
there until the silence became intolerable, until the
buzz of a fly or the croak of a frog would have been
music to our ears. Here was absolute silence, the
silence of the grave and death, a silence never to be
experienced by living man in any terrestrial condition.
Occasionally the misty clouds in which we hung en-
[146]
AN AERIAL BIVOUAC
shrouded parted beneath us and gave us glimpses of
the distant earth, opened and disclosed landscapes of
infinite beauty set in gray nebulous frames. Once we
passed above a thunderstorm, saw the lightning play
beneath us, felt our whole fabric tremble at its shock
— and were glad enough when we had left it well
behind. Seen from a great height, the earth looked
to be a vast expanse of dark green velvet, sometimes
shaded to a deeper hue by cloudlets floating beneath
the sun, splashed here with the silver and there with
the gold garniture reflected from rippilng waters.
Toward noon we descended beneath the region of
clouds into the realm of light and life, and found our-
selves hovering above the Mountain House of the
Catskills. And thereabouts we drifted in cross-cur-
rents until nearly 4 :00 p. m., when a heavy southerly
gale struck us and swept us rapidly northward past
Albany at a pace faster than I have ever travelled on
a railway.
We still had ballast enough left to assure ten or
twelve hours more travel. But we did not like our
course. The prospects were that we would end our
voyage in the wilderness two hundred or more miles
north of Ottawa. So we rose to 12,500 feet, seeking
an easterly or westerly current, but without avail.
We could not escape the southerly gale. Prudence,
therefore, dictated a landing before nightfall. Land-
ing in the high gale was both difficult and dan-
[147]
THE RED-BLOODED
gerous, and was not accomplished until we were all
much bruised and scratched in the oak thicket
Donaldson chose for our descent.
Thus the first voyage of the good airship Barnum
ended at 6 :07 p. m. on the farm of E. R. Young, nine
miles north of Saratoga.
A year later the Barnum rose for the last time —
from Chicago — and to this day the fate of the stanch
craft and her brave captain remains an unsolved
mystery.
tl48l
CHAPTER VII
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
LIFE was never dull in Grant County, New
Mexico, in the early eighties. There was
always something doing — usually something
the average law-abiding, peace-loving citizen would
have been glad enough to dispense with. To say
that life then and there was insecure is to describe
altogether too feebly a state of society and an en-
vironment wherein Death, in one violent form or an-
other, was ever abroad, seldom long idle, always alert
for victims.
When the San Carlos Apaches, under Victoria, Ju,
or Geronimo, were not out gunning for the whites,
the whites were usually out gunning for one another
over some trivial difference. Everybody carried a
gun and was more or less handy with it. Indeed, it
was a downright bad plan to carry one unless you
were handy. For with gunning — the game most
played, if not precisely the most popular — every one
was supposed to be familiar with the rules and to
know how to play; and In a game where every hand
is sure to be " called, " no one ever suspected another
of being out on a sheer " bluff. " Thus the coroner
[ 149 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
invariably declared it a case of suicide where one man
drew a gun on another and failed to use it.
This highly explosive state of society was not due
to the fact that there were few peaceable men in the
country, for there were many of them, men of char-
acter and education, honest, and as law-abiding as
their peculiar environment would permit. Moreover,
the percentage of professional " bad men " — and this
was a profession then — was comparatively small. It
was due rather to the fact that every one, no matter
how peaceable his inclinations, was compelled to carry
arms habitually for self-defence, for the Apaches
were constantly raiding outside the towns, and white
outlaws inside. And with any class of men who con-
stantly carry arms, it always falls out that a weapon
is the arbiter of even those minor personal differences
which in the older and more effete civilization of the
East are settled with fists or in a petty court.
The prevailing local contempt for any man who
was too timid to "put up a gun fight" when the
etiquette of a situation demanded it, was expressed
locally in the phrase that one " could take a corncob
and a lightning bug and make him run himself to
death trying to get away." It is clearly unnecessary
to explain why the few men of this sort in the com-
munity did not occupy positions of any particular
prominence. Their opinions did not seem to carry
[150]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
as much weight as those of other gentlemen who were
known to be notably quick to draw and shoot.
I even recall many instances where the pistol en-
tered into the pastimes of the community. One in-
stance will stand telling:
A game of poker (rather a stiff one) had been
going on for about a fortnight in the Red Light Sa-
loon. The same group of men, five or six old friends,
made up the game every day. All had varying suc-
cess but one, who lost every day. And, come to think
of it, his luck varied too, for some days he lost more
than others. While he did not say much about his
losings, it was observed that his temper was not
improving.
This sort of thing went on for thirteen days. The
thirteenth day the loser happened to come in a little
late, after the game was started. It also happened
that on this particular day one of the players had
brought in a friend, a stranger in the town, to join
the game. When the loser came in, therefore, he was
introduced to the stranger and sat down. A hand
was dealt him. He started to play it, stopped, rapped
on the table for attention, and said:
'^Boys, I want to make a personal explanation to
this yere stranger. Stranger, this yere game is sure
a tight wad for a smoothbore. I 'm loser in it, an' a
heavy one, for exactly thirteen days, and these
[151]
THE RED-BLOODED
boys all understand that the first son of a gun I find
I can beat, I 'm going to take a six-shooter an' make
him play with me a week. Now, if you has no ob-
jections to my rules, you can draw cards. "
Luckily for the stranger, perhaps, the thirteenth
day was as bad for the loser as its predecessors.
Outside the towns there were only three occupa-
tions in Grant County in those years, cattle ranch-
ing, mining, and fighting Apaches, all of a sort to
attract and hold none but the sturdiest types of real
manhood, men inured to danger and reckless of it.
In the early eighties no faint-heart came to Grant
County unless he blundered in — and any such were
soon burning the shortest trail out. These men were
never better described in a line than when, years ago,
at a banquet of California Forty-niners, Joaquin
Miller, the poet of the Sierras, speaking of the
splendid types the men of forty-nine represented,
said:
" The cowards never started, and all the weak died
on the road!"
Within the towns, also, there were only three oc-
cupations: first, supplying the cowmen and rainerfl
whatever they needed, merchandise wet and dry, law
mundane and spiritual, for although neither court
nor churches were working overtime, they were avail-
able for the few who had any use for them; second,
gambling, at monte, poker, or faro ; and, third, figur-
[152]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
ing how to slip through the next twenty-four hours
without getting a heavier load of lead in one's system
than could be conveniently carried, or how to stay
happily half shot and yet avoid coming home on a
shutter, unhappily shot, or, having an active enemy
on hand, how best to "get" him.
Thus, while plainly the occupations of Grant
County folk were somewhat limited in variety, in the
matter of interest and excitement their games were
wide open and the roof off.
Nor did all the perils to life in Grant County lurk
within the burnished grooves of a gun barrel, accord-
ing to certain local points of view, for always it is the
most unusual that most alarms, as when one of my
cowboys " allowed he'd go to town for a week, " and
was back on the ranch the evening of the second day.
Asked why he was back so soon, he replied :
"Well, fellers, one o' them big depot water tanks
burnt plumb up this mawnin', an' reckonin' whar
that'd happen a feller might ketch fire anywhere in
them little old town trails, I jes' nachally pulled my
freight for camp!"
But a cowboy is the subject of this story — Kit
Joy. His genus, and striking types of the genus, have
been so cleverly described, especially by Lewis and by
Adams (some day I hope to meet Andy) that I need
say little of it here. Still, one of the cowboy's
most notable and most admirable traits has not
[153]
THE RED-BLOODED
been emphasized so much as it deserves: I mean his
downright reverence and respect for womanhood. No
real cowboy ever wilfully insulted any woman, or lost
a chance to resent any insult offered by another.
Indeed, it was an article of the cowboy creed never
broken, and all well knew it. So it happened that
when one day a cowboy, in a crowded car of a train
held up by bandits, was appealed to by an Eastern
lady in the next seat, —
"Heavens! I have four hundred dollars in my
purse which I cannot afford to lose; please, sir, tell
me how I can hide it. "
Instantly came the answer:
" Shucks ! miss, stick it in yer sock ; them fellers
has nerve enough to hold up a train an' kill any feller
that puts up a fight, but nary one o' them has nerve
enough to go into a woman's sock after her bank
roll!"
Kit Joy was a cowboy working on the X ranch on
the Gila. He was a youngster little over twenty. It
was said of him that he had left behind him in Texas
more or less history not best written in black ink, but
whether this was true or not I do not know. Certain it
is that he was a reckless dare-devil, always foremost
in the little amenities cowboys loved to indulge in
when they came to town, such as shooting out the
lights in saloons and generally " shelling up the settle-
rnent, " — which meant taking a friendly shot at about
[ 154 ]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
everything that showed up on the streets. Neverthe-
less, Kit in the main was thoroughly good-natured
and amiable.
Early in his career in Silver City it was observed
that perhaps his most distinguishing trait was cu-
riosity. Ultimately his curiosity got him into trouble,
as it does most people who indulge it. His first dis-
play of curiosity in Silver was a very great surprise,
even to those who knew him best. It was also a dis-
appointment.
A tenderfoot, newly arrived, appeared on the
streets one day in knickerbockers and stockings. Kit
was in town and was observed watching the tender-
foot. To the average cowboy a silk top hat was like
a red flag to a bull, so much like it in fact that the
jhat was usually lucky to escape with less than half
a dozen holes through it. But here in these knee-
breeches and stockings was something much more
bizarre and exasperating than a top hat, from a cow-
boy's point of view. The effect on Kit was therefore
closely watched by the bystanders.
No one fancied for a moment that Kit would do less
than undertake to teach the tenderfoot " the cowboy's
hornpipe," not a particularly graceful but a very
quick step, which is danced most artistically when a
bystander is shooting at the dancer's toes. Indeed,
the ball was expected to open early. To every one's
surprise and disappointment, it did not. Instead, Kit
[155]
THE RED-BLOODED
dropped in behind the tenderfoot and began to follow
him about town — followed him for at least an hour.
Every one thought he was studying up some more
unique penalty for the tenderfoot. But they were
wrong, all wrong.
As a matter of fact, Kit was so far consumed with
curiosity that he forgot everything else, forgot even
to be angry. At last, when he could stand it no
longer, he walked up to the tenderfoot, detained him
gently by the sleeve, and asked in a tone of real sym-
pathy and concern: "Say, mistah! To' God,
won't yo' mah let yo' wear long pants ? "
Naturally the tenderfoot's indignation was aroused
and expressed, but Kit's sympathies for a man con-
demned to such a juvenile costume were so far stirred
that he took no notice of it.
Kit was a typical cowboy, industrious, faithful, un-
complaining, of the good old Southern Texas breed.
In the saddle from daylight till dark, riding com-
pletely down to the last jump in them two or three
horses a day, it never occurred to him even to growl
when a stormy night, with thunder and lightning, pro-
longed his customary three-hours' turn at night guard
round the herd to an all-night's vigil. He took it as
a matter of course. And his rope and running iron
were ever ready, and his weather eye alert for a
chance to catch and decorate with the X brand any
stray cattle that ventured within his range. This
[186]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
was a peculiar phase of cowboy character. While
not himself profiting a penny by these inroads on
neighboring herds, he was never quite so happy as
when he had added another maverick to the herd
bearing his employer's brand, an increase always
obtained at the expense of some of the neighbors.
One night on the Spring round-up, the day's work
finished, supper eaten, the night horses caught and
saddled, the herd in hand driven into a close circle
and bedded down for the night in a little glade in the
hills. Kit was standing first relief. The day's drive
had been a heavy one, the herd was well grazed and
watered in the late afternoon, the night was fine ; and
so the twelve hundred or fifteen hundred cattle in the
herd were lying down quietly, giving no trouble to the
night herders. Kit, therefore, was jogging slowly
round the herd, softly jingling his spurs and humming
some rude love song of the sultry sort cowboys never
tire of repeating. The stillness of the night super-
induced reflection. With naught to interrupt It, Kit's
curiosity ran farther afield than usual.
Recently down at X.ordsburg, with the outfit ship-
ping a train-load of beeves, he had seen the Overland
Express empty its load of passengers for supper, a
crowd of well-dressed men and women, the latter bril-
liant with the bright colors cowboys love and with
glittering gems. To-night he got to thinking about
them.
[ 157 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
Wherever did they all come from? IIov/ ever did
they get so much money? Surely they must come
from 'Frisco. No lesser place could possibly turn
out such magnificence. Then Kit let his fancy wan-
der off into crude cowboy visions of what 'Frisco
might be like, for he had never seen a city.
"What a buster of a town 'Frisco must be!" Kit
soliloquized. " Must have more'n a hundred saloons
an' more slick gals than the X brand has heifers.
What a lot o' fun a feller could have out thar!
Only I reckon them gals wouldn't look at him
more'n about onct unless he was well fixed for dough.
Reckon they don't drink nothin' but wine out thar,
nor eat nothin' but oysters. An' wine an' oysters
costs money, oodles o' money ! That 's the worst of it !
S'pose it'd take more'n a month's pay to git a feller
out thar on the kiars, an' then about three months'
pay to git to stay a week. Reckon that 's jes' a little
too rich for Kit's blood. But, jiminy! Wouldn't
I like to have a good, big, fat bank roll an' go thar ! "
Here was a crisis suddenly come in Kit's life,
although he did not then realize it. It is entirely im-
probable he had ever before felt the want of money.
His monthly pay of thirty-five dollars enabled him to
sport ft pearl-handled six-shooter and silver-mounted
bridle bit and spurs, kept him well clothed, and
gave him an occasional spree in town. What more
could any reasonable cowboy ask.?
[158]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
Bui to-night the very elements and all nature were
against him. Even a light dash of rain to rouse the
sleeping herd, or a hungry cow straying out into the
darkness, would have been sufficient to divert and
probably save him; but nothing happened. The
night continued fine. The herd slept on. And Kit
was thus left an easy prey, since covetousness had
come to aid curiosity in compassing his ruin.
"A bank roll! A big, fat, full-grown, long-
horned, four-year-old roll! That's what a feller
wants to do 'Frisco right. Nothin' less. But whar 's
it comin' from, an' when.? S'pose I brands a few
mavericks an' gits a start on my own ? No use. Kit ;
that 's too slow ! Time you got a proper roll you'd be
so old the skeeters wouldn't even bite you, to say
nothin' of a gal a-kissin' of you. 'Pears like you ain't
liable to git thar very quick. Kit, 'less you rustles
mighty peart somewhar. Talkin' of rustlin', ^what 's
the matter with that anyway ? "
A cold glitter came in Kit's light blue eyes. The
muscles of his lean, square jaws worked nervously.
His right hand dropped caressingly on the handle of
his pistol.
" That 's the proper caper. Kit. Why did n't you
think of it before? Rustle, damn you, an', ef you're
any good, mebbe so you can git to 'Frisco afore frost
comes, or anywhere else you likes. Rustle ! By jiminy,
I 've got it ; I '11 jes' stand up that thar Overland Ex-
[159]
THE RED-BLOODED
press. Them fellers what rides on it's got more'n
they 've got any sort o' use for. What 's the matter
with makin' 'em whack up with a feller? 'Course
they '11 kick, an' thar '11 be a whole passle o' marshals
an' sheriffs out after you, but what o' that? Reckon
Old Blue '11 carry you out o' range. He 's the longest-
winded chunk o' horse meat in these parts. Then
you '11 have to stay out strictly on the scout fer a few
weeks, till they gits tired o' huntin' of you, so you
can slip out o' this yere neck o' woods 'thout leavin' a
trail.
" An' Lord ! but won't it be fun ! 'Bout as much
fun, I reckon, as doin' 'Frisco. Won't them ten-
derfeet beller when they hears the guns a-crackin' an'
the boys a-yellin'! Le' see; wonder who I'd better
take along?"
Scruples? Kit had none. Bred and raised a
merry freebooter on the unbranded spoils of the cat-
tle range, it was no long step from stealing a mav-
erick to holding up a train.
With a man of perhaps any other class, a plan to
engage in a new business enterprise of so much
greater magnitude than any of those he had been
accustomed to would have been made the subject of
long consideration. Not so with Kit. Cowboy life
compels a man to think quickly, and often to act
quicker than he finds it convenient to think. The
hand skilled to catch the one possible instant when the
[160]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
wide, circling loop of the lariat may be successfully
thrown, and the eye and finger trained to accurate
snap-shooting, do not well go with a mind likely to be
long in reaching a resolution or slow to execute one.
So Kit at once began to cast about for two or three
of the right sort of boys to join him. Three were
quickly chosen out of his own and a neighboring outfit.
They were Mitch Lee and Taggart, two white cow-
boys of his own type and temper, and George Cleve-
land, a negro, known as a desperate fellow, game for
anything. It needed no great argument to secure
the co-operation of these men. A mere tip of the lark
and the loot to be had was enough. The boys saw
their respective bosses. They "allowed they'd lay
off for a few days and go to town." So they were
paid off, slung their Winchesters on their saddles,
mounted their favorite horses, and rode away. They
met in Silver City, coming in singly. There they
purchased a few provisions. Then they separated
and rode singly out of town, to rendezvous at a cer-
tain point on the Miembres River.
The point of attack chosen was the little station of
Gage (tended by a lone operator), on the Southern
Pacific Railway west of Deming, a point then reached
by the west-bound express at twilight. The evening
of the second day after leaving the Gila, Kit and his
three compadres rode into Gage. One or two signifi-
cant passes with a six-shooter hypnotized the station
[161]
THE RED-BLOODED
agent into a docile tool. A dim red light glimmered
away off in the east. As the minutes passed, it grew
and brightened fast. Then a faint, confused murmur
came singing over the rails to the ears of the waiting
bandits. The light brightened and grew until it
looked like a great dull red sun, and then the thunder
of the train was heard.
Time for action had come!
The agent was made to signal the engineer to stop.
With lever reversed and air brakes on, the train was
nearly stopped when the engine reached the station.
But seeing the agent surrounded by a group of armed
men, the engineer shut off the air and sought to throw
his throttle open. His purpose discovered, a quick
snapshot from Mitch Lee laid him dead, and, spring-
ing into the cab, Mitch soon persuaded the fireman
to stop the ticain.
Instantly a fusillade of pistol shots and a mad
chorus of shrill cowboy yells broke out, that ter-
rorized train crew and passengers into docility.
Within fifteen minutes the express car was sacked,
the postal car gutted, the passengers were laid under
unwilling contribution, and Kit and his pals were rid-
ing northward into the night, heavily loaded with loot.
Riding at great speed due north, the party soon
reached the main travelled road up the Miembres, in
whose loose shifting sands they knew their trail could
not be picked up. Still forcing the pace, they reached
[ 162 ]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
the rough hill-country east of Silver early in the night,
cached their plunder safely, and a little after midnight
were carelessly bucking a monte game in a Silver
City saloon. The next afternoon they quietly rode
out of town and joined their respective outfits, to wait
until the excitement should blow over.
Of course the telegraph soon started the hue and
cry. Officers from Silver, Deming, and Lordsburg
were soon on the ground, led by Harvey Whitehill,
the famous old sheriff of Grant County. But of clue
there was none. Naturally the station agent had
come safely out of his trance, but with that absence of
memory of what had happened characteristic of the
hypnotized. The trail disappeared in the sands of
the Miembres road. Shrewd old Harvey Whitehill
was at his wit's end.
Many days passed in fruitless search. At last,
riding one day across the plain at some distance from
the line of flight north from Gage, Whitehill found a
fragment of a Kansas newspaper. As soon as he
saw it he remembered that a certain merchant of Silver
came from the Kansas town where this paper was
published. Hurrying back to Silver, Whitehill saw
the merchant, who identified the paper and said that
he undoubtedly was its only subscriber in Silver.
Asked if he had given a copy to any one, he finally
recalled that some time before, about the period of the
robbery, he had wrapped in a piece of this news-
[ 163 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
paper some provisions he had sold to a negro named
Cleveland and a white man he did not know.
Here was the clue, and Whitehill was quick to fol-
low it. Meeting a negro on the street, he pretended to
want to hire a cook. The negro had a job. Well,
did he not know some one else.? By the way, where
was George Cleveland.'^
"Oh, boss, he done left de Gila dis week an' gone
ober to Socorro," was the answer.
Two days later Whitehill found Cleveland in a So-
corro restaurant, got the "drop" on him, told him
his pals were arrested and had confessed that they
were in the robbery, but that he, Cleveland, had killed
Engineer Webster. This brought the whole story.
"'Foh God, boss, I nebber killed dat engineer.
Mitch Lee done it, an' him an' Taggart an' Kit Joy,
dey done lied to you outrageous. "
Within a few days, caught singly, in ignorance of
Cleveland's arrest, and taken completely by surprise,
Joy, Taggart, and Lee were captured on the Gila and
jailed, along with Cleveland, at Silver City, held to
await the action of the next grand jury.
But strong walls did not a prison make adequate
to hold these men. Before many weeks passed, an
escape was planned and executed. Two other prison-
ers, one a man wanted in Arizona, and the other a
Mexican horse-thief, were allowed to participate in
the outbreak.
[ 164 ]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
Taken unawares, their guard was seized and bound
with little difficulty. Quickly arming themselves
in the jail office, these six desperate men dashed out
of the jail and into a neighboring livery stable, seized
horses, mounted, and rode madly out of town, firing
at every one in sight. In Silver in those days no gen-
tleman's trousers fitted comfortably without a pistol
stuck in the waistband. Therefore, the flying des-
peradoes received as hot a fire as they sent. By this
fire Cleveland's horse was killed before they got out of
town, but one of his pals stopped and picked him up.
Instantly the town was in an uproar of excitement.
Every one knew that the capture of these men meant
a fight to the death. As usual in such emergencies,
there were more talkers than fighters. Nevertheless,
six men were in pursuit as soon as they could saddle
and mount. The first to start was the driver of an
express wagon, a man named Jackson, who cut his
horse loose from the traces, mounted bareback, and
flew out of town only a few hundred yards behind the
prisoners. Six others, led by Charlie Shannon and
La Per, were not far behind Jackson. The men of
this party were greatly surprised to find that a Boston
boy of twenty, a tenderfoot lately come to town, who
had scarcely ever ridden a horse or fired a rifle, was
among their number, weU mounted and armed — a
man with a line of ancestry worth while, and himself
a worthy survival of the best of it.
[165]
THE RED-BLOODED
The chase was hot. Jackson was well in advance,
engaging the fugitives with his pistol, while the fugi-
tives were returning the fire and throwing up puffs of
dust all about Jackson. Behind spurred Shannon
and his party.
At length the pursuit gained. Five miles out of
Silver, in the Pinon Hills to the northwest, too close
pressed to run farther, the fugitives sprang from their
horses and ran into a low post oak thicket covering
about two acres, where, crouching, they could not
be seen. The six pursuers sent back a man to guide
the sheriff's party and hasten reinforcements, and
began shelling the thicket and surrounding it. A few
minutes later Whitehill rode up with seven more men,
and the thicket was effectually surrounded. To the
surprise of every one, a hot fire poured into the
thicket failed to bring a single answering shot.
Whitehill was no man to waste ammunition on such
chance firing, so he ordered a charge. His little com-
mand rode into and through the thicket at full speed,
only to find their quarry gone, gone all save one.
The Mexican lay dead, shot through the head ! Kit's
party had dashed through the thicket without stop-
ping, on to another, and their trail was shortly found
leading up a rugged canon of the Pinos Altos Range.
Whitehill divided his party. Three men followed
up the bottom of the canon on foot, five mounted
flankers were thrown out on either side. At last, high
[166]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
up the canon, Kit's party was found at bay, lying in
some thick underbrush. It was a desperate position
to attack, but the pursuers did not hesitate. Dis-
mounting, they advanced on foot with rifles cocked,
but with all the caution of a hunter trailing a wounded
grizzly. The negro opened the ball at barely twenty
yards' range with a shot that drove a hole through the
Boston boy's hat. Dropping at first with surprise,
for he had not seen the negro till the instant he rose
to fire, the Boston boy returned a quick shot that hap-
pened to hit the negro just above the centre of the
forehead and rolled him over dead.
Approaching from another direction. Shannon was
first to draw Taggart's fire. Taggart was lying
hidden in the brush; Shannon standing out in the
open. Shot after shot they exchanged, until pres-
ently a ball struck the earth in front of Taggart's
face and filled his eyes full of gravel and sand.
Blinded for the time, he called for quarter, and came
out of the brush with his hands up and another man
with him. Asked for his pistol, Taggart replied:
" Damn you, that 's empty, or I'd be shooting yet."
Meantime, Whitehill was engaging Mitch Lee. In
a few minutes, shot through and helpless, Lee sur-
rendered. It was quick, hot work !
All but Kit were now killed or captured. He had
been separated from his party, and La Fer was seen
trailing him on a neighboring hillside.
[167]
THE RED-BLOODED
At this juncture the sheriff detailed Shannon to
return to town and get a wagon to bring in the dead
and wounded, while he started to j oin La Fer in pur-
suit of Kit.
An hour later, as Shannon was leaving town with a
wagon to return to the scene of the fight, a mob of
men, led by a shyster lawyer, joined him and swore
they proposed to lynch the prisoners. This was too
much for Shannon's sense of frontier proprieties.
So, rising in his wagon, he made a brief but effective
speech.
"Boys, none of our men are hurt, although it is
no fault of our prisoners. A dozen of us have gone
out and risked our lives to capture these men. You
men have not seen fit, for what motives we will not
discuss, to help us. Now, I tell you right here that
any who want can come, but the first man to raise a
hand against a prisoner I '11 kill."
Shannon's return escort was small.
But once more back in the hills of the Pinos Altos,
Shannon found a storm raised he could not quell,
even if his own sympathies had not drifted with it
when he learned its cause. His friend La Fer lay
dead, filled full of buckshot by Kit before Whitehill's
reinforcements had reached him, while Kit had slipped
away through the underbrush, over rocks that left no
trail.
La Fer*s death maddened his friends. There
[168]
THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER
was little discussion. Only one opinion prevailed.
Taggart and Lee must die.
Nothing was known of the prisoner wanted in
Arizona, so he was spared.
Taggart and Lee were put in the wagon, the for-
mer tightly bound, the latter helpless from his wound.
Short rope halters barely five feet long were stripped
from the horses, knotted round the prisoners' necks,
and fastened to the limb of a juniper tree. Taggart
climbed to the high wagon seat, took a header and
broke his neck. The wagon was then pulled away
and Lee strangled.
With Cleveland, Lee, and Taggart dead. Engineer
Webster and La Fer were fairly well avenged. But
Kit was still out, known as the leader and the man
who shot La Fer, and for days the hills were full of
men hunting him. Hiding in the rugged, thickly tim-
bered hills of the Gila, taking needed food at night,
at the muzzle of his gun, from some isolated ranch, he
was hard to capture.
Had Kit chosen to mount himself and ride out of
the country, he might have escaped for good. But
this he would not do. Dominated still by the fatal
curiosity and covetousness that first possessed him,
later mastered him, and then drove him into crime,
bound to repossess himself of his hidden treasure and
go out to see the world. Kit would not leave the Gila.
He was alone, unaided, with no man left his friend,
[169]
THE RED-BLOODED
with all men on the alert to capture or to kill him,
the unequal contest nevertheless lasted for many
weeks.
There was only one man Kit at all trusted, a
"nester" (small ranchman) named Racketty Smith.
One day. looking out from a leafy thicket in which he
lay hid, Kit saw Racketty going along the road. A
lonely outcast, craving the sound of a human voice,
believing Racketty at least neutral, Kit hailed him
and approached. As he drew near, Racketty covered
him with his rifle and ordered him to surrender. Sur-
prised, taken entirely unawares. Kit started to jump
for cover, when Racketty fired, shattered his right leg
and brought him to earth. To spring upon and dis-
arm Kit was the work of an instant.
Kit was sentenced to imprisonment at Santa Fe. A
few years ago, having gained three years by good
behavior, Kit was released, after having served four-
teen years.
However Kit may still hanker for " a big, fat, four-
year-old, long-horned bank roll," and whatever may
be his curiositj tc **do 'Frisco proper," it is not
likely he will make any more history as a train robber,
for at heart Kit was always a better "good man"
than " bad man."
Cno]
CHAPTER Vm
CIECUS DAY AT MANCOS
COWBOYS were seldom respecters of the feel-
ings of their fellows. Few topics were so
sacred or incidents so grave they were not
made the subject of the rawest jests. Leading a life
of such stirring adventure that few days passed with-
out some more or less serious mishap, reckless of life,
unheedful alike of time and eternity, they made the
smallest trifles and the biggest tragedies the subjects
of chaff and badinage till the next diverting occur-
rence. But to the Cross Canon outfit Mat Barlow's
love for Netty Nevins was so obviously a downright
worship, an all-absorbing, dominating cult, that, in a
way, and all unknown to her, she became the nearest
thing to a religion the Cross Caiionites ever had.
Eight years before Mat had come among them a
green tenderfoot from a South Missouri village,
picked up in Durango by Tom McTigh, the foreman,
on a glint of the eye and set of the jaw that suggested
workable material. Nor was McTigh mistaken.
Mat took to range work like a duck to water. Within
a year he could rope and tie a mossback with the best,
and in scraps with Mancos Jim's Pah-Ute horse raid-
I ni ]
THE RED-BLOODED
ers had proved himself as careless a dare-devil as the
oldest and toughest trigger-twitcher of the lot.
But persuade and cajole as much as they liked,
none of the outfit were ever able to induce Mat to
pursue his education as a cowboy beyond the details
incident to work and frolic on the open range. Old
past-masters in the classics of cowboy town deport-
ment, expert light shooters, monte players, dance-hall
beaux, elbow-crookers, and red-eye riot-starters la-
bored faithfully with Mat, but all to no purpose. To
town with them he went, but with them in their de-
bauches he never joined; indeed as a rule he even re-
fused to discuss such incidents with them academically.
Thus he delicately but plainly made it known to the
outfit that he proposed to keep his mind as clean
as his conduct.
Such a curiosity as Mat was naturally closely
studied. The combined intelligence of the outfit was
trained upon him, for some time without result. He
was the knottiest puzzle that ever hit Cross Canon.
[At first he was suspected of religious scruples and
nicknamed " Circuit Rider." But presently it be-
came apparent that he owned ability and will to curse
a fighting outlaw bronco till the burning desert air
felt chill, and it became plain he feared God as little
as man. Mat had joined the outfit in the Autumn,
when for several weeks it was on the jump ; first gath-
ering and shipping beeves, then branding calves,
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
lastly moving the herd down to its Winter range on
the San Juan. Throughout this period Cross
Canon's puzzle remained hopeless; but the very first
evening after the outfit went into Winter quarters at
the home ranch, the puzzle was solved.
Ranch mails were always small, no matter how in-
frequent their coming or how large the outfit. The
owner's business involved little correspondence, the
boys' sentiments inspired less. Few with close home-
ties exiled themselves on the range. Many were ** on
the scout" from the scene of some remote shooting
scrape and known by no other than a nickname. For
most of them such was the rarity of letters that often
have I seen a cowboy turning and studying an un-
opened envelope for a half-day or more, wondering
whoever it was from and guessing whatever its con-
tents could be. Thus it was one of the great sensa-
tions of the season for McTigh and his red-sashers,
when the ranch cook produced ^\e letters for Circuit
Rider, all addressed in the same neat feminine hand,
all bearing the same post mark. And when, while the
rest were washing for supper, disposing of war sacks,
or "making down" blankets. Mat squatted in the
chimney corner to read his letters, Lee Skeats impres-
sively whispered to Priest :
"Ben, I jest nachally hope never to cock another
gun ef that thar little oP Circuit hain't got a gal
that 's stuck to him tighter'n a tick makin' a gotch
[173]
THE RED-BLOODED
ear, or that ain't got airy damn thing to do to hum
but write letters. Size o' them five he 's got must 'a
kept her settin' up nights to make 'em ever since Cir-
cuit jumped the hum reservation. Did you ever hear
of a feller gettin' ^\q letters from a gal to wonst.'^"
"I shore never did," answered Ben; "Circuit
must 'a been 'prentice to some big Medicine Man back
among his tribe and have a bagful o' hoodoos hid out
somewhere. He ain't so damn hi jus to look at, but
he shore never knocked no gal plum loco that away
with his p'rsn'l beauty. Must be some sort o' Injun
medicine he works."
"Cain't be from his mother," cogitated Lee.
"Writin' ain't trembly none — looks like it was writ
by a school-marm, an' a lally-cooler at that. Cir-
cuit will have to git one o' them pianer-like writin'
makers and keep poundin' it on the back till it hollers,
ef he allows to lope close up in that gal's writin' class.
"Lord! but won't thar be fun for us all Winter
he'pin' him 'tend to his correspondence !
" Let 's you an' me slip round and tip off the outfit
to shet up till after supper, an' then all be ready with
a hot line o' useful hints 'bout his answerin' her."
Ben joyously fell in with Lee's plan. The tips
were quickly passed round. But none of the hints
were ever given, not a single one. A facer lay ahead
of them beside which the mere receipt of the five let-
ters was nothing. To be sure, the letters were the
[174]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANGOS
greatest sensation the outfit had enjoyed since they
stood off successfully two troops of U. S. Cavalry,
come to arrest them for killing twenty maurauding
Utes. But what soon followed filled them with an
astonishment that stilled their mischievous tongues,
stirred sentiments long dormant, and ultimately, in a
measure, tuned their own heart-strings into chord
with the sweet melody ringing over Circuit's own.
Supper was called, and upon it the outfit fell — all
but Circuit. They attacked it wolf-fashion accord-
ing to their habit, bolting the steaming food in a
silence absolute but for the crunching of jaws and the
shrill hiss of sipped coffee. The meal was half over
before Circuit, the last letter finished, tucked his five
treasures inside his shirt, stepped over the bench to a
vacant place at the table, and hastily swallowed a
light meal ; in fact he rose while the rest were still busy
gorging themselves. And before Lee or the others
were ready to launch at Circuit any shafts of their
rude wit, his manoeuvres struck them dumb with
curiosity.
Having hurried from the table direct to his bunk,
Circuit was observed delving in the depths of his war
sack, out of which he produced a set of clean under-
clothing, complete from shirt to socks, and a razor.
Besides these he carefully laid out his best suit of store
clothes, and from beneath the ** heading " of the bunk
he pulled a new pair of boots. All this was done with
[ ns ]
THE RED-BLOODED
a rapidity and method that evinced some set purpose
which the outfit could not fathom, a purpose become
the more puzzling when, five minutes later, Circuit re-
turned from the kitchen bearing the cook's wash-tub
and a pail of warm water. The tub he deposited and
filled in an obscure corner of the bunk-room, and
shortly thereafter was stripped to the buff, labori-
ously bathing himself. The bath finished, Circuit
carefully shaved, combed his hair, and dressed him-
self in his cleanest and best.
While he was dressing. Bill Ball caught breath
enough to whisper to Lee : " By cripes ! I've got it.
Circuit 's got a hunch some feller 's tryin' to rope an'
hobble his gal, an' he 's goin' to ask Tom for his time,
fork a cayuse, an' hit a lope for a railroad that'll
take him to whatever little oP humanyville his gal
lives at."
" Lope hell," answered Lee ; " it 's a run he 's goin'
to hit, with one spur in the shoulder an' th' other in
th' flank. Why, th' way he 's throwin' that whisker-
cutter at his face, he 's plumb shore to dewlap and
wattle his fool self till you could spot him in airy herd
o' humans as fer as you could see him."
But Bill's guess proved wide of the mark.
As soon as Circuit's dressing was finished and he
had received assurance from the angular fragment of
mirror nailed above the wash-basin that his hair was
smoothly combed and a new neckerchief neatly knot-
[176]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANGOS
ted, he produced paper and an envelope from his war
sack, seated himself at the end of the long dinner-
table, farthest from the fireplace, lighted a fresh
candle, spread out his five treasures, carefully sharp-
ened a stub pencil, and duly set its lead end a-soak
in his mouth, preparatory to the composition of a
letter. The surprise was complete. Such pains-
taking preparation and elaborate costuming for the
mere writing of a letter none present — or absent, for
that matter — had ever heard of. But it was all so
obviously eloquent of a most tender respect for his
correspondent that boisterous voices were hushed,
and for at least a quarter of an hour the Cross Canon-
ites sat covertly watching the puckered brows, drawn
mouth, and awkwardly crawling pencil of the writer.
Presently Lee gently nudged Ball and passed a
wink to the rest; then all rose and softly tiptoed their
way to the kitchen.
Comfortably squatted on his heels before the cook's
fireplace, Lee quietly observed : " Fellers, I allow it 's
up to us to hold a inquest on th' remains o' my idee
about stringin' Circuit over that thar gal o' his'n. I
moves that th' idee 's done died a-bomin', an' that we
bury her. All that agrees, say so ; any agin it, say
so, 'n' then git their guns an' come outside."
There were no dissenting votes, Lee's motion was
unanimously carried.
"Lee 's plumb right," whispered McTigh; "that
[ 177 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
kid 's got it harder an' worse than airy feller I ever
heerd tell of, too hard for us to lite in stringin' him
'bout it. Never had no gal myself; leastways, no
good one ; been alius like a old buffalo bull whipped
out o' th' herd, sorta flockin' by my lonesome, an' —
an' — " with a husky catch of the voice, " an' that thar
kid 'minds me I must a' been missin' a hell of a lot hit
'pears to me I would n't have no great trouble gittin'
to like."
Then for a time there was silence in the kitchen.
Crouching over his pots, the black cook stared in
surprised inquiry at the semicircle of grim bronzed
faces, now dimly lit by the flickering embers and then
for a moment sharply outlined by the flash of a
cigarette deeply inhaled by nervous lips. The situa-
tion was tense. In each man emotions long dormant,
or perhaps by some never before experienced, were
tumultuously surging ; surging the more tumultuously
for their long dormancy or first recognition. Pres-
ently in a low, hoarse voice that scarcely carried
round the semicircle, Chillili Jim spoke :
"Fellers, Circuit shore 'minds me pow'ful strong
o' my ol' mammy. She was monstrous lovin' to we-
uns ; an' th' way she scrubbed an' fixed up my ol' pa
when he comes home from the break-up o' Terry's
Rangers, with his ol' carcass 'bout as full o' rents an'
holes as his ragged gray war clothes! Alius have
tho't ef I could git to find a gal stuck on me like
[178]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
mammy on pa, I'd drop my rope on her, throw her
"into th' home ranch pasture, an' nail up th' gate fer
keeps."
" 'Minds me o' goin' to meetin' when I was a six-
year-old," mused Mancos Mitch; "when Circuit's
pencil got to smokin' over th' paper an' we-uns got
so dedburned still, 'peared to me like I was back in
th' little ol' meetin'-house in th' mosquito clearin', on
th' banks o' th' Leona in ol' Uvalde County. Th' air
got that quar sort o' dead smell 'ligion alius 'pears to
give to meetin'-houses, an' I could hear th' ol' pa'son
a-tellin' us how it 's th' lovinest that alius gits th'
longest end o' th' rope o' life. Hits me now that ther
ol' sky scout was 'bout right. Feller cain't possibly
keep busy all th' love in his system, workin' it off on
nothin' but a pet hoss or gun ; thar 's alius a hell of a
lot you did n't know you had comes oozin' out when
a proper piece o' calico lets you next."
" Boys," cut in Bill Ball, the dean of the outfit's
shooters-up of town and shooters-out of dance-hall
lights; "boys, I allow it 's up to me to 'pologize to
Circuit. Ef I was n't such a damned o'nery kiyote
I'd o' caught on befo'. But I hain't been runnin' with
th' drags o' th' she herd so long that I can't 'preciate
th' feelin's o' a feller that 's got a good gal stuck on
him, like Circuit. Ef I had one, you-all kin gamble
yer alee all bets would be off with them painted dance-
hall beer jerkers, an' it would be out in th' brush fo'
[179]
THE RED-BLOODED
me while th' corks was poppin', gals cussin', red-eye
flowin', an' chips rattlin'. That thar little oP kid has
my 'spects, an' ef airy o' th' Blue Mountain outfit
tries to string him 'bout not runnin' with them oreide
propositions, I '11 hand 'em lead till my belt 's empty."
Ensued a long silence; at length, by common con-
sent the inquest was adjourned, and the members of
the jury returned to the bunk-room, quiet and solemn
as men entering a death chamber. There at the table
before the guttering candle still sat Circuit, his hair
now badly tousled, his upper lip blackened with pencil
lead, his brows more deeply puckered, his entire under-
lip apparently swallowed, the table littered with rude-
ly scrawled sheets.
Slipping softly to their respective bunks, the boys
peeled and climbed into their blankets. And there
they all lay, wide-awake but silent, for an hour or
two, some watching Circuit curiously, some enviously,
others staring fixedly into the dying fire until from
its dull-glowing embers there rose for some visions of
bare-footed, nut-brown, fustian-clad maids, and for
others the finer lines of silk and lace draped figures,
now long since passed forever out of their lives.
Those longest awake were privileged to witness Cir-
cuit's final ofi^ering at the shrine of his love.
His letter finished, enclosed, addressed, and
stamped, he kissed it and laid it aside, apparently all
unconscious of the presence of his mates, as he had
[ 180 ]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
been since beginning his letter. Then he drew from
beneath his shirt something none of them had seen
before, a buckskin bag, out of which he pulled a fat
blank memorandum book, into which he proceeded to
copy, in as small a hand as he could write, every
line of his sweethearfs letters. Later they learned
that this bag and its contents never left Circuit's
body, nestled always over his heart, suspended by a
buckskin thong !
Out of the close intimacies cow-camp life promotes,
it was not long before the well-nigh overmastering
curiosity of the outfit was satisfied. They learned
how the " little ol' blue-eyed sorrel top," as Bill Ball
had christened her, had vowed to wait faithfully till
Circuit could earn and save enough to make them a
home, and how Circuit had sworn to look into no
woman's eyes till he could again look into hers. Be-
fore many months had passed. Circuit's regular week-
ly letter to Netty — regular when on the ranch —
and the ceremonial purification and personal decking
that preceded it, had become for the Cross Canon
outfit a public ceremony all studiously observed.
None were ever too tired, none too grumpy, to wash,
shave, and " slick up " of letter nights, scrupulously
as Moslems bathe their feet before approaching the
shrine of Mahomet ; and still as Moslems before their
shrine all sat about the bunk-room while Circuit wrote
his letter and copied Netty's last. Indeed, more than
[ 181 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
one well-started wild town orgy was stopped short by
one^of the boys remarking: "Cut it, you kiyotes!
Netty would n't like it!"
And thus the months rolled on till they stacked up
into years, but the interchange of letters never ceased
and the burden of Circuit's buckskin bag grew heavier.
Twice Circuit ventured a financial coup, and both
times lost — invested his savings in horses, losing one
band to Arizona rustlers, and the other to Mancos
Jim's Pah-Utes. After the last experience he took
no further chances and settled down to the slow but
sure plan of hoarding his wages.
Come the Fall of the eighth year of his exile from
Netty, Circuit had accumulated two thousand dollars,
and it was unanimously voted by the Cross Canon out-
fit, gathered in solemn conclave at Circuit's request,
that he might venture to return to claim her. And be-
fore the conclave was adjourned, Lee Skeats, the
chairman, remarked : " Circuit, ef Netty shows airy
sign o' balkin' at th' size o' your bank roll, you kin
jes' tell her that thar 's a bunch out here in Cross
Canon that's been lovin' her sort o' by proxy,
that'll chip into your matrimonial play, plumb
double the size o' your stack, jest fo' th' bono' o'
meetin' up wi' her an' th' pleasure o' seein' their
pardner hitched."
The season's work done and the herd turned loose
on its Winter range on the San Juan, the outfit de-
[182]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
cided to escort Circuit into Mancos and there cele-
brate his coming nuptials. For them the one hundred
and seventy intervening miles of alternating canon
and mesa, much of the journey over trails deadly
dangerous for any creature less sure-footed than a
goat, was no more than a pleasant pasear. Thus it
was barely high noon of the third day when the thirty
Cross Canonites reached their destination.
Deep down in a mighty gorge, nestled beside the
stream that gave its name alike to caiion and to town,
Mancos stewed contentedly in a temperature that
would try the strength and temper of any unaccus-
tomed to the climate of southwestern Colorado,
Framed in Franciscan-gray sage brush, itself gray as
the sage with the dust of pounding hoofs and rushing
whirlwinds, at a little distance Mancos looked like
an aggregation of dead ash heaps, save where, here
and there, dabs of faded paint lent a semblance of
patches of dying embers.
While raw, uninviting, and even melancholy in its
every aspect, for the scattered denizens of a vast re-
gion round about Mancos's principal street was the
local Great White Way that furnished all the fun and
frolic most of them ever knew. To it flocked miners
from their dusky, pine-clad gorges in the north,
grangers from the then new farming settlement in the
Montezuma Valley, cowboys from Blue Mountain, the
Dolores, and the San Juan; Navajos from Chillili,
[ 183 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
Utes from their reservation — a motley lot burn-
ing with untamed elemental passions that called for
pleasure " straight."
Joyously descending upon the town at a breakneck
lope before a following high wind that completely
shrouded them in clouds of dust, it was not until they
pulled up before their favorite feed corral that the
outfit learned that Mancos was revelling in quite the
reddest red-letter day of its existence, the day of its
first visitation by a circus — and also its last for
many a year thereafter.
In the eighties Mancos was forty miles from the
nearest railway, but news of the reckless extrava-
gances of its visiting miners and cowboys tempted
Fells Brothers' ** Greatest Aggregation on Earth of
Ring Artists and Monsters " to visit it. Dusted and
costumed outside of town, down the main street of
Mancos the circus bravely paraded that morning, its
red enameled paint and gilt, its many-tinted tights and
spangles, making a perfect riot of brilliant colors over
the prevailing dull gray of valley and town.
Streets, stores, saloons, and dance halls were
swarming with the outpouring of the ranches and the
mines, men who drank abundantly but in the main a
rollicking, good-natured lot.
While the Cross Canonites were liquoring at the
Fashion Bar (Circuit drinking sarsaparilla), Lame
Johny, the barkeeper, remarked: "You-uns missed
[184]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
it a lot, not seein' the pr'cesh. She were a ring-tailed
tooter for fair, with the damnedest biggest noise-
makin' band jou ever heard, an' th' p'rformers wear-
in' more pr'tys than I ever allowed was made. An'
say, they've got a gal in th' bunch, rider I reckon,
that's jest that damned good to look at it hurts.
Damned ef I kin git her outen my eyes yet. Say,
she's shore prittier than airy red wagon in th' show
— built like a quarter horse, got eyes like a doe, and
a sorrel mane she could hide in. She 's sure a chile
con came proposition, if I ever see one."
" Huh ! " grunted Lee ; " may be a good-looker, but
I'll gamble she ain't in it with our Sorrel-top; hey,
boys.f* Here 's tb our Sorrel-top, fellers, an' th' day
Circuit prances into Mancos wi' her."
" Several who tried to drink and cheer at the same
time lost much of their liquor, but none of their en-
thusiasm. After dinner at Charpiot's, a wretched
counterfeit of the splendid old Denver restaurant of
that name, the Cross Canonites joined the throng
streaming toward the circus.
For his sobriety designated treasurer of the outfit
for the day and night. Circuit marched up to the ticket
wagon, passed in a hundred dollar bill and asked for
thirty tickets. The tickets and change were promptly
handed him. On the first count the change appeared
to be correct, but on a recount Circuit found the
ticket-seller had cunningly folded one twenty double,
[186]
THE RED-BLOODED
so that it appeared as two bills instead of one. Turn-
ing immediately to the ticket-seller, Circuit showed
the deception and demanded correction.
" Change was right ; you can't dope and roll me ;
gwan ! " growled the ticket-agent.
" But it 's plumb wrong, an' you can't rob me none,
you kiyote," answered Circuit; '^hand out another
twenty, and do it sudden ! "
" Chase yourself to hell, you bow-legged hold-up,"
threatened the ticket-seller.
When, a moment later, the ticket man plunged out
of the door of his wagon wildly yelling for his clan, it
was with eyes flooding with blood from a gash in his
forehead due to a resentful tap from the barrel of Cir-
cuit's gun.
Almost in an instant pandemonium reigned and
a massacre was imminent. Stalwart canvasmen
rushed to their chief's call till Circuit's bunch were out-
numbered three to one by tough trained battlers on
many a tented field, armed with hand weapons of all
sorts. Victors these men usually were over the town
roughs it was customarily theirs to handle; but here
before them was a bunch not to be trifled with, a
quiet group of thirty bronzed faces, some grinning
with the anticipated joy of the combat they loved,
some grim as death itself, each affectionately twirling
a gleaming gun. One overt act on the part of the
circus men, and down they would go like ninepins,
[ 186 ]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANGOS
and they knew it — knew it so well that, within two
minutes after they had assembled, all dodged into and
lost themselves in the throng of onlookers like rabbits
darting into their warrens.
"Mighty pore 'pology for real men, them ele-
phant busters," disgustedly observed Bill Ball.
" Come on, fellers, le's go in."
"Nix for me," spoke up Circuit; "I'm that hot
in the collar over him tryin' to rob me I've got no use
for their old show. You-all go in, an' I'll go down to
Chapps' and fix my traps to hit the trail for the rail-
road in the momin'."
On the crest of a jutting bastion of the lofty es-
carpment that formed the west wall of the canon, the
sun lingered for a good-night kiss of the eastern cliffs
which it loved to paint every evening with all the bril-
liant colors of the spectrum; it lingered over loving
memories of ancient days when every niche of the
Mancos cliffs held its little bronze-hued line of primi-
tive worshippers, old and young, devout, prostrate,
fearful of their Red God's nightly absences, suppliant
of his return and continued largess ; over memories of
ceremonials and pastimes barbaric in their elemental
violence, but none more primitively savage than the
new moon looked down upon an hour later.
Supper over, on motion of Lee Skeats the Cross
Canonites had adjourned to the feed corral and gone
into executive session.
[1871
THE RED-BLOODED
Lee called the meeting to order.
"Fellers," he said, "that dod-bumed show makes
my back tired. A few geezers an' gals flipfloopin'
in swings an' a bunch o' dead ones on ol' broad -backed
work bosses that calls theirselves riders! Shucks!
thar hain't one o' th' lot could sit a real twister long
enough to git his seat warm ; about th' second jump
would have 'em clawin' sand.
"Only thing in their hull circus wo'th lookin'
at is that red-maned gal, an' she looks that sweet an'
innercent she don't 'pear to rightly belong in that
thar bare-legged bunch o' she dido-cutters. They-all
must 'a mavericked her recent. Looks like a pr'ty
ripe red apple among a lot o' rotten ones.
" Hated like hell to see her thar, spccir.ll}'^ with next
to nothin' on, fer somehow I could n't he}p her 'mind-
in' me o' our Sorrel-top. Reckon ef we busted up their
damn show, that gal'd git to stay a while in a decent
woman's sort o' clothes. What say, shall we bust
her?"
"Fer one, I sits in an' draw cards in your play
cheerful," promptly responded Bill Ball; "kind o'
hurt me too to see Reddy thar. An' then them ani-
miles hain't gittin' no squar' deal. Never did believe
in cagin' animiles more'n men. Ef they need it bad,
kill 'em ; ef they don't, give 'm a run fo' their money,
way ol' Mahster meant 'em to have when He made 'em.
Let's all saddle up, ride down thar, tie onto their tents,
[ 188 ]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
an' pull 'em down, an' then bust open them cages an'
give every dod-blamed animile th' liberty I allows he
loves same as humans ! An' then, jest to make sure
she's a good job, le's whoop all their bosses ove' to
th' Dolores an' scatter 'em through th' pinons ! "
Bill's motion was unanimously carried, even Cir-
cuit cheerfully consenting, from memories of the out-
rage attempted upon him earlier in the day. Ten
minutes later the outfit charged down upon the cir-
cus at top speed, arriving among the first comers for
the evening performance. Flaming oil torches lit the
scene, making it bright almost as day.
By united action, thirty lariats were quickly looped
round guy ropes and snubbed to saddle horns, and
then, incited by simultaneous spur digs and yells,
thirty fractious broncos bounded away from the tent,
fetching it down in sheets and ribbons, ropes popping
like pistols, the rent canvas shrieking like a creature
in pain, startled animals threshing about their cages
and crying their alarm. Cowboys were never slow
at anything they undertook. In three minutes more
the side shows were tentless, the dwarfs trying to
swarm up the giant's sturdy legs to safety or to hide
among the adipose wrinkles of the fat lady, and the
outfit tackled the cages.
In another three minutes the elephant, with a so-
ciable shot through his off ear to make sure he should
not tarry, was thundering down Mancos's main street,
[ 189 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
trumpeting at every jump, followed by the Hon, the
great tuft of hair at the end of his tail converted, by
a happy thought of Lee Skeats, into a brightly blaz-
ing torch that, so long as the fuel lasted, lighted the
shortest cut to freedom for his escaping mates — for
the lion hit as close a bee-line as possible trying to
outrun his own tail. For the outfit, it was the lark of
their lives. Crashing pistol shots and ringing yells
bore practical testimony to their joy. But they were
not to have it entirely their own way.
Just as they were all balled up before the rhi-
noceros, staggered a bit by his great bulk and
threatening horn, out upon them charged a body of
canvasmen, all the manager could contrive to rally,
for a desperate effort to stop the damage and avenge
the outrage. In their lead ran the ticket-seller, armed
with a pistol and keen for evening up things with the
man who had hit him, dashing straight for Circuit.
Circuit did not see him, but Lee did ; and thus in the
very instant Circuit staggered and dropped to
the crack of his pistol, down beside Circuit pitched the
ticket man with a ball through his head. Then for
two minutes, perhaps, a hell of fierce hand-to-hand
battle raged, cowboy skulls crunching beneath fierce
blows, circus men falling like autumn leaves before the
cowboys' fire. And so the fight might have lasted till
all were down but for a startling diversion.
Suddenly, just as Circuit had struggled to his feet,
[190]
CIBCUS DAY AT MANGOS
out from among the wrecked wagons sprang a dainty
figure in tulle and tights, masses of hair red as the
blood of the battlers streaming in waves behind her,
and fired at the nearest of the common enemy, which
happened to be poor Circuit. Swaying for a moment
with the shock of the wound, down to the ground he
settled like an empty sack, falling across the legs of
the ticket-seller.
Startled and shocked, it seemed, by the con-
sequences of her deed, the woman approached and for
a moment gazed down, horror-stricken, into Circuit's
face. Then suddenly, with a shriek of agony, she
dropped beside him, drew his head into her lap, wiped
the gathering foam from his lips, fondled and kissed
him. Ripping his shirt open at the neck to find his
wound, she uncovered Circuit's buckskin bag and
memorandum book, showing through its centre the
track of a bullet that had finally spent itself in frac-
turing a rib over Circuit's heart, the ticket-seller's
shot, that would have killed him instantly but for the
shielding bulk Netty's treasured letters interposed.
Moved, perhaps, by some subtle instinctive suspicion
of its contents, she glanced within the book, started to
remove it from Circuit's neck, and then gently laid it
back above the heart it so long had lain next and so
lately had shielded.
Meantime about this little group gathered such of
the Cross Canonites as were still upon their legs, while,
£191]
THE RED-BLOODED
glad of the diversion, their enemies hurriedly with-
drew ; round about the outfit stood, their fingers still
clutching smoking guns, but pale and sobered.
Circuit lay with eyes closed, feebly gasping for
breath, and just as the girl's nervous fingers further
rent his shirt and exposed the mortal wound through
the right lung made by her own tiny pistol, Circuit
half rose on one elbow and whispered : " Boys, write
— write Netty I was tryin' to git to her."
And then he fell back and lay still.
For h\e minutes, perhaps, the girl crouched silent
over the body, gazing wide-eyed into the dead face,
stunned, every faculty paralyzed.
Presently Lee softly spoke:
" Sis, if, as I allows, you're Netty, you shore did
Mat a good turn killin' him 'fore he saw you. Would
'a hurt him pow'ful to see you in this bunch; hurts
us 'bout enough, I reckon."
Roused from contemplation of her deed, the girl
rose to her knees, still clinging to Circuit's stiffening
fingers, and sobbingly murmured, in a voice so low
the awed group had to bend to hear her :
" Yes, I'm Netty, and every day while I live I shall
thank God Mat never knew. This is my husband ly-
ing dead beneath Mat. They made me do it — my
family — nagged me to marry Tom, then a rich
horse-breeder of our county, till home was such a hell
I could n't stand it. It was four long years ago, and
[19^]
CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS
never since have I had the heart to own to Mat the
truth. His letters were my greatest joy, and they
breathed a love I little have deserved."
" Reckon that 's dead right, Netty," broke in Bill
Ball ; " hain't a bit shore myself airy critter that ever
stood up in petticoats deserved a love big as Circuit's.
Excuse us, please,"
And at a sign from Bill, six bent and gently lifted
the body and bore it away into the town.
In the twilight of an Autumn day that happened to
be the twenty-second anniversary of Circuit's death,
two grizzled old ranchmen, ambling slowly out of
Mancos along the Dolores trail, rode softly up to a
corner of the burying ground and stoppped. There
within, hard by, a woman bent and gnarled and gray
as the sage-brush about her, was tenderly decking a
grave with pinon wreaths.
" Hope to never cock another gun. Bill Ball, ef she
ain't thar ag'in ! "
" She shore is, Lee," answered Bill ; " provin' we-all
mislaid no bets reconsiderin', an' stakin' Sorrel-top to
a little ranch and brand."
Thus, happily, does time sweeten the bitterest
memories.
[193]
CHAPTER IX
ACBOSS THE BOEDEE
YES, there he was, just ahead of me on the plat-
form of the Union Depot in Kansas City, my
partner, James Terry Gardiner, who had
wired me to meet him there a few weeks after I had
closed the sale of our Deadman Ranch, in November,
1882. While his back was turned to me, there was
no mistaking the lean but sturdy figure and alert
step.
From the vigorous slap of cordiality I gave him
on the shoulder, he winced and shrank, crying : " Oh,
please don't, old man. Been sleeping in Mexican
northers for a fortnight, and it's got my shoulder
muscles tied in rheumatic knots. Don Nemecio Gar-
cia started me off from Lampasos with the assurance
that my ambulance was generously provisioned and
provided with his own camp-bed, but when night of
the first day's journey came, I found the food limited
to tortillaSy chorisos, and coffee, and the bed a sheep-
skin — no more. Stupid of an old campaigner not to
investigate his equipment before starting, was it
not?"
"Worse than that, I should say — sheer madness,"
1 answered. " How did it happen ? "
[ 194 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
"Well, you see, Don Nemecio is the Alcalde oi his
city, and he showered me with such grandiloquent
Spanish phrases of concern for my comfort that I
fancied he had outfitted me in extraordinary luxury.
" But that 's over now, thank goodness. And now
to business.
" In the north of the State of Coahuila, one hundred
miles west of the Rio Grande border, lies the little
town called Villa de Musquiz. To the north and
west of it for two hundred miles stretches the great
plain the natives call El Desierto, known on the map
as Bohon de Mapimi, the resort of none but bandits,
smuggler Lipans, and Mescaleros. Into it the na-
tives never venture, and little of it is known except the
scant information brought back by scouting cavalry
details.
" Just south of the town lie the Cedral Coal Mines
I have been examining — but that is neither here nor
there. What I want to know is, are you game for a
new ranch deal?"
When I nodded an affirmative, he continued :
"Well, immediately north of the town lies a tract
of 250,000 acres in the fork of the Rio Sabinas and
the Rio Alamo, which is the greatest ranch bargain
I ever saw. Heavily grassed, abundantly watered
by its two boundary streams, the valleys thickly tim-
bered with Cottonwood, the plains dotted with mes-
quite and live oak, in a perfect climate, it is an ideal
1 195 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
breeding range. And it can be bought, for what, do
you think? Fifty thousand Mexican dollars [29,-
000 gold] for a quarter of a million acres ! Go bag
it, and together we'll stock it.
" Of course you'll run some rather heavy risks —
else the place would not be going so cheap — but no
more than you have been taking the last five years in
the Sioux country. A little bunch of Lipans are
constantly on the warpath, Mescalero raiding parties
drop in occasionally, and the bandits seem to need a
good many prestamos; but all that you have been up
against. Better take a pretty strong party, for the
authorities thought it necessary to give me a cavalry
escort from Lampasos to Musquiz and back. And,
by the way, pick up a boy named George E. Thorn-
ton, of Socorro, N. M., on your way south. While
only a youngster, he is one of the best all-round fron-
tiersmen I ever saw, and speaks Spanish tolerably.
Had him with me in the Gallup country."
Details were settled at breakfast, and there Gardi-
ner resumed his journey eastward, while I took the
next train for Denver. A fortnight later found me
in Socorro, plodding through its sandy streets to an
adobe house in the suburbs where Thornton lodged.
As I neared the door a big black dog sprang
fiercely out at me to the full length of his chain, and
directly thereafter the door framed an extraordinary
figure. Then barely twenty-one, and downy still of
[196]
ACROSS THE BORDER
lip, Thornton's gray eyes were as cold and calculat-
ing, the lines of his face as severe and even hard, his
movements as deliberate and expressive of perfect
self-mastery as those of any veteran of half a dozen
wars. Six feet two in height, straight as a white
pine, ideally coupled for great strength without sac-
rifice of activity, he looked altogether one of the most
capable and safe men one could wish for in a scrap ;
and so, later, he well proved himself.
He greeted me in carefully correct English; and
while quiet, reserved, and cold of speech as of manner,
the tones in which he assured me any friend of Mr.
Gardiner was welcome, conveyed faint traces of cor-
diality that roused some hope that he might prove a
more agreeable camp-mate than his dour mien prom-
ised. We were not long coming to terms ; indeed the
moment I outlined the trip contemplated, and its pos-
sible hazards, it became plain he was keen to come on
any terms. To my surprise, he proposed bringing
his dog. Curly. I objected that so heavy a dog
would be likely to play out on our forced marches,
and, anyway, would be no mortal use to us. His re-
ply was characteristic:
" Curly goes if I go, sir ; but any time you can tell
me you find him a nuisance, I'll shoot him myself.
I've had him four years, had him out all through
Victoria's raid of the Gila, and he's a safer night
guard than ?iny ten men you can string around camp :
[ 197 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
nothing can approach he won't nail or tell you of.
With Curly, a night-camp surprise is impossible."
Whatever cross Curly represented was a mystery.
Two-thirds the height and weight of a mastiff, he had
the broad head and narrow pointed muzzle of a bear,
and a shaggy reddish-black coat that further height-
ened his resemblance to a cinnamon, with great gray
eyes precisely the color of his master's, and as fierce.
Whichever character was formed on that of the other
I never learned — the man's on the dog's, or the dog's
on the man's. Certain it is that not even the luckiest
chance could have brought together man and beast
so nearly identical in all their traits. Both were
honest, almost to a fault. Neither possesssed any vice
I ever could discover. Each was wholly happy only
when in battle, the more desperate the encounter the
happier they. Neither ever actually forced a quar-
rel, or failed to get in the way of one when there was
the least color of an attempt to fasten one on them.
And yet both were always considerate of any weaker
than themselves, and quick to go to their defence.
Many a time have I seen old Curly seize and throttle
a big dog he caught rending a little one — as I have
seen George leap to the aid of the defenceless. Each
weighed carefully his kind, and found most wanting
in something requisite to the winning of his confi-
dence; and such as they did admit to familiar inti-
macy, man or beast, were the salt of their kind.
[ 198 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
On the train, south-bound for San Antonio, I
learned something of Thornton's history. The son
of a judge of Peoria, 111., he had until fifteen the
advantage of the best schools of his city. Then, pos-
sessed with a longing for a life of adventure in the
West, he ran away from home, worked in various
places at various tasks, until, at sixteen (in 1887)
he had made his way to Socorro. Arrived there, he
attached himself to a small party of prospectors go-
ing out into the Black Range, into a region then wild
and hostile as Boone found Kentucky. And there
for the last five years he had dwelt, ranging through
the Datils and the Mogallons, prospecting whenever
the frequently raiding Apaches left him and his mates
time for work. Indeed, it was Thornton who discov-
ered and first opened the Gallup coal field, and he
held it until Victoria ran him out. During this time
he was in eight desperate fights — the only man to
escape from one of them; but out of them he came
unscathed, and trained to a finish in every trick of
Apache warfare.
At San Antonio we were met by Sam Cress, who
for the last four years had been foreman of my Dead-
man Ranch. Cress was born on Powell River, Vir-
ginia, but had come to Texas as a mere lad and joined
a cow outfit. He had really grown up in the Cross
Timbers of the Palo Pinto, where, in those years, any
who survived were past masters not only of the weird
11991
THE RED-BLOODED
ways and long hours and outlaw broncos, but also of
the cunning strategy of the Kiowas and Comanches
who in that time were raiding ranches and settlements
every " light of the moon." Cress was then twenty-
five — just my age — and one of the rare type of men
who actually hate and dread a fight, but where neces-
sary, go into it with a jest and come out of it with a
laugh, as jolly a camp-mate and as steady a stayer
as I ever knew. Charlie Crawford, a half-breed Mex-
ican, taken on for his fluency in Spanish, completed
our outfit. Two mornings later the Mexican Na-
tional Express dropped us at the Lampasos depot
about daylight, from which we made our way over a
mile of dusty road winding through mesquite thickets
to the Hotel Diligencia, on the main plaza.
A norther was blowing that chilled us to the mar-
row, and of course, according to usual Mexican cus-
tom, not a room in the hotel was heated. The best
the little Italian proprietor could do for us was a
pan of charcoal that warmed nothing beyond our fin-
ger tips. As soon as the sun rose, we squatted along
the east wall of the hotel and there shivered until
Providence or his own necessity brought past us a
peon driving a burro loaded with mesquite roots.
We bbught this wood and dumped it in the central
patio of the hotel and there lighted a camp-fire that
made us tolerably comfortable until breakfast.
Ignorant then of Mexico and its customs, I had
[200]
ACROSS THE BORDER
fancied that when a proper hour arrived for a call on
the Alcalde, Don Nemecio Garcia, I should have a
chance to warm myself properly and had charitably
asked my three mates to accompany me on the visit.
But when at ten o'clock Don Nemecio received us in
his office, we found him tramping up and down the
room, wrapped in the warm folds of an ample cloak,
his neck and face swathed in mufflers to the eyes, arc-
tics on his feet, and no stove or fireplace in the room.
As leading merchant of the town, he soon supplied
us with provisions and various articles, and with four
saddle and three pack horses for our journey.
The next da}^, while my men were busy arranging
our camp outfit, I took train for Monterey to get a
letter from General Trevino, commanding the Depart-
ment of Coahuila, to the comandante of the garrison
at Musquiz. On this short forenoon's journey I had
my first taste of the disordered state of the country.
About ten o'clock our train stopped at the depot
of Villaldama, where I observed six guardias aduan-
eras (customs guards) removing the packs from a
dozen mules, and transferring them to the baggage
car. Just as this work was nearing completion, a
band of fourteen contrahandistas dashed up out of
the surrounding chaparral, dropped off their horses,
and opened at thirty yards a deadly fire on the
guards. With others in the smoker, next behind the
baggage car, I had a fine view of the battle, but a part
[ 201 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
of the time we were directly in the line of fire, for four
of our car windows were smashed by bullets, and many
bullets were buried in the car body. Such encoun-
ters between guards and smugglers in Mexico were
always a fight to the death, for under the law the
guards received one-half the value of their captures,
while of course the smugglers stood to win or lose all.
As soon as fire opened, the guards jumped for the
best cover available, and put up the best fight they
could. But the odds were hopelessly against them.
In five minutes it was all over. Three of the guards
lay dead, one was crippled, and the other two were
in flight. To be sure two of the smugglers were
bowled over, dead, and two badly wounded, but the
remaining ten were not long in repossessing themselves
of their goods; and when our train pulled out, the
baggage car riddled with bullets till it looked like a
sieve, the ten were hurriedly repacking their mules for
flight west to the Sierras. Later I learned that early
that morning the guards had caught the conducta
with only two men in charge, who had shrewdly
skipped and scattered to gather the party that ar-
rived just in time to save their plunder.
Mexican import duties in those days were so enor-
mous that very many of the best people then living
along the border engaged regularly in smuggling, as
the most profitable enterprise offering. American
hams, I remember, were then sixty cents a pound, and
[202]
ACROSS THE BORDER
everything else in proportion. Even in the city ol
Monterey, stores that displayed on their open shelves
little but native products, had warehouses where you
could buy (at three times their value in the States) al-
most any American or European goods you wanted.
Well recommended to General Treviiio from kins-
men of his wife, who was a daughter of General
Ord of our army, he gave me a letter to Captain
Abran de la Garza, commanding at Musquiz, direct-
ing him to furnish me any cavalry escort or supplies
I might ask for, and the following day we started
north from Lampasos on our one-hundred-mile march
to Musquiz.
The first two days of the journey, for fully sixty
miles, we travelled across the lands of Don Patricio
Milmo, who thirty years earlier had arrived in Mon-
terey, a bare-handed Irish lad, as Patrick Miles.
Through thrift, cunning trading, and a diplomatic
marriage into one of the most powerful families of
the city, he had oreid his name and gilded the pros-
pects of his progeny, for he had become the richest
merchant of Monterey and the largest land-holder
of the State.
On this march north Curly's value was well dem-
onstrated. The first two nights I divided our little
party into four watches, so that one man should
always be awake, and on the qui vive. But it took
us no more than these two nights to discover that
[ 203 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
Curly was a better guard than all of us put together.
Throughout the noon and early evening camp he
slept, but as soon as we were in our blankets he was
on the alert, and nothing could move near the camp
that he did not tell us of it in low growls, delivered
at the ear of one or another of the sleepers. How-
ever, nothing happened on the journey up, save at
the camp just north of Progreso, where some of the
villagers tried to slip up on our horses toward mid-
night, and Curly's growls kept them off. Their trails
about our camp were plain in the morning. The
evening of the third day we reached Musquiz, one of
the oldest towns of the northern border, nestled at
the foot of a tall sierra amid wide fields of sugar cane,
irrigated by the clear, sweet waters of the Sabinas.
At eight o'clock the next morning I called on Cap-
tain Abran de la Garza, the Comandante, to present
my letter from General Trevino.
Like the monarch of all he surveyed, he received
me in his bed-chamber. As soon as I entered, it be-
came apparent the Captain was a sportsman as well
as a soldier.
The room was perhaps thirty by twenty feet in
size. Midway of the north wall stood a rude writing-
table on which were a few official papers. Ranged
about the room were a dozen or more rawhide-seated
chairs, each standing stiffly at " attention " against
the wall in scrupulously equidistant order. Glaring
I 204 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
at me in crude lettering from a broad rafter facing
the door was the grimly patriotic sentiment, ^^Lihertad
o Muerte.^^ (Liberty or Death!) In the southwest
corner of the room stood a low and narrow cot, be-
neath whose thin serape covering a tall, gaunt cadav-
erous frame was plainly outlined. From the headpost
of the cot dangled a sword and two pistols. And to
every hed, table, stand, and chair leg was hobbled a
gamecock — a rarely high-bred lot by their looks,
that joined in saluting my entrance with a volley of
questioning crows ! It was, I fancy, altogether the
most startling reception visitor ever had.
In a momentary pause in the crowing, there is-
sued from a throat riven and deep-seamed from fre-
quent floodings with fiery torrents of mescal, and out
of lungs perpetually surcharged with cigarette smoke,
a hoarse, croaking, but friendly toned, '^Buenos dias,
senor. Sirvase tomar un asiento, Aqui tiene vd su
casa!" and peering more closely into the dusky cor-
ner, I beheld a great face, lean to emaciation, domi-
nated by a magnificent Roman nose, with two great
dark eyes sunk so deep on either side of its base they
must forever remain strangers to one another. The
nose supported a splendid breadth of high forehead,
which was crowned with a shock of coal-black hair,
while the jaws were bearded to the eyes. It was the
face of an ascetic Crusader, sensualized in a measure
by years of isolated frontier service and its attendant
[ 205 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
vices and degeneration, but still a face full of the no-
ble melancholy of a Quixote.
Propping himself on a great bony knot of an el-
bow, the Captain made polite inquiry respecting my
journey, and then asked in what could he serve me.
But when I had explained that I wanted to meet the
owner of the Santa Rosa Ranch, and contemplated
going out to see it, it was only to learn, to my great
disappointment, that it had been sold the week pre-
vious to two Scotchmen. Fancy ! in a country visited
by foreigners, as a rule, not so often as once a year.
Nor was I consoled when, noting my obvious cha-
grin, the Captain sought to lighten the blow by say-
ing : " But, my dear sir, this is indeed evidence God
is guarding you. That ranch has been a legacy of
contention and feud for generations. Besides, what
good could you get of it? Its nearest line to the
town is six miles distant, and no life or property
would be safe there a fortnight. Far the best cattle
ranch in this section, a fourth of it irrigable, and as
fine sugar-cane land as one could find, do you fancy
it would be tenantless as when God first made it if safe
for occupancy? Why, my dear sir, within the last
six months Juan Galan's Lipans have killed no less
than seventy of our townsmen, some in their fields,
some in the very suburbs of the town, while Mescaleros
are raiding a little lower down the river, and Nicanor
R as con is apt to sweep down any day with his ban-
[ 206 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
didos and plunder strong boxes and stores. It is
with shame I admit it, for I, Don Abran, am responsi-
ble for the peace and safety of this district. But,
mil demonios! what can I do with one troop of cavalry
against bandits ruthless as savages, and savages cun-
ning as bandits ?
" Oh ! but if I only had horses ! Those devils take
remounts when they like from the remoudas of ranch-
eroSy but I, carajo! I am always limited to my troop
allotment.
" Burn a hundred candles to the Virgin, amlgo mioy
as a thank offering for your deliverance, and wait
and see what happens to the Scotchmen; and while
waiting, it will be my great pleasure to show you some
of the grandest cock-fighting you ever saw. Look at
them! Beauties, are they not? Purest blood in all
Mexico ! Kept me poor four years getting them to-
gether ! But now ! Ah ! now, it will not be long till
they win me ranches and remoudas!
"Ah! me. Time was not so very long ago when
Abran de la Garza was called the most dashing jefe
de tropa in the service, when senoritas fell to him as
alamo leaves shower down to autumn winds; when
pride consumed him, and ambition for a Division was
burning in his brain. But now this demon of a fron-
tier has scorched and driven him till naught remains
to him but the chance of an occasional fruitless skir-
mish, his thirst for mescal, his greed for aguilas, and
[ Wl ]
THE RED-BLOODED
his cocks to win them! But, seiior, bet no money
against them, for it would grieve me to win from a
stranger introduced by my GeneraL"
Then, with a grave nod of friendly warning, he
turned an affectionate gaze upon his pets. Mean-
time, as if conscious of his pride in them, the cocks
were boastfully crowing paeans to their own victories,
past and to come, in shrill and ill-timed but uninter-
rupted concert, bronze wings flapping, crimson crests
truculently tossing insolent challenge for all comers.
With the one plan of my trip completely smashed,
I felt too much upset to continue the interview, and
excused myself. But after a forenoon spent alone
beside the broad and swift current the Sabinas was
pouring past me, gazing at the dim blue mountain-
crests in the west that I had learned marked its
source, the irresistible call to penetrate the unknown
impressed and then possessed me so completely that, at
our midday breakfast, I announced to the Captain
I had decided to follow the river to its head, and pass
thence into the desert for a thirty-days' circle to the
north and west.
"But, valga nu Dios, man,** he objected, "I have
no force I can spare for sufficient time to give you
adequate escort for such a journey. It would be
madness to undertake it with less than fifty men. I
am responsible to my General for your safety, and
cannot sanction it. Beyond the Alamo Cafion the
[208]
ACROSS THE BORDER
only waters are in isolated springs in the plains and
in natural rain-fall tanks along the mountain crests,
known to none except the Indians and Tomas Alva-
rez, an old half-breed Kickapoo long attached to my
command as scout, who ranged that country years
ago with his tribe, and who guides my troop on such
short scouts as we have been able to make beyond the
Alamo, and — "
"Pardon," I ventured to interrupt, "that will do
nicely; give me Alvarez and one good trustworthy
soldier, and we'll make the circle without trouble."
" Six of you ! Why, you'd never get twenty miles
out of town in that direction. I can't permit it."
" Pardon again, Don Abran," I broke in, "but we
have for years been accustomed to move in small par-
ties through country that held a hundred times more
hostiles than you have here, and you can trust us to
take care of ourselves. Go we shall in any event,
without your men if you withhold them."
"Well, well, hijo mior he responded, "if you are
bound to go, we will see. Only I shall write my Gen-
eral that I have sought to restrain you."
To us the prevailing local fears seemed absurd.
Admittedly there were only sixteen of the Lipans then
left, men, women, and children, their chief, Juan Ga-
lan, the son by a Lipan squaw, of the father of Garza
Galan, then the leading merchant of the town, and
later a distinguished Governor of his State. Orig-
[^09]
THE BED-BLOODED
inally a powerful tribe occupying both banks of the
lower Rio Grande to the south of the Comanches, in
their wars with Texans and Mexicans the Lipans had
dwindled until only this handful remained. Three
years earlier the entire band had been captured, after
a desperate fight, and removed by the Mexican au-
thorities to a small reservation five hundred miles
southwest of Musquiz. But at the end of two years,
as soon as the guard over them relaxed, indomitable
as Dull Knife and his Cheyennes in their desperate
fight (in 1879) to regain their northern highland
home, Juan Galan and his pathetically small follow-
ing jumped their reservation and dodged and fought
their way back to the Musquiz Mountains ; and there
for the last ten months, constantly harassed and
harassing, they had been fighting for the right to die
among the hills they loved. To the natives they
were bloodthirsty wolves, beasts to be exterminated;
to an impartial onlooker they were a heroic band
courting death in a splendid last fight for fatherland.
Their bold deeds would fill a book. Even in this
town of fifteen hundred people guarded by a troop of
cavalry, no one ventured out at night except from
the most pressing necessity ; and of the seventy killed
by them since their return, nearly a third were
macheted in the streets of Musquiz during Juan
Galan's night raids on the town.
The most effective work against them wa^ done by
[ 210 1
ACROSS THE BORDER
a band of about a hundred Seminole-negro half-
breeds, to whom the Government had made a grant of
four square leagues twentj-five miles west of Mus-
quiz, on the Nacimiento. Come originally out of the
Indian Territory in the United States, where the
Seminoles had cross-bred with their negro slaves, this
same band a few years earlier had been most efficient
scouts for our own troops at Fort Clark, and other
border garrisons, and it was this record that led the
Mexican Government to seek and lodge them on the
Nacimiento, as a buffer against the Lipans.
That night arrangements for our trip were con-
cluded: the Captain consented to furnish me old
Tomas Alvarez and a young soldier named Manuel,
but only on condition that he himself should escort
us, with fifty men of his troop, one day's march up the
river, which would carry us beyond the recent range
of the Lipans. So early the next morning we
marched out westward, passing the last house a half-
mile outside the centre of the town, along a dim, little-
travelled trail that followed the river to the Seminole
village on the Nacimiento. The day's journey was
without incident, other than our amusement at what
seemed to us the Captain's overzealous caution in
keeping scouts out ahead and to right and left of the
column, and in posting sentries about our night camp.
The following morning, a Sunday, after much good
advice, the kindly Captain bade us a reluctant fare-
[ 211 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
well, and led his troops down-river toward home, while
our little party of six headed westward up-river.
Near noon we sighted the Seminole village, and
shortly entered it, a close cluster of low jacals built
of poles and mud. Odd it looked, as we entered, a
deserted village, no living thing in sight but a few
dogs. Thus our surprise was all the greater when,
n earing the farther edge of the village, our ears were
greeted with the familiar strains of " Jesus, Lover of
My Soul," issuing from a large jacal which we soon
learned was the Seminole church. Fancy it ! the last
thing one could have dreamed of! An honest old
Methodist hymn sung in English by several score de-
vout worshippers in the heart of Mexico, on the very
dead line between savagery and civilization, and at
that, sung by a people all savage on one side of their
ancestry and semi-savage on the other !
Before the singing of the hymn was finished, star-
tled by the barking of their dogs, out of the low door-
way sprang half a dozen men, strapping big fellows,
— one, the chief, bent half double with age, — all heav-
ily armed. The moment they saw we were Ameri-
cans we were most cordially received, and even urged
to stop a few days with them, and give them news of
the Texas border. But for this we had no time ; and
after a short visit — for which the congregation ad-
journed service — we filled our canteens, let our
horses drink their fill at the great Nacimiento spring
[313]
ACROSS THE BORDER
that burst forth a veritable young river from beneath
a low bluff beside the town, and struck out westward
for Alamo Canon. Our afternoon march gave us
little concern, for our route lay across rolling, lightly
timbered uplands that offered little opportunity for
ambush. That night we made a " dry camp " on
the divide, preferring to approach the Alamo in day-
light.
Having struck camp before dawn the next morn-
ing, by noon we saw ahead of us a great gorge divid-
ing the mountain we were approaching — great in its
height, but of a scant fifty yards in breadth, perpen-
dicular of sides, a narrow line of brush and timber
creeping down along its bottom, but stopping just
short of the open plains. Scouting was useless. If
there were any Indians about, we certainly had been
seen, and they lay in ambush for us in a place of their
own choosing. We must have water, and to get it
must enter the canon. So straight into the timber
that filled the mouth of the gorge we rode at a run,
riding a few paces apart to avoid the possible potting
of our little bunch, and a hundred yards within the
outer fringe of timber we reached the water our ani-
mals so badly needed.
And right there, all about the " sink " of the Alamo,
where the last drops of the stream sank into the
thirsty sands, the bottom was covered thick with fresh
moccasin tracks, and in a little opening in the bush
[213]
THE RED-BLOODED
near to the sink smouldered the embers of that morn-
ing's camp-fire of a band of Lipans. Apparently
we were in for it, and seriously debated a retreat.
Our position could not be worse. Tomas told us that
the trail of the Lipans led straight up the valley, and
for eight miles the canon was never more than three
hundred yards wide, and often no more than fifty,
with almost perpendicular walls rising on either side
two hundred or more feet in height, so nearly perpen-
dicular that we would for the entire distance be in
range from the bordering cliff crests, while any enemy
there ambushed would be so safely covered they could
follow our route and pick us off at their leisure. To
be sure, the brush along the stream afforded some
shelter, but no real protection. However, out now
nearly fifty miles from Musquiz, and well into the
country we had come to see, we pushed ahead. Cress,
Thornton, and Manuel prowling afoot through the
brush a hundred yards in advance, Crawford, Tomas
and myself bringing up the rear with the horses.
And so we advanced for nearly half a mile, when the
Lipan trail turned east, toward Musquiz, up a crevice
in the cliff a goat would have no easy time ascending.
Thus we were led to argue that the Lipans had left
their camp before discovering our approach, and by
this time were probably miles away to the east.
Mounting, therefore, we made the best pace our
pack animals could stand up through the eight miles
[214]
ACROSS THE BORDER
of the narrows, riding well apart from each other, the
only safeguard we could take, all craning our necks
for view of the cliif crests ahead of us. But no living
thing showed save a few deer and coyotes, and two
mountain lions that, alarmed by our clattering pace,
slipped past us back down the gorge. When at last
we reached the end of the narrows and the canon
broadened to a width of several hundred yards, all
but fifty or seventy-five yards of the belt of timber
lining the stream along the south wall being compara-
tively level grassy bunch land, nearly devoid of cover,
we congratulated ourselves that we had not been
scared into a retreat.
Keen to put as much distance as we could between
us and the Lipans, we travelled on up the canon at a
sharp trot, keeping well to its middle, until about five
p. m., when we reached a point where it widened into
a broad bay, nearly seven hundred yards from crest
to crest, with a dense thicket of mesquite trees near its
centre that made fine shelter and an excellent point of
defence for a night camp. The stream hugged the
east wall of the canon, where it had carved out a tor-
tuous bed perhaps one hundred and fifty yards wide,
and so deep below the bench we occupied that only
the tops of tall cottonwoods were visible from the
thicket.
While the rest of us were busy unsaddling and un-
packing, Thornton slung all our canteens over his
[215]
THE RED-BLOODED
shoulder, and started for the stream. But no sooner
had he disappeared below the edge of the bench, a
scant two hundred yards from our camp, before a
rapid rifle fire opened which, while we knew it must
proceed from his direction, echoed back from one cliff
wall to the other until it appeared like an attack on
our position from all sides, while the echoes multi-
plied to the volume of cannon fire at the sound of each
shot. Indeed, never have I heard such thunderous,
crashing, ear-splitting gun-detonations except on one
other occasion, when aboard the British battle ship
Invincible and in her six-inch gun battery while a
salute was being fired.
Frightened by the fire, one of our pack horses
stampeded down the canon. Sending Manuel in pur-
suit, and leaving Tomas at the camp, Crawford,
Cress, and I ran for the break of benchland, to reach
and aid Thornton. Nearing it, all three dropped
flat, and crawled to its edge, just in time to see George
make a neat snap shot at a Lipan midway of a flying
leap over a log, and drop him dead. Old George was
standing quietly on the lower slope of the bench just
above the timber, while the shots from eight or ten
Lipan rifles were raining all about him ! The Lipans
lay in the timber only one hundred to one hundred and
fifty yards away, and it was a miracle they did not
get him. Instantly Cress and Crawford slipped back
out of range, made a detour that brought them to
[ 216 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
the bench edge within fifty yards of the Lipans' posi-
tion, and opened on them a cross fire, while I lay
above George and shelled away at the smoke of their
discharge, for not one showed a head after George
potted the jumper. Five minutes after Cress and
Crawford opened on them, the Lipan fire ceased
entirely. For an hour we scouted along the bank
trying to locate them, but apparently they had with-
drawn.
Then, while the others covered us, George and I
slipped through the bush to investigate his kill, and
found a great gaunt old warrior at least sixty years
old, wrinkled of face as if he might be a hundred, but
sound of teeth and coal-black of hair as a youth,
his face and body scarred in nearly a score of places
from bullet and machete wounds, — the sign manual
writ indelibly on his war-worn frame by many a
doughty enemy. We carried him to the bench crest,
Crawford fetched a spade and we dug a grave and
buried him with his weapons laid upon his breast, as
his own people would have buried him, and then we
fired across his grave the final salute he obviously so
well had earned.
More than he would have done for us ? Yes, I dare
say. But then our points of view were different.
Throughout his long life a terror to all whites he
doubtless had been; upon us he was stealthily slip-
ping, ruthless as a tiger ; but then he and his tribes-
[217]
THE RED-BLOODED
men and lands had so long been prey to the greed of
white invaders of his domain that it is hard to blame
him for fighting, according to the traditions of his
race, to the death.
Lying in camp within the thicket that night, nat-
urally without a fire, Thornton made it plain that
his voluntary start for water was providentially
timed. He told us that, while descending the slope
to the timber, he saw the head of a little column of
Indians, stealing up the valley through the brush,
saw them before they saw him; but just as he saw
them, he slipped on some pebbles and nearly fell,
making a noise that attracted their attention. In-
stantly they slid into cover, and opened fire on him.
Asked by me why he himself had not sought cover,
George answered, "No show to get one except by
keeping out in the open on the high ground, and I
tvanted one! "
It was plain the Lipans had sighted us when too
late to lay an ambush for us in the narrows, had made
a short cut through the hills and dropped down into
the stream bed with the plan to attack us at our night
camp. Evidently they had not expected us to camp
so early, and were jogging easily along through the
brush, for once off their guard. But for George's
chance start for the stream, nothing but faithful old
Curly's perpetual watchfulness could have saved us
from a bad mix-up that night. Already it had been
[218] 1
ACROSS THE BORDER
so well proved that we could safely trust Curly to
guard us against surprise, we slept soundly through
the night, without disturbance of any sort.
The next forenoon's march to the head waters of
the Alamo was an anxious one, and was made with
the utmost caution, for we were sure the Lipans would
be lying in wait for us ; but no sign of them did we
again see for three weeks.
Leaving the Alamo, we made a great circle through
the desert, swinging first north toward the Sierra
Mojada, then south, and ultimately eastward toward
Monclova. The trip proved to be one of great hard-
ship and danger, but only from scarcity of water;
for while at isolated springs we found recent camps of
one sort of desert prowler or another, we neither met
nor saw any. Finally, late one night of the fourth
week, we reach a little spring called Zacate, out in
the open plain only about thirty miles south of Mus-
quiz. But between us and only five miles south of the
town stretched a tall range through which Tomas knew
of only two passes practicable for horsemen: one, to
the west, via the Alamo, the route we had come, would
involve a journey of eighty miles, while by the other,
an old Indian and smugglers' trail crossing the summit
directly south of Musquiz, we could make the town
in thirty-two miles. The latter route Tomas strongly
opposed as too dangerous. Twelve miles from where
we lay it entered the range, and for fifteen miles fol-
[319]
THE BED-BLOODED
lowed terrible rough canons wherein, every step of the
way, we should be right in the heart of the recent
range of the Lipans, and where every turn offered
chance of a perfect ambush. But with our horses
exhausted, worn to mere shadows from long marches
through country affording scant feed, with not one left
that could much more than raise a trot, we finally
decided to chance the shorter route. That night we
supped on cold antelope meat and biscuits, to avoid
building a fire, and rolled up in our blankets, but not
to rest long undisturbed.
Shortly after midnight Curly roused us with low
growls. Though the moon was full, the night was
so clouded one could hardly see the length of a gun-
barrel. Curly's warnings continuing, George and
Tomas rolled out of their blankets and crawled out
among and about the horses, and lay near them an
hour or more, till Curly's growls finally ceased.
Then we called them in and all lay down, and finished
the night in peace. Early the next morning, however,
a short circle discovered the trail of tlfree Indians
who had crept near to the horses and reconnoitred
our position. Their back trail led due northeast,
the direction we had to follow; and when we had
ridden out half a mile from the Ojo Zacate, we found
where their trail joined that of the main band. The
" sign " showed they had been south toward Monclova
on a successful horse-stealing raid, for it was plain
[«20]
ACROSS THE BORDER
thej had passed us In the night with a bunch of at
least twenty horses, heading toward a point of the
range only five or six miles west of where we should
be compelled to enter it.
We were in about as bad a hole as could be con-
ceived. Plainly the Indians knew of our presence in
the vicinity. It was equally certain their scouts would
be watching our every move throughout the day, and
there was not one chance in a thousand of our cross-
ing the range without attack from some ambush of
such vantage as to leave small ground for hope that
we could survive it. All but Cress and Thornton
urged me to turn back, although we were all nearly
afoot, and had no food left except two or three
pounds of flour, and a little meat. After very short
deliberation I decided to go ahead. The Lipans
knew precisely where we were, and if they wanted us
they could (in the event of a retreat) easily run us
down and surround us and hold us off food and water
until we were starved out sufficiently to charge their
position and be shot down. Better far put up a
bold bluff and take chances of cutting through them.
So on we plodded slowly toward the hills, all of us
walking most of the way to save our horses all we
could. At 2 p. m. we cut the old trail Tomas was
heading us toward, and shortly thereafter entered the
mouth of a frightfully rough canon, its bottom and
slopes thickly covered with nopal, sotol, and mesquite,
[ ^21 ],
THE RED-BLOODED
and, later, higher up, with pines, junipers, oaks, and
spruces, with here and there groups of great boul-
ders that would easily conceal a regiment. Two or
three miles in, the gorge deepened until tall mountain
slopes were rising steeply on either side of us, and
narrowed until we had to pick our way over the rough
boulders of the dry stream-bed.
Our advance was slow, for it had to be made with
the utmost caution. Thornton, Cress, and Tomas
scouted afoot, one in the bottom of the gorge, and
one-half way up each of its side walls, while Manuel
and Crawford followed two hundred yards behind
them, also afoot, driving the saddle and pack horses ;
and I trailed two hundred yards behind the horses,
watching for any sign of an attempted surprise from
the rear. Thus scattered, we gave them no chance
to bowl over several of us at the first fire from any
ambush they might have arranged.
From the windings of the canon we were out of
sight of each other much of the time; personally, I
recall that afternoon as one of the most lonely and
uncomfortable I ever passed. I slipped watchfully
along, stopping often to listen, eyes sweeping the hill-
sides and the gulch below me, searching every tree and
boulder, with no sound but the soughing of the wind
through the tree-tops, and an occasional soft clatter
of shingle beneath the slipping hoofs of my unshod
horse.
[ 222 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
But throughout the afternoon the only sign of
man or beast that I saw was a lot of sotol plants
recently uprooted, and their roots eaten by bears.
Shortly after dark we reached the only permanent
water in the canon, a clear, cold, sweet spring, bursting
out from beneath a rock, only to sink immediately into
the arid sands of the dry stream-bed. Immediately
below the spring and midway of the gorge bottom
stood an island-like uplift, twenty yards in length by
ten in width, covered with brush, leaving on either side
a narrow, rocky channel, and from either side of these
two channels the canon walls, heavily timbered, rose
very steeply. Just above these narrows, the gorge
widened into seven or eight acres of level, park-like,
well-grassed benchland, and into this little park we
turned our horses loose for the night, for they were
too worn to stray.
Having made eight or ten miles up the canon dur-
ing the afternoon march, we were now within a mile
of the summit, and no more than seven miles from
Musquiz. Indeed we should have tried to reach the
town that night had not Tomas told us the next three
miles of the trail were so steep and rough he could
not undertake to fetch us over it unless we abandoned
our animals, saddles, and packs.
We turned into our blankets early, after a cold
supper, for we did not care to chance a fire. Cress
and I slept together in the channel to the west of the
THE EED-BLOODED
island ; Manuel and Tomas to the east of it, quite out
of our sight; Thornton and Crawford ten paces
north, in sight of both ourselves and the Mexicans.
A little moonlight filtered down through the trees, but
not enough to enable us to see any distance.
Scarcely were we asleep, it seemed to me, before
Curly awakened Cress and myself, growing immedi-
ately at our heads. Rising in our blankets, guns in
hand, and listening intently, we could hear on the
hillside above us what sounded like the movements of
a bear. Whatever it might be, it was approaching.
Not a word had been spoken, and Curly 's growls were
so low we had no idea any of the others had been
roused. So we sat on the alert for perhaps fifteen
minutes, when the sounds above us began receding,
and we lay down again. But just as we were passing
back into dreamland. Curly again startled us with a
sharper, fiercer note that meant trouble at hand.
As we rose to a sitting posture, in the dim moon-
light we could plainly see a dark crouching figure
twenty yards below, which advanced a step or two,
stopped as if to listen, and again advanced and
stopped. What it was we could not make out. At
first I thought it must be a bear, but presently I felt
sure I caught the glimmer of a gun barrel, and
nudged Cress with my elbow. We were in the act of
raising our rifles to down it, whatever it might be,
when Thornton sang out, " Hold on, boys ; that 's old
[ 224 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
Tomas ! " And, indeed, so it proved. All had been
awakened at the first alarm, and Thornton had seen
Tomas roil from his blankets into the bottom of the
east channel, and crawl away on the scout for the
cause of Curly's uneasiness that so nearly had cost
him his life. He had been so intent for movement on
the hill sides that he had not noticed us watching him.
The next morning we were moving by dawn,
Tomas, Cress, and myself in the lead, the others trail-
ing along one hundred or two hundred yards behind
us. For half a mile the gorge widened, as most moun-
tain gorges do near their heads, into beautiful grassy
slopes rising steeply before us, thickly timbered with
post oak. Then, issuing from the X^ber, we saw it
was a blind canon we were in, a cul de sac, with no
pass through the crest of the range.
Before us rose a. very nearly perpendicular wall
for probably six hundred feet, up which the old trail
zigzagged, climbing from ledge to ledge, so steep that
when, later, we were fetching our horses up it, one of
the pack horses lost its balance and fell fifty feet, crip-
pling it so badly we had to kill it. The cliif face,
about three hundred yards in width, and flanked to
right and left by the walls of the canon, was entirely
bare of trees, but thickly strewn with boulders. From
an enemy on the top of the two flanking walls, climb-
ers of the cliff face could get no shelter whatever.
Thus it was important that our advance should reach
[ 225 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
the summit as quickly as possible. So up the three of
us scrambled, about thirty yards apart, disregarding
the trail.
When we were nearly half-way up, and just as we
had paused to catch our breath, several rifle shots
rang out in quick succession, which, from some pecu-
liar echo of the canon, sounded as if they had been
fired beneath us. Upon turning, we could see noth-
ing of our three mates or the horses — they were hid-
den from our view by the timber. Fancying they
were attacked from the rear, I was about to call a
return to their relief, when I saw Thornton run to the
near edge of the timber, drop on one knee behind a
tree, and open fire on the cliff-crest directly above our
heads.
Whirling and looking up, I was just in time to see
eight or ten men bob up on the crest and take quick
snap-shots at the three of us in the lead, and then
duck to cover. We were so nearly straight under
them, however, that they overshot us, although they
were barely one hundred yards from us. Dropping
behind boulders we peppered back at the flashes of
their rifles, which was all we three in the lead there-
after saw of them; for after the first volley most of
them lay close and directed their fire at the men in
the edge of the timber, but occasionally a rifle was
tipped over the edge of a boulder and fired at random
in our direction. And all the time they were yelling
[ 226 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
at us, '* Que vienen, puercos! Que vienenr^ (Come
on, pigs ! Come on !)
I was puzzled. Both Cress and I thought they
were Mexicans, but Tomas insisted they were Lipans.
And true enough it was the Lipans all spoke Spanish
and dressed like Mexican peons. Whoever they
might be, we could not stay where we were. By the
firing and voices there were at least a dozen of them,
and obviously it was only a matter of moments before
they would occupy the two flanking walls and have us
openly exposed.
It was a bad dilemma. Retreat was impossible,
down a gorge commanded at short range from both
sides. If we took shelter in it, they could starve us
out; if we attempted to descend it, they could easily
pick us off; if any of us escaped back to the plain it
would only be to incur greater exposure if they pur-
sued, or probably to perish of hunger before we
could reach any settlements. Thus the situation
called for no reflection — it was charge and dislodge
them, or die.
Yelling to the boys below to close up on us, we
three settled down to the maintenance of the hottest
fire we could deliver at the rifle flashes above us, to
cover their advance. Luckily there were many boui-
ders scattered along the grassy treeless slope they had
to advance across to reach the foot of the cliff. Thus
by darting from one boulder to another they had tol-
[ 227 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
erable cover and were able to reach us with no worse
casualties than a comparatively slight flesh wound
through Manuel's side and the shooting away of
Thornton's belt buckle.
Then we started the charge, led really by Thorn-
ton, who, active as a goat, would have raced straight
into the downpour of lead if I had not continually re-
strained him. Three would scramble up fifteen or
twenty feet,, and then drop behind boulders, while the
other three kept up a heavy fire on the summit; and
then the rear rank would advance to a line with their
position, while they shelled the enemy. All the time
a rain of bullets was splashing on the rocks all about
us, but luckily for us they did not expose themselves
enough to deliver an accurate fire.
After we had made five or six such rushes, and
were about half-way up, we could hear the voices of
what sounded like the larger part of the band reced-
ing. Supposing they were swinging for the two side
walls to flank us, we doubled our speed and presently
dropped beneath the shelter of a wall of rock about
four feet high, from behind which our enemy had
been firing.
Two or three minutes earlier their fire had ceased,
and what to make of it we did not know. We found
that an exposure of our hats on our gun-muzzles drew
no fire ; yet, driven by sheer desperation, and expect-
ing that every man of us would get shot full of holes,
[ 228 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
we simultaneously sprang over the rock, and dropped
flat on the summit — amid utter silence, about the
most happily surprised lot of men in all Mexico!
The enemy had decamped. But where? And with
what purpose? And why had they not flanked us?
Careful scouting soon showed they had retired in
a body down the trail we must follow to reach Mus-
quiz, as for nearly three miles the descent was as
rough and difficult as the ascent had been.
Leaving Cress, who was ill, and Manuel, who was
weak from loss of blood, to hold the summit, the rest
of us descended to fetch up our horses, and a hard
hour's job we had of it, for we packed on our backs
the load of the dead pack horse and those of his mates
the last half of the ascent, rather than risk losing
another animal. Upon our return we found Manuel
gloating over three trophies — a hat shot through
the side by a ball that had evidently " creased " the
wearer's head, an old Spanish spur, and a gun scab-
bard — which he seemed to find salve for the burning
wound in his side.
Beneath us to the north lay Musquiz, in plain sight,
a scant six miles distant. In the clear dry air of the
hills, it looked so near that a good running jump
might land one in the plaza, and yet none of us ex-
pected we all should enter it again. The odds were
against it, for below us lay three miles of hill trail
any step down which might land us in a worse ambush
[ 2^9 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
than the last, and we never imagined the enemy would
fail to engage us again. But the descent had to be
made, and down it we started, Cress and Manuel
bringing up the rear with the horses, the rest of us
scouting ahead, dodging from rock to tree, advancing
slowly, expecting a volley, but receiving none.
For a mile the band followed the trail, and we fol-
lowed their fresh tracks ; then they left the trail and
turned west through the timber. However, we never
abated our watchfulness until well cut of the hills and
near the outskirts of the town, which we reached shortly
after noon. There, breakfasting generously if not
comfortably with Don Abran and his gamecocks, I
got news that made me less regretful of my failure to
obtain the Santa Rosa Ranch; one of its two Scotch
purchasers had been killed two days before my re-
turn, in attempting to repel a raid on his camp by
Nicanor Rascon!
With Cress too ill to travel, the next morning I
left Crawford to care for him, bade farewell to
good old Don Abran, and started for Larapasos with
Thornton and Curly.
We nooned at Santa Cruz, a big sheep ranch mid-
way between Musquiz and Progreso, leaving there
about two o'clock. An hour later, we heard behind
us a clatter of racing hoofs, and presently were over-
taken by a hatless Mexican, riding bareback at top
speed, who told us that shortly after our departure
[S30]
ACROSS THE BORDER
the Lipans had raided Santa Cruz, and that of Its
twelve inhabitants, men, women, and children, he was
the only survivor. Thus were the Lipans still levy-
ing heavy toll for their wrongs !
Toward evening we entered Progreso, a village re-
puted among the natives to be a nest of thieves and
assassins. While Thornton was away buying meat
and I was rearranging our pack, six of the ugliest-
looking Mexicans I ever saw strolled across the plaza,
evidently to size up our outfit. Apparently it was
to their liking, for when, twenty minutes later, we
were riding into the ford of the Rio Salado just south
of the town, the six, all heavily armed, loped past us,
and when they emerged from the ford openly and
impudently divided, three taking to the brush on one
side of the road, and three on the other, riding forward
and flanking the trail we had to follow. From then
till dark their hats were almost constantly visible, two
or three hundred yards ahead of us. Our horses be-
ing so jaded, we were sure they were not the prize
sought, and it remained certain they were after our
saddles and arms.
Riding quietly on behind them until it was too dark
to see our move or follow the trail, we slipped off to
the westward of the road, and camped in a deep de-
pression in the plain, where we thought we could ven-
ture a small fire to cook our supper. But the fire
proved a blunder. Before the water was faJHy boil-
[ 231 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
mg in the coffee pot, Curly signalled trouble, and we
jumped out of the fire-light and dropped flat in the
bush just as the six fired a volley into the camp, one
of the shots hitting the fire and filling our frying-pan
with cinders and ashes. For an hour or more they
sneaked about the camp, constantly firing into it,
while we lay close without returning a single shot,
confident they would not dare try to rush us while
uncertain of our position. And so it proved, for at
length Curly's warnings ceased, and we knew they had
withdrawn.
Waiting till midnight, we saddled and packed and
made a wide detour to the west, striking the road
again perhaps four miles nearer Lampasos, which we
reached safely late in the next afternoon, our grand
old camp-guard. Curly, in better condition than
either of us.
Curiously, seven months later, in August, 1883,
while on another ranch-hunting trip in Mexico, this
time along the eastern slope of the Sierra Madre in
northern Chihuahua, at least five hundred miles dis-
tant from Musquiz, I learned the solution of our puz-
zle as to whether our last fight in Coahuila was with
Lipans or Mexicans. The manager of the Corrali-
tos Ranch, which I was then engaged in examining,
was Adolph Munzenberger. The previous Winter he
had lived in Musquiz, as Superintendent of the Cedral
[ 232 ]
ACROSS THE BORDER
Coal Mines. While there, however, I had not met
him or his family.
One evening at dinner, Mrs. Munzenberger asked
me, " Have you ever, perchance, been in Coahuila ? "
" Yes," I answered, " I spent several weeks in the
State last winter."
"And how did you like it.?" she asked.
" Well, I must say I found rather too many thrills
there for comfort," I replied. And when I men-
tioned our affair on the sierra south of Musquiz, she
broke in with:
"Indeed! And you are the crazy gringo Don
Abran tried to stop from going into the desert ! We
heard of it; in fact, it was the talk of the town, and
no one expected you would ever get back. And by
the way, it was a contraband conduct a owned by
friends of ours who attacked you back of the town!
Droll, is it not.?"
"Perhaps — now," I doubtfully answered.
" Yes," Mrs. Munzenberger continued, " they were
on their way to Monclova. The night before the at-
tack, the wife of the owner (one of the leading mer-
chants of the town) took me to their camp in the
brush near town to see their goods ; and a lovely lot of
American things they had."
" But why did they attack us ? " I queried.
"Well, you see, it was this way," she explained.
"The smugglers broke camp long before dawn, and
[ S33 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
started south over the same trail by which you were
approaching; they wanted to get over the summit
before the Lipans or guards were likely to be stirring,
for it was a point at which conductas were often at-
tacked. But shortly after sunrise, and just as their
advance guard reached the summit, they discovered
your party ascending, and, mistaking your uniformed
soldiers for guardias, the leader lined a dozen of his
men along the ridge, and opened on you, while his
mayordomo rushed the pack mules of the conducta
back down the trail they had come. Early in the
fight they discovered you were a party of gringos,
and not guards, and decamped as soon as their con-
ducta had time to reach a point where they could
leave the trail.
"Had their goods not been at stake, they would have
wiped you out, if they could, for the leader's brother
got a shot in the head of which he died the same day.
Indeed, when the two men you left behind started to
leave the country, he had planned to follow and kill
them, but luckily Don Abran heard of it, and re-
strained him."
And this explained the mystery why they had not
flanked us !
Brave to downright rashness, George Thornton
lasted only about two years longer.
The Winter of 1883-84 he spent with me on my
[234]
ACROSS THE BORDER
Pecos Ranch. Early in the Spring he came to me
and said:
'^Old man, if you want to do me a favor, get me
an appointment as Deputy United States Marshal in
the Indian Territory. I'm going to quit you, any-
way. My guns are getting rusty. It 's too slow for
me here."
" Why, George," I replied, " if you are bound to
die, why don't you blow your brains out yourself ? "
— for at the time few new marshals in the Indian Ter-
ritory survived the first year of their appointment.
"Never mind about me," he answered; "I'll take
care of George. Anyway, I 'd rather get leaded there
than rust here."
So I got him the appointment.
A few months later, when the Territory was thrown
open to settlement, Thornton homesteaded one hun-
dred and sixty acres of land which early became a
town site, and now is the business centre of the city of
Guthrie. Had he lived and retained possession of his
homestead, it would have made him a millionaire. But
greedy speculators soon started a contest of his title.
While this contest was at its height, one day Thorn-
ton learned some Indians living a few miles from the
town were selling whiskey, contrary to Federal law.
As he was mounting for the raid, having intended to
go alone, a man he scarcely knew offered to accom-
pany him, and Thornton finally deputized him.
[ 2^5 I
THE RED-BLOODED
The story of his end was told by the Indians them-
selves, who later were captured by a large force of
marshals, and tried for his murder. They said that
just at dusk they saw two horsemen approaching.
Presently they recognized Marshal Thornton and at
once opened fire on him, eight of them, from behind
the little grove of cottonwoods in which they were
camped. Immediately Thornton shifted his bridle to
his teeth, and charged them straight, firing with his
two ".41 " Colts. The moment he charged, his com-
panion dodged into a clump of timber, where they
saw him dismount. On came Thornton straight into
their fire, shooting with deadly accuracy, killing two
of their number, and wounding another before he fell.
Presently, at the flash of a rifle from the brush
where his companion had dismounted, Thornton
pitched from his horse dead. They had done their
best to kill him, they frankly swore, but it was his
own deputy's shot that laid him low.
All the collateral circumstantial evidence so fully
corrobrated this that the Indians were acquitted.
The shot that killed him hit him in the back of the
head and was of a calibre different from that of the
Indians' guns; and his deputy never returned to
Guthrie.
That it was a murder prearranged by some of the
greedy contestants for his land, was further proved
[236]
ACROSS THE BORDER
by the fact that every scrap of his private papers
was found to have disappeared, and, through their
loss, his family lost the homestead.
Curly's end is another story. Happily he was
spared to me some years.
tasT]
CHAPTER X
THE THEEE-LEGGED DOE AND THE BLIND BUCK
WE had just pulled the canoe out of the water
and turned it over after a wet day in the
bush across Giant's Lake, and were drying
ourselves before the camp-fire, when Con taught a
lesson and perpetrated a confidence. His keen,
shrewd eyes twinkling, and a broad smile shortening
his long, lean face till its great Roman nose and
pointed chin were hobnobbing sociably together, the
best hunter and guide on the Gatineau sat pouring
boiling water through the barrel and into the inner-
most holy of holies of the intricate lock mechanism of
his .303 Winchester — to dry it out and prevent
rusting from the wetting it had received in the bush.
"Sure! youse never heerd of it before.'*" he asked
in surprise. " Dryin' a gun with hot water 's safest
way to keep her from rustin'; carries out all th' old
water hangin' round her insides 'n' makes her so
damned hot Mr. Rust don't even have time to throw
up a lean-to 'n' get to eatin' of her 'fore the new
water's all gone; 'n' Mr. Rust can't get to eat none
'thout water, no more 'n a deer can stay out of a salt
lick, or Erne Moore can keep away from the hahitaw
[ 288 ]
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
gals, or Tit Moody can get his own consent to stop
his tongue waggin' off tales 'bout how women winks
down t' Tupper Lake — when he *s rowin' 'em."
" Should n't think such a little water as you have
used would make the gun hot enough to dry it out,"
I suggested.
"Hot! Won't make her hot! Why, she's hotter
now 'n' billy Buell got last October when that loony
habitaw cook o' ourn made up all our marmalade and
currant jelly into pies that looked 'n' bit 'n' tasted
like wagon dope wropt in tough brown paper; hot!
's hot this minute 's Elise Lievre's woman got last
Spring when she heerd o' him a-sittin' up t' a Otter
Lake squaw. Why, say! youse couldn't no more
keep a gun from rustin' in this wet bush 'thout hot
water than Warry Hilliams can kill anything goin'
faster than three-legged deer.
"Rust ! Youse might 's well try to catch a habitaw
goin' to a weddin' 'thout more ribbons on his bridle
'n' harness than his gal has on her gown 's hunt for
rust in a hot- watered gun ! "
Catching a hint of a yarn, I asked if there were
many three-legged deer in the bush.
"W'an't but one ever, far 's I know," he replied.
" 'N' almighty lucky it was for Warry that one come
a-limpin' along his way, for it give him th' only chance
he '11 probably ever have to say he got to shoot a deer.
"Warry? Why he's jest the best ever happened
[ 239 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
— 't least the best ever happened 'round this end o'
the bush. Lives down to ; better not tell you
right where he lives, for I stirred up th' letters in
his name, so 'f any of his friends heerd you tell th'
story they won't know it's on him; fer he's jest that
good I'd rather hurt anybody, 'cept my woman or
bird, than hurt him.
"Warry? Why, with a rod 'n' line 'n' reel,
whether it's with flies, spoons, or minnows, castin' or
trollin', or spearin' or nettin', Warry's th' ^arpertest
fish-catcher that ever waded the rapids or paddled th'
lakes o' this old Province o' Quebec. But it 's gettin'
a leetle hard for Warry late years — fish's come to
know him so well that after he's made a few casts 'n'
hooked one or two that's got away, they know his
tricks so well they just passes the word 'round, 'n' it's
'pike' for th' pike, 'beat it' for th' bass, 'trot'
for th' trout, 'n' 'skip' for the salmon, until now,
after th' first day or two, 'bout all Warry can get in
reach of 's mud turtles.
" 'N'd that 's what comes o' knowin' too much and
gettin' too damned smart — nobody or nothin' left to
play with ! Warry? Why, say, if he 'd only knowed
it thirty or forty years ago, Warry had th' chance to
live 'n' die with th' repute o' bein' th' greatest sport
specialist that ever busted through the Quebec bush —
if he'd only jest kept to fishin'. But the hell o' it is,
Warry's always had a fool idee in his head he can
[240]
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
hunt, 'n' he can't, can't sort o' begin to hunt! 'N'
darned if I could ever quite figure out why, 'n' him so
smart, 'nless because he goes poundin' through the
bush like a bunch o' shantymen to their choppin',
with his head stuck in his stummick, studyin' some
new trick to play on a trout, makin' so much noise th'
deer must nigh laugh theirselves to death at him a-
packin' o' a gun.
"Hunt? Warry? Does he hunt? Sure, every
year for th' last thirty years to my knowledge — only
that's all; he jest hunts, never kills nothin'. Least-
ways he never did till three year ago, 'n' I ought t'
know, for I always guides for him. Why, I mind one
time he was stayin' over on the Kagama, he got so
hungry for meat he up 'n' chunks 'n' kills 'n' cooks
'n' eats a porcupine, th' p'rmiscous shootin' o'
which is forbid by Quebec law, 'cause they 're so slow
a feller can run 'em down 'n' get 'em with a stick or
stone, 'n' don't need t' starve just 'cause he 's got no
gun.
" Three years ago he 'd been up for the fly fishin'
in late June 'n' trollin' for gray trout in September,
'n' then here he comes again th' last week in October
t' hunt. 'N' she was the same old story : nothing do-
ing!
" I could set him on th' best runways, 'n' Erne 'n'
me could dog th' bush till our tongues hung out 'n'
we could hardly open our mouths 'thout barkin';
[^41]
THE RED-BLOODED
could run deer past him till it must 'a looked — if he'd
had a loose look about him — like a. Grsice^eld habit aw
weddin' pr'cession, 'n' thar he'd set with his eyes fast
on th' end o' his gun, I guess, a-waitin' for a sign of a
hite 'fore he'd jerk her up to try 'n' get somethin'.
'N' the queerest part was, he seemed to enjoy it just
's much 's if he'd brought down a three-hundred-
pound buck to drag the wind out o' Erne 'n' me at th'
end o' a tump-line. Most fellers 'd got mad 'n' cussed
their luck. But not him — kindest, sweetest-tempered
man I ever knew. Guess he knowed we'd done our
best 'n' had some kind o' secret inside information
that he had n't.
" O' course, sometimes Warry 'd get his gun off, but
by that time th' deer had quit th' runway 'n' was in
th' lake up to their bellies pullin' lily pads, or curled
up in th' long grass o' a swale fast asleep.
"But all fellers has a day sometime, if they lives
long enough — though some o' them seems t' have t'
get t' live a almighty long time t' get t' see it. At last
Warry's came.
" Erne 'n' me been doggin' a swamp where th' dead-
fall tangle was so thick we was so nigh stripped o'
clothes we couldn't *a gone t' camp if there 'd been
any women about. Drivin' toward where a runway
crossed a neck 'tween two lakes, a neck so narrow two
pike could scarce pass each other on it, there we'd
sot Warry 't th' end o' th' neck. Jest 'fore we got t'
[ 242 ]
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
him we heard a shot, 'n' I remarked t' Erne, * Guess
th' old man thinks he 's got a bite J 'N' then we broke
through a thick bunch o' spruce ; 'n' we both nigh fell
dead to see old Warry sawin' at th' throat o' a doe,
trjin' to 'pear 's natural 's if he 'd never done nothin'
else but kill 'n' dress deer. Mebbe Erne 'n' me wan't
pleased none th' old man had made a kill !
"Erne was ahead; 'n' just as Warry rose up from
th' throat-cuttin', Erne dropped into th' weeds 'n'
rolled 'n' 'round holdin' o' his stummick, laughin' fit
t' kill his fool self, till I thought he'd gone crazy.
Then my eye lit on th' fore quarters o' th' doe, 'n' I
guess I throwed more twists laughin' than Erne did —
for that there doe was shy a leg, hadn't but three
legs ; nigh fore leg gone midway 'tween knee and dew-
claw, shot off 'n' healed up Godo'mi'ty knows when.
'* Warry? He didn't seem t' care none, too
darned glad t' get anythin' shape o' a deer."
That same evening one of us asked Con if he had
ever run across any other mutilated game, recovered
of old wounds.
" Sure ! " he answered, " 'specially once when I
was almighty glad to git it, 'n' a whole lot gladder
still that nobody was 'round t' see 'n' know 'n' tell
just what I got 'n' how I got it. She 's been a secret
these five year; stuck t' her tighter 'n' Erne Moore
holds th' gals down t' Pickanock dances, 'n' that 's
closer 'n a burl on a birch. Fact is, I never told no-
[243 J
THE RED-BLOODED
body 'fore now; 'n' I wouldn't be tellin' it t' youse
now, only just 'fore we come up here I got a letter
from one o' th' two brothers we blindfolded, sayin'
his brother was dead an' he goin' t' Californy t' live,
'n' wa'n't comin' into th' bush no more.
" If that feller got hold o' her, my brother 'n' me 'd
have t' go t' Australia or th' Cape, for him that 's still
livin' 's just about 's mean a feller 's Warry 's a good
one ; an' any little repute we 've built up 's guides 'n'
hunters, he 'd put in th' rest o' his life tryin' t' smash
's flat 's that fool hahitaw cook got when Larry
Adams sot on him for cookin' pa'tridges as soup.
He 'd just par'lyze her till we could n't even get a job
goin' t' hunt 'n' fetch th' cows out o' a ten acre
pasture. 'N' th' worst o' 't is I don't know that I 'd
blame him so almighty much for doin' it, for there
was sure somethin' comin' t' us for foolin' them I
don't believe we got yet.
" Th' two o' them came up from across th' line —
ain't goin' t' tell you what place they come from or
even th' State — in late October, for th' two weeks
dog-runnin' season; youse know there is only two
weeks th' Quebec law lets us run hounds, 'thout a
heavy fine. Never 'd seen either o' them before, but
friends o' theirs we 'd been guidin' for gave brother 'n*
me a big recommend, 'n' they wrote up ahead 'n' hired
us t' put up th' teams t' haul them 'n' their traps in,
'n' then guide 'em.
[ ^44 ]
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
" Soon 's they showed up on th' depot platform at
Gracefield, I knowed brother 'n' me was up agin it
hard. Train must 'a been a half-hour late gettin' to
Maniwaki for th' time she lost unloadin' them two
fellers' necessities for a two-weeks' deer hunt : 'bout a
dozen gun cases, 'n' fishin' tackle 'nough for ten men,
'n' trunks 'n' boxes that took three teams t' haul 'eiii
out t' th' Bertrand farm. Fact is, them boxes held
enough ca'tridges t' lick out another Riel rebellion
'n' leave over 'nough t' run all th' deer 'tween Thirty-
one Mile Lake 'n' the Lievre plumb north into James's
Bay, for if there's anythin' your average sportin'
deer-hunters can be counted on for sure's death 'n'
taxes, it 's t' begin throwin' lead, at th' rate o' about
ten pound apiece a day, the minute they gets into th'
bush, at rocks 'n' trees 'n' loons 'n' chipmucks —
never kill in' nothin' but their chance o' seein' a deer.
" 'N' these bloomin' beauties o' our'n was no excep-
tion. Th' lead they wasted on th' two-mile portage
from th' Government road t' th' lake would equip all
the Injuns on the Desert Reservation for a winter's
hunt.
" Why, when Tom 'n' me got hold o' th' box they 'd
been takin' ca'tridges from t' heave her into the boat,
she was so light, compared t' th' others we'd been
handlin', we landed her plumb over th' boat in th'
water ; 'n' damned if she did n't nigh float. She was
the only thing they had light 'nough t' even try t'
[245]
THE RED-BLOODED
float ('cept their own shootin', which sure wasn't
heavy 'nough t' sink none, 'n' could 'a fell out o' a
canoe 'n' been picked up a week later bumpin' 'round
with th' other worthless drift.
" Took us a whole day to run their stuff over t' th'
camp, 'n' it only a mile across th' lake from tb*
landin' ; 'n' when night come we was 's near dead beat
's if we'd been portagin' a man's load apiece on a
tump-line — 'n' that 's a tub o' pork 'n' a sack 'o flour
weighin' two hundred and seventy five pounds — over
every portage 'tween Pointe a Gatineau 'n' th' Baska-
tong.
"O' course th' gettin' them fellers over theirselves
was a easy diversion, they was that t' home 'bout a
canoe ! Youse may not believe it, but after tryin' a
half-hour 'n' findin' we couldn't even get them into
a canoe at th' landin' 'thout upsettin' or knockin' th'
bottom outen her, we had t' help them into a thirty-
foot 'pointer' made t' carry a crew o' eight shanty-
men 'n' their supplies on the spring drives, 'n' then
had t' pull our damnedest t' get them across th' lake
'fore they upset her, jumpin' 'round 't shoot at some-
thin' they could n't hit !
" 'N' eat ! Well, they ate a few. We was only out
for two weeks, 'n' when we loaded th' teams 'peared t'
me like we had 'nough feed for six months, but after
th' first meal 't looked t' me we'd be down t' eatin'
what we could kill inside o' a week. Looked like no
[U6]
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
human's stummick could hold all they put In their
faces, 'n' brother, he said he thought their legs 'n'
arms must be holler.
" 'N' sleep ! When 't come t' wakin' of 'em up th'
next mornin' they was like a pair o' bears that 'd
holed up for th' winter, 'n' it nigh took violence t' get
'em out at all. We started in runnin' th' hounds, 'n'
brother 'n' me had the best on th' Gatineau — Frank
'n' Loud, 'n' old Blue, 'n' Spot — dogs that can scent
a deer trail 's far 's Erne Moore can smell supper
cookin', 'n' that 's far from home 's Le Blanc
farm his father used to own, over Kagama way, 'bout
eight miles from Pickanock, where he lives. We run
th' dogs for four days, 'n' it was discouragin', most
discouragin'. Country was full o' deer when we was
last out, three weeks before, 'n' th' dogs voiced 'n'
seemed t' run plenty right down to 'n' past where we 'd
sot th' two on th' runways ; but they swore they never
see nothin', said th' hounds been runnin' on old scent,
sign made the night before.
"Then brother 'n' me took t' doggin' too, makin'
six dogs, 'n' givin' us a chance t' see anythin' that
jumped up in th' bush. Still nothin' came past 'em,
they said, though we saw many a deer jump up out
o' th' swamps 'n' go white flaggin' theirselves down
th' runways toward the two ' hunters'.
"We just couldn't understand it 'n' made up our
minds t' try 'n' find out why they never got t' see none.
[247]
THE RED-BLOODED
" So the sixth day I placed one o' them myself on
a runway half as wide 'n' beat most 's hard 's th'
Government road, full o' fresh sign, picked a place
where a big pine stump stood plumb in th' middle o'
th' runway, 'n' sot him behind it where he had a open
view thirty yards up th' runway th' direction we 'd be
doggin' from.
"Then I let on t' break through th' bush t' th'
swamp we was goin' t' dog, but 'stead o' that I only
went a little piece 'n' left brother to start th' hounds
at a time we 'd arranged ahead, while I lay quiet be-
hind a bunch o' balsam 'thin fifty yards o' my hunter.
After 'bout twenty minutes, the time I .was supposed
t' need t' get t' th' place t' start th' hounds, I heard
old Frank give tongue — must 'a struck a fresh trail
th' minute he was turned loose. Then it wa'n't long
'till th' other three began t' sing, rimin' 'n' singin' a
chorus that's jest th' swetest music on earth t' my
ears.
" Talk about your war 'n' patriotic songs, your
'Rule Britannias' 'n' * Maple Leaves,' your church
hymns 'n' love songs, 'n' fancy French op'ras like
they have down t' Ottawa that Warry Hilliams took
me to wonst ! Why, say, do youse think any o' them
16 in it with a hound chorus, th' deep bass o' th' old
hounds 'n' th' shrill tenor o' th' young ones — risin'
'n' swellin' 'n' ringin' through th' bush till every idle
echo loafin' in th' coves o' th' ridges wakes up V
[ 248 ]
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
joins in her best, 'n' you 'd think all th' hounds in this
old Province was runnin' 'n' chorusin' 'tween the Bubs
'n' Mud Bay; V then th' chorus dyin' down softer
'n' softer till she's low 'n' sweet 'n' sorta holy-
soundin', like your own woman's voice chantin' t' your
youngest — say, do youse think there's any music in
th' world 's good 's th' hounds make runnin'?
" Well, I sot there behind th' balsams till th' dogs
was drawin' near, 'n' then I slips softly through th'
bush t' where I'd left Mr. Hunter; 'n' how do
I youse s'pose I found him, 'n' it no more'n half past
seven in th' mornin' ? Youse never 'd guess in a thou-
sand year. I'll jest tump-line th' whole bunch o'
youse 't one load from th' landin' 't' th' Bertrand
farm ff that feller wa'n't settin' with his back t' th'
stump, facin' up th' runway, his rifle 'tween his knees
'n' his fool head lopped over on one shoulder, dead
asleep! No wonder they never see nothin', was it?
"First I thought I'd wake him. Then I heard a
deer comin' jumpin' down th' runway, 'n' knowin'
'fore I could get him wide awake 'nough t' cock 'n'
sight his gun th' deer'd be on us, I slipped up behind
th' stump 'n' laid my rifle 'cross its top, th' muzzle not
over a foot above his noddin' head. I was no more 'n
ready 'fore here come — a buck? No, I guess not,
'cause they was jest crazy for some good buck heads;
no, jest a doe, but a good big one. Here she come
boundin' along, her head half turned listening t' th*
[249]
THE RED-BLOODED
dogs, 'n' never seein' hirriy he sot so still. When she
got 'thin 'bout fifty feet I fired 'n' dropped her — 'n'
then hell popped th' other side o' th' stump ! Guess
he thought he was jumped by Injuns. Slung his gun
one way 'n' split th' bush runnin' th' other, leapin'
deadfalls 'n' crashin' through tangles so fast I had
t' run him 'bout fifty acres t' get t' cotch 'n' stop him.
" That feller was with us jest about ten days longer,
but he never got time t' tell us jest what he thought
was follerin' him or what was goin' t' happen if he
got cotched. Likely 's not he 'd been runnin' yet if I
hadn't collared him.
" O' course they was glad at last t' get some veni-
son — leastways youse'd think so t' see them stuiBn'
theirselves with it — but they never let up a minute
round camp roastin' brother 'n' me for not runnin'
them a buck; swore that we hadn't run 'em any was
proved by my gettin' nothin' but th' doe.
"Finally, they up 'n' wants a still-hunt! Them
still-hunt, that we could scarce get along the broadest
runway 'thout makin' noises a deer'd hear half a
mile! Still-hunt! Still-hunt, after we'd been run-
nin' the hounds for a week and they 'd shot off 'bout
a thousand rounds o' ca'tridges round camp 'n'
comin' back from doggin', till there wa'n't a deer
within eight miles o' th' lake that wa'n't upon his
hind legs listenin' where th' next bunch o' trouble was
comin' from. But still-hunt it was for our'n, 'n' at
[250]
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
it we went for th' next two days. Don't believe we 'd
even 'a started, though, if we had n't known two days
at th' most'd cure them o' still-huntin'. Gettin' out
'fore sun-up, with every log in th' brules frosted slip-
pery 's ice, 'n' every bunch o' brush a pitfall, climbin'
'n' slidin', jumpin' 'n' balancin', any 'n' every kind
o' leg motion 'cept plain honest walkin', was several
sizes too big a order for them. So th' second mornin'
out settled their still-huntin'.
"Then they wanted brother 'n' me t' still-hunt —
while they laid round camp, I guess, 'n' boozed, th'
way they smelled 'n' talked nights when we got in.
" 'N' still-hunt we did, plumb faithful, 'n' hard 's
ever in our lives when we was in bad need o' th' meat,
for several days ; 'n' would youse believe it? We
never got a single shot. Sometimes we saw a white
flag for a second hangin' on top o' a bunch o' berry
bushes — that was all; most o' th' deer scared out o'
th' country, 'n' th' rest wilder 'n' Erne gets when
another feller dances with his best gal.
"Well, we just had t' give up 'n' own up beat.
'N' Goda'mi'ty ! but did n't them two cheap imitation
hunters tell us what they thought o' us pr'f essionals —
said 'bout everything anybody could think of, 'cept
cuss us. 'N' there was no doubt in our minds they
wanted to do that. If they 'd been plumb strangers,
'stead o' friends o' one o' our parties, it's more'n
likely brother 'n' me'd wore out a pair o' saplings
[251]
THE RED-BLOODED
over their fool heads, 'n' paddled off 'n' left them t'
tump-line theirselves out o' th' bush. But I told
brother 't was only a day or two more, 'n' we 'd chew
our own cheeks 'stead o' their ears.
"The last day we had in camp they asked us t'
make one more try with th' hounds. We took th' two
ridges north o' th' shanty deer-lick 'n' drove west,
with them on a runway sure to get a deer if there was
any left t' start runnin'. Scarcely ten minutes after
we loosed th' hounds I heard them stopped 'n' bayin',
over on th' slope o' th' ridge brother was on, bayin'
in a way made me just dead sure they had a bear.
"Now a bear-kill, right then t' go home 'n' lie
about, tellin' how they fit with it, would 'a suited our
sham hunters better 'n' a whole passlc o' antlers; so
I busted through th' bush fast as I could, fallin' 'n'
rippin' my clothes nigh off — only t' find our hounds
snappin' 'n' bayin' round a mighty big buck, that
when I first sighted him, seemed to be jest standin'
still watchin' th' hounds. Never saw a deer act that
way before, 'n' him not wounded, 'n' nobody 'd shot.
Jest could n't figure 't out at all. But I was so keen
t' get them fellers a bunch o' horns I didn't stop t'
study long what p'rsonal private reasons that buck
had for stoppin' 'n' facin' th' hounds.
" I was in the act o' throwin' my .303 t' my face,
when brother hollered not t' shoot, 'n' t' come over t'
him. 'N' by cripes! while I was crossin' over t'
[262] *
THE DOE AND THE BUCK
brother, what in th' name o' all th' old hunters that
ever drawed a sight do youse think I noted about that
buck? Darned if that buck wa'n't blind — stone
blind — blind 's a bat!
" Poor old warrior ! He 'd stand with his head on
one side listenin' t' th' hounds till he had one located
close up, 'n' then he 'd rear 'n' plunge at th' hound ;
'n' if there happened t' be a tree or dead timber in his
way, he'd smash into it, sometimes knockin' himself
a'most stiff. But when all was clear th' hounds stood
no show agin him, blind as he was. Old Loud 'n'
Frank, that naturally put up a better fight than th'
young dogs, he tore up with his front hoofs so bad
they like t' died.
"Run th' buck knowed he couldn't, 'n' there he
stood at bay t' fight to a finish 'n' sell out dear 's he
could. If it had n't been a real kindness t' kill him,
I'd never 'a shot that brave old buck, 'n' left our
hunters t' buy any horns they had t' have down t'
Ottawa. But he was already pore 'n' thin 's deer
come out in March, 'n' if we let him go 'd be sure t'
starve or be ate by th' wolves. So I put a .303 be-
hind his shoulder, 'n' brother 'n' me ran up 'n'
chunked th' dogs off.
"'N' what do youse think we found had blinded
that buck? Been lately in a terrible fight with an-
other buck. His head 'n' neck 'n' shoulders was
covered with half-healed wounds where he'd been
[ 253 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
gashed 'n' tore by th' other's horns 'n' hoofs; 'n'
somehow in the fight both his eyes'd got put out!
Guess when he lost his eyes th' other buck must 'a
been 'bout dead himself, or it'd 'a killed him 'fore
quittin'.
" Then it hit brother 'n' me all of a heap that ^e 'd
be up agin it jest a leetle bit too hard t' stand if we
hauled a blind buck into camp; fellers 'd swear that
t' get t' kill a buck at all brother 'n' me had t' range
th' bush till we struck a blind one; 'n' then they'd
probably want us t' go out 'n' see if we could n't find
some sick or crippled 'nough so we could get to shoot
'em.
''Brother was for leavin' him 'n' sayin' nothin';
but th' old feller had a grand pair o' horns it seemed
a pity t' lose, 'n' so I just drove a .303 sideways
through his eyes ; 'n' when we got t' camp we 'counted
for th' two shots in him by tellin' them he was circlin'
back past us 'n' we both fired t' wonst.
" 'N' by cripes ! t' this day nobody but youse knows
that Con Teeples dogged 'n' still-hunted th' bush for
two weeks for horns 'thout killin' nothin' but a blind
buck."
[254]
CHAPTER XI
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
ONE crisp winter morning a party of us left
New York to spend the week end at the
Lemon County Hunt Club. It was there I
first met Sol, the dean of Lemon County hunters and
for eight seasons the winner, against all comers, of
the famous annual Lemon County Steeple Chase. At
the hurdles, whether in the great public set events or
in private contests, Sol was never beaten, while in the
drag hunts it was seldom indeed he was not close up
on the hounds from " throw-in " to " worry."
To the Club Mews he had come under the tragic
name of Avenger, but such was the marvellous equine
wisdom he displayed that at the finish of his third hunt
in Lemon County, he was rechristened Solomon by
his new owner — soon shortened to Sol for tighter fit
among sulphurous hunt expletives. At that night's
dinner Sol and his deeds were the chief topic of con-
versation and also its principal toast. And why not,
when no hunting stable in the world holds a horse in
all respects his equal? Why not toast a horse now
twenty-six years old who has missed no run of the
Lemon County hounds for the last eight years, never
[ 255 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
for a single hunting-day off his feed or legs? Why
not toast a horse that takes ordinary timber in his
stride and eats up the stiifest stone walls for eight
full hunting seasons without a single fall? Why not
toast a horse with the prescience and generalship of
a Napoleon, a horse who drives straight at all obsta-
cles in a fair field, but who never imperils his rider's
head beneath overhanging boughs ; who foresees and
evades the "blind ditches" and other perils lurking
behind hedges and walls, and who lands as steady and
safe on ice as he takes off out of muck? Why not
toast this venerable but still indomitable King of
Hunters ?
The next morning it was my privilege to meet him.
In midwinter, he of course was not in condition. De-
scriptions of his weird physique, and jests over his
grotesquely large and ill-shaped head, made by half
a dozen voluble huntsmen over post-prandial bottles,
I thought had prepared me against surprise. Cer-
tainly they had described such a horse as I had never
seen.
But having come to the door of his box, I was
astoimded to see slouching lazily in a comer with
eyes closed, the nigh hip dropped low, a horse that at
first glance appeared to be Don Quixote's Rosinante
reincarnate, a gigantic "crowbait" with a head as
long and coarse as an eighteen-hand mule's, an under
lip pendulous as a camel's dropping ears nearly long
[ 256 ]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
enough to brush flies off his nostrils, with such an
ingrowing concavity of under jaw and convexity of
face as would have enabled his head to supply the
third of a nine-foot circle, a face curved as a scimitar
and nearly as sharp. Both in shape and dimensions
it was the grossest possible caricature of a Roman-
nosed equine head the maddest fancy could conceive.
Slapped lightly on the quarter, Sol was instantly
transformed.
Eyes out of which shone wisdom preternatural in
a horse, opened and looked down upon us with the
calm questioning reproach one might expect from a
rude awakening of the Sphinx; then the tall ears
straightened and the great bulk rose to the full
majesty of its seventeen hands; and while slats, hip
bones, and shoulder blades were distressingly promi-
nent, a glance got the full story of Sol's wonderful
deeds and matchless record for safe, sure work.
With massive, low-sloping shoulders, tremendous
quarters, exceptionally short of cannon bone and
long from hock to stifle as a greyhound; with a
breadth of chest and a depth of barrel beneath the
withers that indicated most unusual lung capacity,
behind the throat-latch Sol showed, in extraordinary
perfection, all the best points of a thoroughbred
hunter that make for speed, jumping ability, and
endurance.
And as he so stood, a flea-bitten, speckled white in
[ 257 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
color, he looked like a section out of the main snowy
range of the Rocky Mountains : the two wide-set ears
representing the Spanish Peaks; his sloping neck
their northern declivity; his high withers, sharply
outlined vertebrae, and towering quarters the serrated
range crest; his banged tail a glacier reaching down
toward its moraine!
Sol needed exercise, and that afternoon I was per-
mitted the privilege of riding him. Mounted from
a chair and settled in the saddle, I felt as if I must
surely be bestriding St. Patrick's Cathedral. But at
a shake of the reins the parallel ceased. His pas-
terns were supple as an Arab four-year-old's, his
muscles steel springs.
Myself quite as gray as Sol and, relatively, of
about the same age, as lives of men and horses go, we
early fell into a mutual sympathy that soon ripened
into a fast friendship. At Christmas I returned to
the Club to spend holiday week, in fact sought the
invitation to be with Sol. Every day we went out
together, Sol and I, morning and afternoon. Bright,
warm, open winter days, so soon as the spin he loved
was finished, I slid off him, slipped the bit from his
mouth (leaving head-stall hanging about his neck),
and left him free to nibble the juicy green grasses of
some woodland glade and, between nibble times, to
spin me yams of his experiences. For the subtle sym-
pathy that existed between us — sprung of our trust
£ 258 ]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
in one another, and sublimated in the heat of our
mutual affection — had sharpened our perceptions
until intellectual inter-communication became possible
to us. I know Sol understood all I told him, and I
don't think I misunderstood much he told me. So
here is his tale, as nearly as I can recall it.
" Ye know I 'm Irish, and proud of it. It 's there
they knew best how to make and condition an able
hunter. No pamperin', softenin' idleness in box
stalls or fat pastures, or light road-joggin', goes in
Ireland between huntin' seasons. It's muscle and
wind we need at our trade in Ireland, and neither can
be more than half diviloped in the few weeks' light
conditionin' work that all English and most American
cross-country riders give their hunters. Steady
gruellin' work is what it takes to toughen sinews and
expand lungs, and it 's the Irish huntsman that knows
it. So between seasons we drag the ploughs and pull
the wains, toil at the rudest farm tasks, and thus are
kept in condition on a day's notice to make the run
or take the jump of our lives.
*^ Humiliatin' ? Hardly, when we find' it gives us
strength and staying power to lead the best the shires
can send against us : they 've neither power nor stom-
ach to take Irish stone and timber.
" ' It 's a royal line of blood, his,' I 've often heard
Sir Patrick say ; ' a clean strain of the best for a
hundred years, by records of me own family. His
[ 259 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
head? There was never a frealc m the line till he
came; and where the divil and by what misbegotten
luck he came by it is the mystery of Roscommon.
And it 's by that same token we call him Avenger, for
no sneerin' stranger ever hunted with him that did n't
get the diviPs own peltin' with clods off his handy
Irish heels.'
"And the head groom had it from the butler and
passed it on to me that the old Master of the Roscom-
mon Hounds was ever swearin' over his third bottle,
of hunt nights, when I was no more than a five-year-
old and the youngsters would be fleerin' at Sir Pat
over the shape of me head :
" * Faith, an' it 's Avenger's head ye don't like, lads,
is it ? By the powers o' the Holy Virgin but it 's me
pity ye have that none of ye can show the likes in
your stables. By the gray mare that broke King
Charlie's neck, it's the head of him holds brains
enough to distinguish ten average hunters, brains no
ordinary brain pan could hold; an' it's a brain-box
shape of a shot sock makin' the disfigurin' hump be-
low his eyes. It's a four-legged gineral is Avenger,
with the cunnin' foresight of a Bonaparte and the
cool judgment of a Wellington.'
"Ah! but they were happy days on tlie old sod,
buckin' timber, flyin' over brooks, stretchin' over
stone or lightin' light as bird atop of walls too broad
to carry and springin' on, with a good light-handed
[ 260 ]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
man up that knew his work and left ye free to do
yours ! And a sad night it was for me when Sir Pat,
stripped by years of gambling of all he owned but
the clothes he stood in and me, staked and lost me to
a hunt visitor from Quebec!
" I was a youngster then, only a nine-year-old, but
I '11 niver forget the two weeks' run from Queenstown
to Quebec whereon hunting tables were reversed and I
became the rider and the ship me mount, across coun-
try the roughest hunter ever lived through: niver a
moment of easy flat goin', but an endless series of
gigantic leaps that nigh jouted me teeth loose, churned
me insides till they wouldn't even hold dry feed, and
gave me more of a taste than I liked of what I had
been givin' Roscommon huntsmen over lane side wall
jumps — a rise and a jolt, a rise and a jolt, till it
was wonderin' I was the ears were not shaken from
me head.
"Humiliation? It was there at Quebec I got it!
In old Roscommon usually it was lords and ladies
rode me of hunt days, men and women bred to the
game as I meself was.
"But at Quebec, the best — and I had the best —
were beefy members of their dinkey Colonial Govern-
ment or fussy, timid barristers I had to carry on me
mouth. Seldom it was I carried a good pair of hands
and a cool head in me nine years' runnin' with the
Quebec and Montreal hounds. And lucky the same
[261]
THE RED-BLOODED
was for me, for it forced me to take the bit in me
teeth, rely on meself, and regard me rider no more
than if he were a sack of flour: I jist had it to do to
save me own legs and me rider's neck, for to run by
their reinin' and pullin' would have brought us a
cropper at about two out of every three obstacles.
Faith, and I believe it 's an honest leaper's luck I 've
always had with me, anyway, for me Quebec work
was jist what I needed to train me for an honorable
finish with the Lemon County Yankees.
'^One Autumn night years ago, when I was eigh-
teen, a clever young Yankee visitor from New York
appeared at our club. For two days I watched his
work on other mounts, and liked it. He was good
as any two-legged product of the old sod itself, a
handsome youngster a bit heavier than Sir Pat, a
reckless, deep drinkin', hard swearin', straight ridin'
sort, but with a head and hands ye knew in a minute
ye could trust, by name Jack Lounsend. The third
hunt after his arrival, it was me delight to carry
him, and for the first time in years to allow me rider
his will of me. And you can bet your stud and gear,
I gave him the best I had, for the sheer love of him,
and him so near the likes of me dear Sir Pat.
" Nor was me work to go unvalued, for, to me
great delight, he bought me and brought me to the
States — straight away to Lemon County — along
[ 26« ]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
with two of me huntmates he fancied. And a sweet
country I found this same Lemon County, with tim-
ber and stone nigh as stiff, and sod as sound as old
Roscommon's own.
"But troubles lay ahead of me I'd not foreseen.
Instead of goin' into Jack's private string, as I'd
hoped, the early record I made for close finishes and
safe, sure work made me wanted by the chief patron
of the hunt, a New York multi-railroad-aire with a
well diviloped habit of gettin' everything he goes after.
So, while I venture to believe Jack hated to part with
me, the patron got me.
"And a good man up the patron himself proved,
one I'd always be proud enough to carry; but, as
Jack used to say, the hell of it was the Lemon County
Hunt numbered more bunglin' duffers than straight
riders, the sort a youngster or a hot-head would be
sure to kill.
" So when, as often happened, the patron was busy
with faster runs and a hotter "worry" than our
hunt afforded, it frequently fell to me lot to carry the
half-broke of all ages, seldom a one bridle-wise to our
game, as sure to pull me at the take-off of a leap as
to give me me head on a run through heavy mud, the
sort no horse could carry and finish dacently with ex-
cept by takin' the bit in his teeth and himself makin'
the runnin'. And even so, it was a tough task fightin'
[2631
THE RED-BLOODED
their rotten heavy hands and loose seat! But, by
the glory of old Roscommon, never once have I been
down in me eight years with the Lemons !
** Once, to be sure, on me first run, by the way, I
slashed into one of your brutal wire fences, the first
I 'd ever seen — looked a filmy thing you could smash
right through — caught a shoe in it, and nigh
wrenched a shoulder blade in two. Sure, I never lost
me feet, but it laid me up a few days ; and you can
gamble any odds you like no wire has ever caught me
since ; and, more, that I now hold record as the only
horse in the County that takes wire as readily as tim-
ber, where it's necessary — though sure it is I '11 dodge
for timber every time where I won't lose too much in
place.
"Down they come to Lemon County, a lot of
those New York beauties, men and women, togged out
so properly you 'd think they 'd spent their whole lives
in the huntin' field ; but at the first obstacle you 'd see
their faces go white as their stocks, and then all over
you they 'd ride from tail to ears, their arms sawin' at
your mouth fit to rip your under jaw off, like they
thought it was a backin' contest they were entered for.
And sure back to the rear it soon was for them, back
till the hounds were mere glintin' specks flyin' across
a distant hill-crest, the riders' red coats noddin' pop-
pies ; back till only faint echoes reached them of the
swellin', quaverin' chorus of the madly racin' pack;
[ 264 ]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
back for all but him or her whom old Sol had his will
of, — for rider never lived could hold me to the wrong
jump or throw me from my stride, nor was fence ever
built I 'd not find a place to leap without layin' a toe
on it.
"Once the hounds give voice, it's the divil himself
couldn't hold me, whether it's the short, sharp war-
cry of the Irish or the sweet, deep bell-notes of these
Yankee hounds that to me ever seem chantin' a mourn-
ful dirge for the quarry. Sure, it 's the faster Irish
hounds that make the grandest runnin', but it's the
deep-throated, mellow chorus of a Yankee pack I love
best to hear.
^* Nouveaux riches^ whatever kind of bounders that
spells, is what Bob Berry calls the lot of mouth-sawers
New York sends us ; and whenever the patron is out
or Jack has his way, it 's niver one of them I 'm dis-
graced with.
" Sometimes it 's me good old Jack up ; sometimes
hard swearin', straight goin' Bob; sometimes little
Raven, as true a pair of hands and light and tight a
seat as hunter ever had; sometimes Lory Ling, as
reckless as the old Roscommon sire of him I used to
carry when I was a five-year-old, with a ring in his
swears, a stab in his heels, and a cut in his crop that
can lift a dead-beat one over as tall gates as the best
and freshest can take ; sometimes it's Priest, that with
the language of him and the hell-at-a-split pace he '11
[ 265 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
hold a tired one to but ill desarves the holy name he
wears; and sometimes — my happiest times — it's a
daughter of the patron up, with hands like velvet and
the nerve and seat of a veteran.
" Horse or human, it 's blood that tells every time,
me word for that. Be they old or young, you can
niver mistake it. Can't stop anything with good
blood in it — gallops straight, takes timber in its
stride, and finishes smartly every time. Know it may
not, but it balks at nothing, sets its teeth and drives
ahead till it learns.
" And perhaps that was n't driven well home on me
last Fall !
" Out to us came a little woman, a scant ninety-
pounder I should say, so frail she would n't look safe
in a drag, and a good bit away on the off side of mid-
dle age ; but the mouth of her had a set that showed
she 'd never run off the bit in her life, and her eye —
my eye ! but she had an eye, did that woman. And it
was hell-bent to hunt she was, bound to follow the
hounds, though all she knew of a saddle came of five-
mile-an-hour jogs along town park bridle paths, and
all her hands looked fit for was holdin' a spaniel.
"Well, it was Lory and Priest took her on, turn
about, usually me that carried her, and it was break
her slender little neck I thought the divils would in
spite of me. Took her at everything and spared her
nowhere, bowled her along across meadow and furrow,
[266]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
over water, timber, and walls, like she was a lusty five-
year-old, and all the time a guyin' her in a way to take
the heart out of anything but a thoroughbred. "Don't
mind the fence ! " Lory would sing out, ' if you get a
fall, just throw your legs in the air and keep kickin'
to show you 're not dead ; we never want to stop for
any but the dead on this hunt.' And smash on my
quarters would come her crop, and on we'd go!
" Again, when we 'd be nearin' a fence across which
two were scramblin' up from croppers, Lory would
brace her with: 'Don't git scared at that smoke
across the fence; it's nothin' but the boys that
couldn't get over burnin' up their chance of salva-
tion!' And into me slats her little heel would sock
the steel, and high over the timber I'd lift her for
sheer joy of the nerve of her!
"But it was not always me that had her. One
day I saw a cold-blood give her a fall you'd think
would smash the tiny little thing into bran ; landed so
low on a ditch bank he could n't gather, and up over
his head she flew and on till I thought she was for
takin' the next wall by her lonesome. And when
finally she hit the ground it was to so near bury her-
self among soft furrows that it looked for a second
as if she'd taken earth like any other wily old fox
tired of the runnin'.
" But tired ? She ? Not on your bran mash ! Up
she springs like a yearlin' and asks Lory is her hat
|[ ^67 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
on straight — which it was, straight up and down over
her nigh ear. 'Oh, damn your hat,' answers Lory;
* give us your foot for a mount if your 're not rattled.
Why, next year you '11 be showin' your friends holes
in the ground on this hunt course you've dug with
your own head!' And up it was for her and away
again on old cold-blood. Faith, but those cold-bloods
make it a shame they're ever called hunters. Fall
the best must, one day or another; but while the
thoroughbred goes down fightin', strugglin' for his
feet and ginerally either winnin' out or givin' his rider
time to fall free if down he must go, the cold-blood
falls loose and flabby as an empty sack, and he and
his rider hit the ground like the divil had kicked them
off Durham Terrace. Ah, but it was the heart of a
true thoroughbred had Mrs. Bruner, and whether up
on cold or hot blood, along she'd drive at anything
those two hare-brained dare-devils would point her at,
spur diggin', crop splashin' !
" Nor is all our fun of hunt days. Between times
the lads are always larkin' and puttin' up games on
each other out of the stock of divilment that won't
keep till the next run, each never quite so happy as
when he can git the best of a mate on a trade or a
wager.
"One day little Raven and I galloped over to
Lory's place.
" * Whatever mischief are you and His Wisdom up
[268]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
to?' sings out Lory to Raven, the minute we stopped
at his porch.
"'Nary a mischief,' answers Raven; 'want some
help of you.'
" ' Give it a name,' says Lory.
" ' Easy,' says Raven ; ' the master's got a new fad
— crazy to mount the hunt on white horses. I've
old Sol here, and Jack has a pair of handy white ones
for the two whips, but where to get a white mount
for Jack stumps us. Jogged over to see If you could
help us out.'
" Lory was lollin' in an easy-chair, lookin' out west
across his spring lot. Directly I saw a twinkle in his
eye, and followin' the line of his glance, there slouchin'
in a fence comer I saw Lory's old white work-mare,
Molly. Sometimes Molly pulled the buggy and the
little Lings, but usually it was a plough or a mower
for hers. I 'd heard Lory say she was eighteen years
old and that once she was graj, but now she ^3 white
as a first snow-fall.
' " ' How would old gray Molly do, Raven ? ' pres-
ently asks Lory.
" ' Do ? Has she ever hunted ? ' asks Raven.
" * DIvIl a hunt of anything but a chance for a rest,'
says Lory ; ' never had a saddle on, as far as I know,
but she has the quarters and low sloping shoulders of
a born jumper, and it's you must admit It. Let's
have a look at her.'
[ 269 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
" So out across the spring lot the three of us went,
to the corner where Molly was dozin.' And true for
Lor J it was, the old lady had fine points ; when lightly
slapped with Raven's crop she showed spirit and a
good bit of action.
" ' She 's sure got a good strain in her,' says Raven ;
' where did j^ou get her, Lory ? '
" * Had her twelve years,' says Lory ; * brought her
on from my Wyoming ranch; she and a skullful of
experience and a heartful of disappointment made up
about all two bad winters left of my ranch invest-
ments. The freight on her made her look more like
a back-set than an asset, but she was a link of the
old life I could n't leave/
" ' Well, give her a try out,' laughs Raven, * and if
she'll run a bit and jump, we may have some fun
passin' her up to Jack.'
" So Lory takes her to the stable, has her saddled
and mounts, and I hope never to have another rub-
down if she did n't gallop off like she'd never done
anything else — stiff in the pasterns and hittin' the
ground fit to bust herself wide open, but poundin'
along a fair pace. Then we went into a narrow lane
and I gave her a lead over some low bars, and here
came game old Molly stretchin' over after me like
fences and her were old stable-mates.
"*Well, I mil be damned,' says Raven; 'she's a
hoary wonder. Give her a week of handlin' and trim
[ 270 ]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
her up, and it'll be Jack for mother at a stiff price ;
he's so bent on his fad, he'll take a chance on her age.'
"And then it was clinkin' glasses and roarin'
laughter in the house with them, while I began tippin'
Molly a few useful points at the game as soon as the
groom left us in adjoinin' stalls.
'^Four days later Lory brought Molly over to the
hunt-club mews, and if I 'd not been on to their mis-
chievous plot, I '11 be fired if I 'd known her. It was
a cunnin' one, was Lory, and he'd banged her tail,
hogged her mane, clipped her pasterns, polished her
hoofs, groomed, fed up, and conditioned her, and (I
do believe) polished her yellow old fangs, till she
looked as fit a filly as you'd want to see.
"And soon after, when Molly was unsaddled and
stalled, into an empty box alongside of me slips Lory
with Tom, the best whip and seat of our hunt, and
says Lory: *You never seem to mind riskin' your
neck, Tom.'
"* Thank ye kindly, sir,' says Tom; *hall in the
day's work.'
" * Well, if you '11 give the old gray mare a week's
practice at wall and timber, gettin' out early when
none but the sun and the pair of you are yet up, I '11
gi^e you the little rifle you lovin'ly handled at my
place the other day. But mind, it's your neck she
may break at the first wall, for I've niver taken her
over anything much higher than a pig sty.'
[271]
THE RED-BLOODED
"*Right-o, sir,' says Tom; * an' there's any jump
in the old girl, I '11 git it out of 'er.*
"The next Saturday afternoon, the biggest meet
of the season, up rides that divil of a Lory on Molly,
him in a brand-new suit of ridin' togs and her heavy-
curbed and martingaled like she was a wild four-year-
old, the pair lookin' so fine I scarce knew the man or
Raven the mare.
"'Hi, there. Lory!' says Raven; * wherever did
you get the corkin' white un ? '
" ' Sh-h-h ! you damn fool,' says Lory.
" * The hell you say ! ' whispers Raven, reins aside,
chucklin' low to the two of us, and with a knee-press
which I knew meant, * Sol, jist you watch 'em!'
"And we were no more than turned about when
up rides the master. Jack, both ears pointin' Molly,
and says:
"* Good-looker you have there, Lory. New pur-
chase ? '
"'No, indeed,' says Lory; *old hunter I've had
some years; brought her on from the West; just up
off grass and not quite prime yet ; guess she'll finish,
though.'
"Think of it — the nerve of the divil — and him
knowin' she was more likely to finish at the first fence
than ever to reach the check. For the day's course
was a full ten-mile run, and a check was laid half way
for a blow or a change of mounts.
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
" Presently the hounds opened at the ' throw-in,' an
Irish pack it takes near a steeplechase pace to stay
with, and we were off on as stiff a course as even
Lemon County can show. And a holy miracle was
Lory's ridin' that day. For nigh four miles he held
tight behind two duffers who, while up on top-notch-
ers, pulled their mounts so heavily that they took a
top rail off nearly every fence they rose to and
swerved for low wall-gaps, till he'd got Molly's nerve
up a bit. Then, takin' a chance on the last mile. Lory
threw crop and spur into her and raced straight
ahead, liftin' her over wall and timber to try the best,
until close up on Jack. Just then Jack turned and
watched them, just as they were approachin' a heavy
four-foot jump, a broad stone wall and ditch. Sure,
I thought it was all up with Lory, but at it he hurled
her, and I'll be curbed if she did n't take it as cleverly
as I «ould.
"Old Molly finished third at the check, but at
the expense of a pair of badly torn and bleedin' knees,
got scrapin' over stone and wood, which that rascal
of a Lory hid by swervin' to a white clay bank and
plasterin' her w^ounds with the clay, and then she was
led away by his groom.
" Joggin' back from the ' worry ' that evenin'. Jack
lay tight in Lory's flank till Lory had consented, ap-
parently with great reluctance, to sell him Molly for
five hundred dollars.
[273]
THE RED-BLOODED
"The v6ry next jw^eek, Jack, Raven, and the two
whips turned out on white hunters, Jack of course
upon Molly and happy over the successful workin'
out of his fad. But good old Jack's happiness was
short-lived, for after the 'throw-in' he was not seen
again of the hunt that day. The first fence Molly
negotiated in fine style, but at the second she came
a terrible cropper that badly jolted Jack and
knocked every last ounce of heart out of her, cowed
her so completely that she 'd be in that same meadow
yet if there'd not been a pair of bars to lead her
through, and divil a man was ever found could make
her try another jump.
"Great was the quiet fun of Lory and Raven,
though Lory's lasted little longer than Jack's joy of
his white mount. Of course Jack was too game to let
on he knew he'd been done, but not too busy to
sharpen a rowel for Lory.
" And the rankest wonder it was Lory niver saw it
till Jack had him raked from flank to shoulder — •
Ijust stood and took it without a blink, like a donkey
takes a lash.
" Within a week of Molly's downfall Lory was out
on me one day, when up rides Jack and says :
"* There's a splendid hunter in me stable I want
ye to have, Lory. Got more than I can keep, and
your stable must be a bit shy since you parted with
the white mare. He's the bay seventeen-hander in the
[274]
THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT
Irish lot. Stands me over a thousand, but you can
have him at your own price ; don't want the hardest,
straightest rider of the hunt shy of fit meat and bone
to carry him.'
"Belikes it was the blarney caught him, but any-
way Lory buried his muzzle in Jack's pail till he
could see nothin' but what Jack said it held, and took
the bay at six hundred dollars just on a casual look-
over.
" It was a good action, a grand jimipin' form, and
rare pace the bay showed on a short try-out that af-
ternoon, so much so I overheard Lory tellin' himself,
when he was after dismountin' just outside me box:
*Gad! but ain't old Jack easy money!'
"But when Lory and the bay showed up at the
next day's meet, I noticed the bay's ears lay in' back
or workin' in a way to tell any but a blind one it was
dirty mischief he was plannin'. Nor was he long
playin' it. For about a thirdof the run the bay raced
like a steeplechaser tight on the heels of the hounds,
leadin' even the master, for Lory could no more hold
him than his own glee at the grand way they were
takin' gates and walls. But suddenly that bay divil's-
spawn swerves from the course, dashes up and stops
bang broadside against a barn ; and there, with ears
laid back tight to his head and muzzle half upturned,
for four mortal hours the bay held Lory's off leg
jammed so tight against the barn that, rowel and
[275]
THE RED-BLOODED
crop-cut hard as he might, the only thing Lory was
able to free was such a flow of language, It was a holy
wonder Providence did n't fire the barn and burn up
the pair of them.
"And as Jack passed them I heard the divil smg
out : * Ha ! Ha ! Lory ! 'it was the gray mare wanted to
jump but could n't, and it 's the bay can jump but
won't! It's an "oh hell!" for you and a "ha! ha!"
for me this time ! '
"Which, while they're still fast friends, was the
last word ever passed between them on the subject of
the funker and the balker.
[276]
CHAPTER XII
Eli TIGRE
A CAT may look at a king, but the son of a
village lawyer may not venture to bare his
heart to the daughter of the Duque de la
Torrevieja. And yet a man of our blood was enno-
bled early in the wars with the Moors, while the
Duke's forebears were still simple men-at-arms,
knighted under a name that in itself carries the ring
of the heroic deeds that earned it."
The speaker, Mauro de la Lucha-sangre (literally
"Mauro of the Bloody Battle"), stood one June
morning of 1874 beneath the shade of a gnarled olive-
tree on the banks of the Guadaira River, rebelliously
stamping a heel into the soft turf. Son of the fore-
most lawyer of his native town of Utrera, educated
in Sevilla at the best university of his province,
already at twenty-four himself a fully accredited
licenciado, Mauro's future held actually brilliant
prospects for a man of the station into which he was
born. And yet, most envied of his classmates though
he was, to Mauro himself the future loomed black,
forbidding, cheerless.
Mauro's father, by legacy from his father, was the
[ 277 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
attorney and counsellor of the Duque de la Torre-
vieja; and so might Mauro have been for the next
Duke had there not cropped out In him the daring,
the love of adventure, the pride, and the confidence
that had lifted the first Lucha-sangre above his fel-
lows. It was a case of breeding back — away back
over and past generations of fawning commoners to
the times when Lucha-sangre swords were splitting
Moorish casques and winning guerdons.
Nor in spirit alone was Mauro bred back. He was
deep of chest, broad of shoulder, lithe and graceful.
His massive neck upbore a head of Augustan beauty,
lighted by eyes that alternately blazed with the pride
and resolution of a Cid and softened with the musings
of a Manrique. Mauro was a Lucha-sangre of the
twelfth century, reincarnate.
Little is it to be wondered at that, as the lad was
often his father's message-bearer to the Duke, he
found favor in the eyes of the Duke's only daughter,
Sofia; and still less is it to be wondered at that he
early became her thrall. Of nights at the university
he was ever dreaming of her ; up out of his text-books
her lovely face was ever rising before him in class.
Of a rare type was Sofia In Andalusia, where
nearly all are dark, for she was a true ruhta, blue of
eye, fair of skin, and with hair of the wondrously
changing tints of a cooling Iron Ingot.
And now here was Mauro, just back from SeviUa,
[ 278 ]
EL TIGRE
almost within arm's-reach of his divinity, and yet not
free to seek her. And as the ripphng current of the
Guadaira crimsoned and then reddened and darkened
till it seemed to him like a great ruddy tress of Sofia's
waving hair, Mauro sprang to his feet and fiercely
whispered: *' Mil demoniosl but she shall at least
know, and then I'll kiss the old padre and his musty
office good-bye and go try my hand at some man's
task!"
Opportunity came earlier than he had dared hope.
The very next morning the elder Lucha-sangre sent
t Mauro to the castle with some papers for the Duke's
approval and signature. Still at breakfast, the Duke
received him in the great banquet-hall of the castle,
the walls covered with portraits of Torreviejas gone
before, several of the earlier generations so dim and
gray with age they looked mere spectres of the lim-
ner's art.
While the Duke was reading the papers, Mauro
stood with eyes riveted to the newest portrait of them
all, that of Sofia's mother — Sofia's very self ma-
tured — herself a native of a northern province
wherein to this day red hair and blue eyes are a fre-
quent, almost a prevailing type, that tell the story of
early Gothic invasions. So absorbed in the picture,
so completely possessed by it was Mauro, that when
the Duke turned and spoke to him, he did not hear.
And so he stood for some moments while the Duke
[279]
THE RED-BLOODED
sat contemplating the fine lines of his face and the
splendid pose of his figure; his eyes lightened with
admiration, his head nodding approval.
Then gently touching Mauro's arm, the Duke
queried: "And so you admire the Duchess, young
man?"
With a start Mauro answered, after a dazed stare
at the Duke: "A thousand pardons. Excellency!
But yes, sir ; who in all the world could fail to admire
her?"
"Yes, yes," replied the Duke; "God never made
but one other quite her equal, and her He made in her
own very Image — Sofia; que Dios la aguarda!**
Mauro gravely bowed, received the papers from
the Duke, and withdrew.
Turning to his secretary, the Duke sighed deeply
and murmured: ^* Dios miol if only I had a son of
my own blood like that boy ! What a pity he should
be tied down to paltry pettifoggery ! "
Meantime Mauro, striding disconsolate past an
angle of the narrow garden of the inner courtyard.
Was detained by a soft voice issuing from the seclu-
sion of a bench beneath the drooping boughs of an
ancient fig tree : " Buenos dias, Don Mauro. Bueno
es verte revuelto"
" Buenos diaSy Condesa; and it is indeed good to me
to be back, good to hear thy voice — the first real hap-
[ 280 ]
EL TIGRE
piness I have known since mj ears last welcomed its
sweet tones. Good to be back! ah! Condesa Sofia,
for me it is to live again."
"But, Don Mauro— "
"A thousand pardons, Condesa, but thy duenna
may join thee at any moment, and my heart has long
guarded a message for thee it can no longer hold and
stay whole, — a message thou mayest well resent for
its gross presumption, and yet a message I would
here and now deliver if I knew I must die for it the
next minute.
"From childhood hast thus possessed me. Never
a night for the last ten years have I lain down with-
out a prayer to the Virgin for thy safety and happi-
ness ; never a day but I have so lived that my conduct
should be worthy of thee. Though I am the son of
thy father's licenciado, thou well knowest the blood of
a long line of proud warriors bums in my veins.
Hope that thou mightst ever even deign to listen to
me I have never ventured to cherish — "
"But Don Mauro-—"
" Again a thousand pardons, Condesa, but I must
tell thee thou art the light of my soul. Without thee
all the world is a valley of bitterness ; with thee its
most arid desert would be an Eden. The birds are
ever chanting to me thy name. Every pool reflects
thy sweet face. Every breeze wafts me the fragrance
[ 281 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
of thy dear presence. Every thunderous roll of the
Almighty's war-drums calls me to attempt some great
heroic deed in thine honor, some deed that shall prove
to thee the lawyer's son, in heart and soul if not in
present station, is not unworthy to tell to thee his
love. And — "
"But, Mauro, Mauro m — mior* And with a
sob she arose and actually fled through the shrubbery.
Two days later the betrothal of the Countess Sofia
to the Count Leon, the eldest son and heir to the Duke
de Oviedo, was announced by her father. And that,
indeed, was what she had tried but lacked the heart
to tell him — that, wherever her heart might lie, her
father had already promised her hand !
It was a bitter night for Mauro, that of the an-
nouncement, and a sad one for his father. Their
conference lasted till near morning. The son pleaded
he must have a life of action and hazard ; his country
at peace, he would train for the bull ring.
" Why not the opera, my son ? " the thrifty father
replied. " Thou hast a grand tenor voice ; indeed the
Bishop has asked that thou wilt lead the choir of the
Cathedral. With such a voice thou wouldst have ac-
tion, see the world, gain riches, while all the time
playing the parts, fighting the battles of some great
historic character."
"But no, father," answered Mauro; "such be no
[282]
EL TIGRE
more than sham fights. Not only must I wear a sword
as did the early Lucha-sangres, but I must hear it
ring and ring against that of a worthy foe, feel it
steal within the cover of his guard, see the good blade
drip red in fair battle. True, there be no Moors or
French to fight, but what soldier on reddened field ever
took greater odds than a lone espada takes every time
he challenges a fierce Utrera bull? And I swear to
thee, padre mio, whatever my calling, I shall ever be
heedful of and cherish the. motto that Lucha-sangre
swords have always borne: '^ No me sacas sin razon;
no me metes sin honor. ^* (Do not draw me without
good cause; do not sheath me without honor!)
The less strong-minded of the two, the father
yielded, and even furnished funds sufficient for a
year's private tutoring by Frascueloj then the great-
est matador in all Spain.
Thus the first time Mauro ever appeared before a
public assembly was as chief espada of a cuadrilla
of his own, at Valladolid. An apt pupil from the
start, bent upon reaching the highest rank, of extra-
ordinary strength and activity, utterly fearless but
cool headed, a natural general, at the close of his first
corrida he was acclaimed the certain successor of the
great Frascuelo himself, and at the same time chris-
tened El Tigre (the Tiger) for the feline swiftness of
his movements and the ferocity of his attacks.
[283]
THE RED-BLOODED
The next eight years were for El Tigre fruitful of
fame and riches but utterly arid and barren of even
the most casual feminine attachment. Well educated,
clever, with the manners of a courtier, and with
physical beauty and personal charm few men
equalled, he was invited by the nobility often, received
as an equal by the men and literally courted by the
women. But the attentions of women were all to no
purpose. For El Tigre only one woman existed —
Sofia, now the Duchess de Oviedo — though he had
never again set eyes on her from the hour of their
parting beneath the fig tree.
Owners of large Mexican sugar estates in the valley
of Cuautla, the Duke and Sofia divided their time be-
tween Paris and Mexico. Their marriage was far
from happy. Before their union, busy tongues had
brought Count Leon rumors of her admiration for
Mauro, rousing suspicions that were not long crys-
tallizing into certainty that, while she was a faithful,
honest wife, he could never win of her the affection
he gave and craved. Obviously proud of her, always
devoted and kind, he received from her respect and
consideration in return, which indeed was all she had
to give, for the loss of Mauro remained to her an
ever-gnawing grief.
Oddly enough, fate decreed that the destiny of
Mauro and Sofia should be worked out far afield from
[«84]
EL TIGRE
their burning Utreran plains, high up on the cool
plateau of Central Mexico.
For several years most generous offers had been
made El Tigre to bring his cuadrilla to Mexico, but,
surfeited with fame and rolling in riches, he had de-
clined them. At last, however, in 188 — , an offer was
made him which he felt forced to accept — six thou-
sand dollars a performance for ten corridas, to be
given on successive Sundays in the Plaza Bucareli In
the City of Mexico, all expenses of himself and his
cuadrilla to be paid by the management. And so,
late in April of that year El Tigre arrived in Mexico
with his cuadrilla and (as stipulated in his contract)
sixty great Utreran bulls, for the bulls of Utrera are
famed in toreador history and song as the fiercest,
most desperate fighters espada ever confronted.
At the first performance El Tigre took the Mexi-
can public by storm. No such execution, daring, and
grace had ever been seen in either Bucareli or Colon.
El Tigre was the toast in every club and cafe of the
city. Every shop window displayed his portrait.
All the journals sung his praises. Maids and ma-
trons sighed for him. Youth and age envied him.
El Tigress coffers were well-nigh bursting and his
cups of joy overflowing, all but the one none but
Sofia could fill.
Where she was at the time El Tigre had no idea.
And yet, wholly unsuspected by him, not only were
[ 285 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
she and the Duke in Mexico, but both had attended
all his performances at Bucareli, up to the last, in-
conspicuous behind parties of friends they enter-
tained in their box.
Whether it was the Duke caught the pallor of
Sofia's face in moments of peril for Mauro, or the
light of pride and admiration in her eyes during his
moments of triumph, sure it is the smouldering fires
of the Duke's jealousy were rekindled, and he was
prompted to plan a test of her bearing, when free of
the restraint of his presence. On the morning of the
last performance he announced that he must spend
the afternoon with his attorneys, and must leave Sofia
free to make her own arrangements for attendance
at the last corrida.
And glad enough was she of the chance. The
boxes were far too high above, and distant from, the
arena. For days she had coveted any of the seats
along the lower rows of open benches, close down to
the six-foot barrier between the ring and the audi-
torium, close down where she could catch every shift-
ing expression of Mauro's mobile face, and — where
he could scarcely fail to see and recognize her. The
thought of seeking in any way to meet or speak to
him never entered her clean mind, but she had been
more nearly a saint than a woman if she had been
able to deny herself such an opportunity to convey to
him, in one long burning glance, a knowledge of the
r 286 ]
EL TIGRE
endurance of the love her frightened "Mauro mio'*
had plainly confessed the night of their parting be-
neath the fig tree. So it naturally followed that the
Duke was barely out of the house before Sofia rushed
away a messenger to reserve a section of the lower
benches immediately beneath the box of the Presi-
dente, directly in front of which Mauro must come,
at the head of his cuadrilla, to salute the Presidente.
The city was thronged with visitors come to see El
Tigre. Hotels and clubs were overflowing with them.
And thousands of poor peons had for months stinted
themselves, often even gone hungry, to save enough
tlacos to buy admission to the spectacle, to them the
greatest and most magnificent it could ever be their
good fortune to witness. The day was perfect, as
indeed are most June days in Mexico. For two hours
before the performance the principal thoroughfares
leading to the Plaza Bucareli were packed solid with
a moving throng, all dressed en fete.
' In no country in the world may one see such great
picturesqueness, variety, and brilliancy of color in
the costumes of the masses as then still prevailed in
Mexico. Largely of more or less pure Indian blood,
come of a race Cortez found habited in feather tunics
and head-dresses brilliant as the plumage of parrots,
great lovers of flowers, three and a half centuries of
contact with civilization had not served to deprive
them of any of their fondness for bright colors.
[287]
THE RED-BLOODED
Thus with the horsemen in the graceful traje de
chorro — sombreros and tight fitting soft leather
jackets and trousers loaded with gold or silver orna-
ments, the footmen swaggering in scrapes of ever}'
color of the rainbow, the women wrapped in more
delicately tinted rebosas and crowned with flowers,
the winding streets looked like strips of flower garden
ambulant.
Bucareli seated twenty thousand, and when all
standing-room had been filled and the gates closed,
thousands of late comers were shut out.
The level, sanded ring, the theatre of action, was
surrounded by a six-foot solid-planked barrier. Be-
hind and above the barrier rose the benches of the
auditorium, the "bleachers" of the populace; they
rose to a height of perhaps forty or fifty feet, while
above the uppermost line of benches were the private
boxes of the elite. Within the ring were five heavily
planked nooks of refuge, set close to the barrier, be-
hind which a hard pressed toreador might find safety
from a charging bull. These refuges were little used,
however, except by the underlings, the capadores, or
by capsized picadores; espadas and banderilleros
disdained them. On the west of the ring was the
box of the Presidente of the corrida (in this instance,
the Grovernor of the Federal District) ; on the east
the main gate of the ring through which the cuadrilla
entered ; on the north the gate of the bull pen.
[288]
EL TIGRE
At a bugle call from the Presidente's box, the main
gate swung wide and the cuadrilla entered, a band of
lithe, slender, clean-shaven men, in slippers, white
stockings, knee breeches, and jackets of silk orna-
mented with silver, each wearing the little queue and
black rosette attached thereto that from time im-
memorial Andalusian toreadores have sported.
El Tigre headed the squad, followed by two junior
TTiatadores, three banderilleros, three capadores, and
two mounted picadores, while at the rear of the
column came two teams of little, half-wild, prancing,
dancing Spanish mules, one team black, the other
white, each composed of three mules harnessed
abreast as for a chariot race but dragging behind
them nothing but a heavy double tree, to which the
dead of the day's fight might be attached and dragged
out of the arena.
Each of the footmen was wrapped in a large black
cloak passed over the left shoulder and beneath the
right, the loose end of the cloak draped gracefully
over the left shoulder, the right arm swinging free.
The picadores were mounted (as usual) on old
crowbaits of horses, mere bags of skin and bones, so
poor and thin that neither could even raise a trot ; a
broad leather blindfold fastened to their head-stalls.
Each rider was seated in a saddle high of cantle and
ancient of form as those Knights Templar jousted in.
The breast of each horse was guarded by a great side
[289 J
THE RED-BLOODED
of sole leather falling nearly to the knees, while the
right leg of each rider was incased in such a stiff and
heavy leather leg-guard as to render him afoot
almost helpless ; and he was further guarded by still
another side of sole leather swung from the saddle
horn and covering his left leg and much of his horse's
barrel. On the right stirrup of each picador rested
the butt of his lance, a stout eight-foot shaft tipped
with a sharp steel prod, barely long enough to catch
and hold in the bull's hide.
As the cuadrilla entered, a regimental band played
El Hymno Nacional, the National Anthem, while the
vast audience roared and shrieked a welcome to the
gladiators.
Marching to the time of the music in long tragic
strides, heads proudly erect, right arms swinging and
shoulders slightly swaying in the challenging swag-
ger which toreadores affect, the cuadrilla crossed the
arena and halted, close to the barrier, in front of the
Presidente's box, bared their heads, gracefully sa-
luted the Presidentey and received the key to the bull
pen and his permission to begin the fight. And as El
Tigress eyes fell from the salute to the Presidente they
rested upon Sofia, doubtless from some subtle tele-
pathic message, for it was a veritable hill of faces he
confronted. There she sat on the second bench-row
above the top of the barrier, matured and fuller of
figure but radiant as at their Utreran parting; ther*
[290]
EL TIGRE
she sat, her gloved hands tightly clenched, her lips
trembling, her great blue eyes pouring into his mes-
sages of a love so deep and pure that it needed all his
self-command to keep from leaping the barrier and
falling at her feet.
For a moment he stood transfixed, staggered,
almost overcome with surprise and delight again to
see her, thrilled with the joy of her message, blazing
with revolt at the painful consciousness that she was
and must remain another's. His emotions well-nigh
stopped the beating of his heart. And so he stood
gazing into Sofia's eyes until, self-possession recov-
ered, he gravely bowed, turned, and waved his men
to their posts.
Instantly all was action, swift action. Cloaks were
tossed to attendants, each footman received a red
cape, the two picadores took position one on either
side of the bull pen gate, the band struck up a tune,
the gate was opened and a great Utreran bull
bounded into the arena, maddened with the pain of
a short handerillay with long streaming ribbons,
stuck in his neck as he entered, by an attendant
perched above the gate.
His equal had never been seen in a Mexican bull
ring. While typical of his Utreran brothers, all
princes of bovine fighting stock, this coal-black
monster was by the spectators voted their King.
Relatively light of quarters and shallow of flank and
[ 291 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
barrel, he was unusually high and humped of withers,
broad and deep of chest and heavy of shoulders —
indeed a well-nigh perfect four-legged type of a finely
trained two-legged athlete, with a pair of peculiarly
straight-upstanding horns that were long and almost
as sharp as rapiers. Evidently by his build, he was
of a strong strain of East Indian Brahminic blood.
For his great weight, his activity was phenomenal —
his leaps like a panther's, his turns as quick.
Dazed for an instant by the crash of the music and
the brilliant banks of color about him, he stood an-
grily lashing his tail and pawing up the sand in
clouds — "digging a grave," as Texas cowboys used
to call it — his eyes blazing and head tossing, but
only for a moment. Then he charged the nearest
picador, literally leaped so high at him that head and
cruel horns crossed above the horse's neck, his own
great chest striking the horse just behind the shoul-
der with such force that man and mount hit the
ground stunned and helpless.
Barely were they down when he was upon them and,
with a single twitch of his mighty neck, had ripped
open the horse's barrel and half amputated one of the
rider's legs. Then, diverted by the capadores, he
whirled upon the second picador and in another ten
seconds had left his horse dead and the rider badly
trampled. Next the handerilleros tackled him, but
[292]
EL TIGRE
such was his speed and ferocity that all three funked
the work, and not one of them fastened his flag in the
black shoulders.
When the bull had entered the ring, El Tigre left
the arena — a most unusual proceeding. Now he re-
turned, clad in snow-white from head to foot, a white
cap covering head and hair, his face heavily pow-
dered. He slipped in behind and unseen by the bull
to the centre of the arena, and there stood erect, with
arms folded, motionless as a graven image.
Presently the bull turned, saw El Tigre, and
charged him straight. El Tigre was not even facing
him, for the bull was approaching from his left. But
there he stood without the twitch of a muscle or the
flicker of an eye lid, still as a figure of stone.
A great sob arose from the audience, and all gave
him up for lost, when, at the last instant before the
bull must have struck, it turned and passed him.
Once more the bull so charged and passed. Whether
because it mistook him for the ghost of a man or rec-
ognized in him a spirit mightier than its own, only
the bull knew.
Before the audience had well caught its breath, El
Tigre, wearing again his usual costume, was striding
again to the middle of the arena, carrying a light
chair, in which presently he seated himself, facing the
bull, a short banderilla, no more than six inches long,
[293]
THE RED-BLOODED
held in his teeth. And so he awaited the charge until
the bull was within actual arm's-reach, when with a
swift rise from the chair and a turn of his body quick
as that of a fencer's supple wrist, he bent and stuck
the teeth-held handerilla in the bull's shoulder as he
swept past.
Now was the time for the kill.
El Tigre received his sword, muleta, and cape.
The muleta is a straight two-foot stick over which the
cape is draped, and, held in the matador^s left hand,
usually is extended well to the right of his body.
Thus in an ordinary fight the bull is actually charg-
ing the blood-i;ed cape, and not the matador. But,
with Sofia an onlooker, determined to make this the
fight of his life. El Tigre tossed aside the muleta,
wrapped the crimson cape about his body, and stood
alone awaiting the bull's charge, his malleable sword-
blade bent slightly downward, sufficiently to give a
true thrust behind the shoulder, a down-curve into
heart or lungs.
With a bull of such extraordinary activity the act
was almost suicidal, but El Tigre smilingly took the
chance. By toreador etiquette, the matador must re-
ceive and dodge the first two charges : not until the
third may he strike. On the first charge El Tigre
stood like a rock until the bi;ll had almost reached
him, and then lightly leaped diagonally across his
[ 294 ]
EL TIGRE
lowered neck. The second charge, come an instant
after the first, before most men could even turn, he
dodged. The third he swiftly side-stepped, thrust
true, and dropped the great Utreran midway of a
leap aimed at his elusive enemy.
It was a deed magnificent, epic, and the plaza rung
with plaudits while hats, fans, and even purses and
jewels showered into the arena — all of which, by
toreador etiquette, were tossed back across the bar-
rier to their owners.
Then the teams entered and quickly dragged the
dead from the arena ; the ugly, dangerously slippery
red patches were fresh sanded, and the second bull
was admitted. Thus^ with more or less like incident,
three more bulls were fought and killed.
The fifth and last, however, proved a disgrace to
his race. Bluff he did, but fight he would not ; the
noise and crowd unnerved him. At last, frenzied with
fear and seeking escape, he made a mighty leap to
mount the barrier directly in front of the box of the
Presidente. And mount it he did, and down it
I crashed beneath his weight, leaving the bull for a
moment half down and tangled in the wreckage,
struggling to regain his feet.
Directly in front of the bull, not six feet beyond
the sharp points of his deadly horns, sat Sofia. In-
deed none about her had risen ; all sat as if frozen in
[295]
THE RED-BLOODED
their places. And just as well they might have been,
for escape into or through the dense mass of specta-
tors about them was utterly impossible. Whatever
horror came they must await, helpless.
But at the bull's very start for the barrier, El Ti-
gre realized Sofia's peril and instantly sprang empty-
handed in pursuit; for it was early in this the last
corrida and he did not have his sword.
Leaping the wreckage. El Tigre landed directly in
front of the bull, happily at the instant it regained
its feet, where, with his right hand seizing the bull by
the nose — his thumb and two fore-fingers thrust well
within its nostrils — and with his left hand grabbing
the right horn, with a mighty heave he uplifted
the bull's muzzle and bore down upon its horn until
he threw it with a crash upon its side that left it mo-
mentarily helpless.
But, himself slipping in the loose wreckage, down
also El Tigre fell, the bull's sharp right horn impal-
ing his left thigh and pinning him to the ground.
Before the bull could rise, the men of the cuadrilla
had it safely bound and El Tigre released. El Tigre,
however, did not know it. With the shock and pain
of his wound he had fainted.
When at length he regained consciousness, it was
to find his head pillowed in Sofia's lap, her soft fingers
caressing his brow, her tearful eyes looking into his,
and to hear her whisper: "Mauro mio!**
[296]
EL TIGRE
Just at this moment the Duke de Oviedo ap-
proached, no one knew whence.
White with jealousy but steady and cool, he quietly
remarked :
"Madame, I ought to kill you both, but that my
rank precludes. Lucha-sangre, in yourself, as son of
a notary and hired toreador and purveyor of specta-
cles, you are unworthy of my sword; nevertheless
blood once noble is in your veins. And so as noble it
suits me now to count you. As soon as you are re-
covered of your wound I will send you my second."
"Most happy, Duke," answered Mauro; "mine
shall be ready to meet him."
One evening a week later, while the Duke de Oviedo
and two Mexican army officers were having drinks
at the bar of the Cafe Concordia, General Delmonte,
a Cuban long resident in New York and a distin-
guished veteran of three wars, entered with two
American friends. Delmonte was describing to his
friends El Tigress last fight, lauding his prowess, ex-
tolling his noble presence and high character. Infu-
riated by the ardent praise of his enemy, the Duke
grossly insulted General Delmonte — and was very
promptly slapped in the face.
They fought at daylight the next morning, be-
neath an arch of the ancient aqueduct, just outside
the city. Encountering in Delmonte one of the best
im-\.
THE RED-BLOODED
swordsmen of his time, early in the combat the Duke
received a mortal wound. And as he there lay gasp-
ing out his life, he murmured a phrase that, at the
moment, greatly puzzled his seconds:
"Gana El Tigre," (The Tiger Wins!)
t298]
CHAPTER Xni
BUNKERED
IT seems It must have been somewhere about the
year 4000 B. C. that we lost sight of the tall
peaks of the architectural topography of Man-
hattan Island, and yet the log of the Black Pnnce
makes it no more than twenty days. Not that our
day-to-day time has been dragging, for it has done
nothing of the sort.
All my life long I have dreamed of indulging in
the jo}^ of a really long voyage, and now at last I've
got it. New York to Cape Town, South Africa,
6,900 miles, thirty days' straight-away run, and
thence another twenty-four days' sail to Mombasa,
on a 7,000-ton cargo boat, deliberate and stately
rather than fast of pace, but otherwise as trim, well
groomed, and well found as a liner, with an official
mess that numbers as fine a set of fellows as ever trod
a bridge. The Captain, when not busy hunting up
a stray planet to check his latitude, puts in his spare
time hunting kindly things to do for his two passen-
gers — for there are only two of us, the Doctor and
myself. The Doctor signed on the ship's articles as
surgeon, I as purser.
[ 299 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
Fancy it! Thirty days' clear respite from the
daily papers^ the telephone, the subway crowds, and
the constant wear and tear on one's muscular system
reaching for change, large and small! Thirty days
free of the daily struggle either for place on the lad-
der of ambition or for the privilege to stay on earth
and stand about and watch the others mount, that
saps metropolitan nerves and squeezes the humanities
out of metropolitan life until its hearts are arid and
barren and cruel as those of the cave-men! Thirty
days' repose, practically alone amid one of nature's
greatest solitudes, awed by her silences, uplifted by
the majesty of her mighty forces, with naught to do
but humble oneself before the consciousness of his
own littleness and unfitness, and study how to right
the wrongs he has done.
Indeed a voyage like this makes it certain one will
come actually to know one's own self so intimately
that, unless well convinced that he will esteem and
enjoy the acquaintance, he had best stay at home.
Of my personal experience in this particular I beg to
be excused from writing.
Lonesome out here? Far from it. Behind, to be
sure, are those so near and dear, one would gladly
give all the remaining years allotted him for one
blessed half-hour with them. Otherwise, time liter-
ally flies aboard the Black Prince; the days slip by at
[500]
BUNKERED
puzzling speed. Roughly speaking, I should say the
meals consume about half one's waking hours, for we
are fed five times a day, and fed so well one cannot
get his own consent to dodge any of them.
Indeed I've only one complaint to make of this
ship : she is a " water-wagon " in a double sense, which
makes it awkward for a man who never could drink
comfortably alone. With every man of the mess a
teetotaler, one is now and then possessed with a con-
suming desire for communion with some dear soul of
thirsty memory who can be trusted to take his
"straight." Of course I don't mean to imply that
this mess cannot be trusted, for you can rely on it
implicitly every time — to take tea; you can trust it
with any mortal or material thing, except your pet
brew of tea, if you have one, which, luckily, I have n't.
Indeed, for the thirsty man Nature herself in these
latitudes is discouraging, for the Big Dipper stays
persistently upside down, dry ! — perhaps out of sym-
pathy with the teetotal principles of this ship. And
most of the way down here there has been such a high
sea running that the only dry places I have noticed
have been the upper bridge and my throat. The fact
is, about everything aboard this ship is distressingly
suggestive to a faithful knight of the tankard : he is
surrounded with "ports" that won't flow and giant
" funnels " that might easily carry spirits enough to
[ 301 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
wet the whistles of an army division (but don't), un-
til he is tempted in sheer desperation to take a pull
at the "main brace."
All of which, assisted by the advent of a covey of
flying fishes and a (Sunday) "school" of porpoises,
is responsible for the following, which is adventured
with profuse apologies to Mr. Kipling:
ON THE EOAD TO MOMBASA
Take me north of the Equator
Where 'er gleams the polar star,
Where " The Dipper " ne'er is empty
And Orion is not far,
Where the eagle at them gazes
And up toward them thrusts the pine —
'Anywhere strong men drink spirits
On the right side of "the line."
On the road to Mombas-a,
Drawing nearer toward Cathay,
Where the north star now is under,
'Neath the Southern Cross's ray.
Take me off this water wagon
Where the Captain's ribbon 's blue,
Where the Doctor, yclept Barthwaite,
And each man- jack of the crew
[802]
BUNKERED
Never get a drop of poteen,
Never know the cheer of beer —
Anywhere a thirsty man may
Wet his whistle without fear.
On the road to Mombas-a,
With the Blacli Prince day by day
RolHng her tall taffrail under,
'Neath a sky o'ercast and gray.
Take me back to good old Proctor's
Where a man may quench his thirst,
Where a purser with a shilling
Need n't feel he is accursed
By an ironclad owners' ship rule
That her officers should n't drink- —
Anywhere the ringing glasses
Merrily clink! clink!
On the road to Mombas-a,
Where the only drink is " tay,"
Where a thirst that is a wonder
Bums the throat from day to day.
Take me somewhere close to Rector's
Where a man can get a crab,
Where the blondined waves are tossing
And every eye-glance is a stab,
[303]
THE RED-BLOODED
Where there 's froufrou of the jupon
And there 's popping of the cork —
Anywhere the men and women
Snap their fingers at the stork.
On the road to Mombas-a,
Where e'en mermaids never play,
Where to come would be a blunder
Hunting hot birds and Roger.
But lonesome out here? Never — with the sympa-
thetic North Atlantic winds ever ready to roar you
a grim dirge in your moments of melancholy contem-
plation of the inverted Dipper, with the gentle trop-
ical breezes softly singing through the rigging notes
of soothing cadence, with the lethal ocean billows
ever leaping up the sides of the ship, foaming with the
joy of what they would do to you if they once got
you in their embrace!
Lonesome? With the coming and the going of
each day's sun gilding cloud-crests, silvering waves,
setting you matchless scenes in color effect, some rav-
ishing in their gorgeous splendor, some soft and ten-
der of tone as the light in the eyes of the woman you
worship, scenes beside which the most brilliant stage
settings which metropolitans flock like sheep to see
are pathetically paltry counterfeits.
Lonesome? With a mighty, joyously bounding
[ 304 ]
BUNKERED
charger like the Black Prince beneath your feet if
not between your knees, gayly taking the tallest bil-
lows in his stride, whose ever steady pulse-beat be-
speaks a soundness of wind and limb you can trust
to land you well at the finish !
Lonesome? Where privileged to descend into the
very vitals of your charger and sit throughout the
midnight watch, an awed listener to the throbs of the
mighty heart that vitalizes his every function, while
each vigorously thrusting piston, each smug, palm-
rubbing eccentric, each somnolently nodding lever,
drives deeper into your lay brain an overwhelming
sense of pride in such of your kind as have had the
genius to conceive, and such others as have had the
skill and patience to perfect, the conversion of inert
masses of crude metal into the magnificently power-
ful and obviously sentient entity that is bearing you !
Lonesome? Skirting the coastline of Africa, a
country whose potentates, from the Ptolemies to Tom
Ryan, have never failed to make world history worth
thinking about!
Lonesome? Bearing up toward that sea-made
manacle of fallen majesty, St. Helena, absorbed in
memories of Bonaparte's magnificent dreams of
world-wide dominion, and of his pathetic end on one
of its smallest and most isolated patches !
Lonesome? With a chum at your elbow so close
a student of the manly game of war that he can glibly
[305]
THE RED-BLOODED
reel off for jou every important manoeuvre of all the
great battles of history, from those of Alexander the
Great down to Tommy Bums's latest!
And now and then the elements themselves sit in
and take a hand in our game, sometimes a hand we
could very well do without — as twice lately.
The first instance happened early last week. Tues-
day tropical weather hit us and drove us into pa-
jamas — a cloudless sky, blazing sun, high humidity,
while we ploughed our way across long, slow-rolling,
unrippled swells that looked so much like a vast,
gently heaving sea of petroleum that, had John D.
Standardoil been with us he would have suffered a
probably fatal attack of heart disease if prevented
from stopping right there and planning a pipe line.
Throughout the day close about the ship clouds
of flying fish skimmed the sea, and great schools of
porpoises leaped from it and raced us, as if, even to
them, their native element had become hateful, or as
if they sensed something ominous and fearsome
abroad from which they sought shelter in our com-
pany. One slender little opal-hued diaphanous-
winged bird-fish came aboard, and before he was
picked up had the happy life grilled out of him on
our scorching iron deck, hot almost as boiler plates.
Poor little chap! he found with us anything but
sanctuary ; but perhaps he lived long enough to sig-
nal the fact to his mates, for no others boarded us.
[306]
BUNKERED
And yet for one other opal-hued winged wanderer
we have been sanctuary ; for when we were about one
hundred and fifty miles out of New York a highly
bred carrier pigeon, bearing on his leg a metal tag
marked "32," hovered about us for a time, finally
alighted on our rail, and then fluttered to the deck
when offered a pan of water — and drank and drank
until it semed best to stop him. By kindness and in-
genuity of Chief Engineer Tucker he now occupies
a tin house with a wonderful mansard roof, from
which he issues every afternoon for an aerial consti-
tutional, giving us a fright occasionally with a flight
over far a-sea, but always returning safely enough to
his new diggings.
That Tuesday morning the sun rose fiery red out
of the steaming Guinea jungles to the east of us,
across its lower half two narrow black bars sinister.
It looked as if it had blood in its eye, while the still,
heavy, brooding air felt to be ominous of evil, har-
boring devilment of some sort. All the mess were
cross-grained, silent, or irritable, raw-edged for the
first time, for a better lot of fellows one could not ask
to ship with. Nor throughout the day did weather
conditions or tempers improve. All day long the sky
was heavily overcast with dense, low-hanging, dark
gray clouds, which, while wholly obscuring the sun,
seemed to focus its rays upon us like a vast burning-
glass ; wherefore it was expedient for the two pa jama-
[307]
THE RED-BLOODED
clad passengers to keep well within the shelter of the
bridge-deck awning. Toward sunset, a dense black
wall of cloud settled upon the western horrizon, aft
of us. But suddenly, just at the moment the sun
must have been descending below the horizon to the
south of it, the black wall of cloud slowly parted, and
the opening so made widened until it became an enor-
mous oval, reaching from horizon half way to zenith,
framing a scene of astounding beauty and grandeur.
Range after range of cloud crests that looked like
mountain folds rose one above another, with the
appearance of vast intervening space between, some
of the ranges a most delicate blue or pink, some
opalescent, some gloriously gilded, while behind
the farthest and tallest range, at what seemed an
inconceivably remote distance, but in a perspective
entirely harmonious with the foreground, appeared
the sky itself, a soft luminous straw-yellow in color^
flecked thickly over with tiny snow-white cloudlets.;
It was like a glimpse into another and more beautiful
world than ours — the actual celestial world.
But, whether or not ominous of our future, we were
permitted no more than a brief glimpse of it, for
presently the pall of black cloud fell like a vast drop
curtain and shut it from our sight. Then night came
down upon us, black, starless, forbidding, although
in the absence of any fall of the barometer nothing
more than a downpour of rain was expected.
[308]
BUNKERED
But shortly after I had gone to sleep, at two o'clock,
suddenly something in the nature of a tropical
tornado flew up and struck us hard. I was awak-
ened by a tremendous crash on the bridge-deck above
my cabin, a heeling over of the ship that nearly
dumped me out of my berth, and what seemed like a
solid spout of water pouring in through my open
weather porthole, with the wind howling a devil's
death-song through the rigging and an uninterrupted
smash — bang! above my head.
Throwing on a rain coat over my pajamas, I went
outside and up the ladder leading to the bridge-deck ;
and as head and shoulders rose above the deck level,
a wall of hot, wind-born rain struck me — rain so hot
it felt almost scalding — that almost swept me off the
ladder. If it had I should probably have become
food for the fishes. I got to the upper deck just in
time to see Captain Thomas get a crack on the head
.^^from a fragment of flying spar of the wreckage from
the upper bridge — luckily a glancing blow that did
no more damage than leave him groggy for a mo-
ment.
For the next fifteen minutes I was busy hugging a
bridge stanchion, dodging flying wreckage and try-
ing to breathe; for, driven by the violence of the
wind, the rain came horizontally in such suffocatingly
hot dense masses as nearly to stifle one.
It was the watch of Second Mate Isitt. Afterwards
[309]
THE RED-BLOODED
h
he told me that a few minutes before the storm broke
he saw a particularly dense black cloud coming up
upon us out of the southeast, where it had appar-
ently been lying in ambush for us behind the north-
ernmost headland of the Gulf of Guinea, an ambush
so successful that even the barometer failed to detect
it, for when Mate Isitt ran to the chart-room he found
that the instrument showed no fall. But scarcely was
he back on the bridge before the approaching cloud
flashed into a solid mass of sheet lightning that cov-
ered the ship like a fiery canopy ; and instantly there-
after, a wall of wind and rain hit the ship, heeled her
over to the rail, swung her head at right angles to
her course, ripped the heavy canvas awning of the
upper bridge to tatters, bent and tore loose from
their sockets the thick iron stanchions supporting it,
made kindling wood of its heavy spars, and strewed
the bridge and forward deck with a pounding tangle
of wreckage. How the mate and helmsman, who
were directly beneath it, escaped injury, is a mystery.
In twenty minutes the riot of wind and water liad
swept past us out to sea in search of easier game,
leaving behind it a dead calm above but mountain-
ous seas beneath, that played ball with us the rest of
the night. Heaven help any wind-jammer it may
have struck, for if caught as completely unwarned
as were we, with all sails set, she and all her crew are
[310]
BUNKERED
likely to be still slowly settling through the dense
darksome depths of the twenty-five hundred fathoms
the chart showed thereabouts, and weeping wives and
anxious underwriters will long be scanning the news
columns that report all sea goings and comings —
except arrivals In the port of sunken ships.
The second fall the elements have essayed to take
out of us remains yet undecided. The fact is, I am
now writing over a young volcano we are all hoping
will not grow much older.
Two nights ago I was awakened half suffocated,
to find my cabin full of strong sulphurous fumes ; but
fancying them brought in through my open portholes
from the smoke-stack by a shift aft of the wind, I
paid no further attention to them. But when the
next morning I as usual turned out on deck to see
the sun rise, a commotion aft of me attracted my at-
tention. Looking, I saw the first mate, chief en-
gineer, and a party of sailors, all so begrimed with
sweat and coal dust one could scarcely pick officers
from seamen, rapidly ripping off the cover of one of
the midship hatches, while others were flying about
connecting up the deck fire hose. This did n't look
a bit good to me, and when, an Instant later, off came
the hatch and out poured thick volumes of smoke, I
failed to observe that it looked any better.
When the hatch was removed, the men thrust tlie
[3"l
THE RED-BLOODED
hose through it, and hegan deluging the burning
bunker with water; for, luckily, it is only a bunker
fire, — in a lower and comparatively small bunker.
The fire had been discovered early the day previ-
ous, and for nearly twenty-four hours officers and
seaimen had been fighting it from below, without any
mention to their two passengers of its existence, fight-
ing by tireless shovelling to reach its seat. And now
they were on deck, attacking it from above, only be-
cause the heat and fumes below had become so over-
powering they could no longer work there. But
after an hour's ventilation through the hatch and a
continuous downpour of water, the first mate again
led his men below.
And so, the usual watches being divided into two-
hour relays, the fight has gone on wearily but persist-
ently, until now, the evening of the fourth day, the
men are wan and haggard from the killing heat and
foul air. In the engine-room in these latitudes the
thermometer ranges from rarely under 108 degrees
up to 130, and one has to stay down there only an
hour, as I often have, until he is streaming with sweat
as if he were in the unholiest heat of a Turkish bath.
And as the burning bunker immediately adjoins the
other end of the boiler room, to the heat of its own
smouldering mass is added that of the fire boxes, until
the temperature is probably close to 140 degrees.
While the fire is confined to the bunker where it
[ 312 ]
BUNKERED
started, we are in no particular danger; but if it
reaches the bunker immediately above, it will have a
free run to the after hold, where several thousand
packages of case oil are stored. In the open waist
above the oil are a score or more big tanks of gaso*
line, and, on the poop immediately aft of that, a
quantity of dynamite and several thousand detonat-
ing caps. Thus if the fire ever gets aft, things are
apt to happen a trifle quicker than they can be
dodged.
To denizens of terra firma, the mere thought of
being aboard a ship on fire in mid-sea — we are now
five hundred miles from the little British island of
Ascension and one thousand and eighty off the Congo
(mainland) Coast — is nothing short of appalling.
But here with us, in actual experience, it is taken by
the officers of the ship as such a simple matter of
course, in so far as they show or will admit, that we
are even denied the privilege of a mild thrill of
excitement.
In the meantime there is nothing for the Doctor
and myself to do but sit about and guess whether it
is to be a boost from the explosives, a simple grill, a
descent to Davy Jones, an adventure while athirst
and hungering in an open boat on the tossing South
Atlantic, a successful run of the ship to the nearest
land — or victory over the fire. I wonder which it
will be !
THE RED-BLOODED
If the worst comes to the worst, I intend to do fot
these pages what no one these last three weeks has
done for me — commit them to a bottle, if I can find
one aboard this ship, which is by no means certain.
Indeed it is so uncertain I think I had best start
hunting one right now.
After nearly a twenty-four hours' search I've got
it — a craft to bear these sheets, wide of hatch, gen-
erously broad and deep of hull, but destitute of aught
of the stimulating aroma I had hoped might cheer
them on their voyage — more than I have been
cheered on mine. For the best I am able to procure
for them is — a jam bottle!
While the Doctor and I are not novices at golf,
this is one *' bunker " we are making so little headway
getting out of, that both now seem likely to quit
"down" to it.
I wonder when the little derelict, tiny and incon-
spicuous as a Portuguese man-of-war, may be picked
up ; I wonder when the sheets it bears may reach my
publisher to whom it is consigned. Perhaps not for
years — a score, two score; perhaps not until he
himself, whom a few weeks ago I left in the lusty vigor
of early manhood, is gathered to his fathers ; perhaps
not, therefore, until the writer has no publisher left
and IS himself no longer remembered.
The burning bunker is now a glowing furnace, the
BUNKERED
men worked down to mere shadows. Plainly the fire
is getting the best of them and, what is even more
discouraging, there is little more fight left in them.
First Mate Watson, who, almost without rest, has
led the fight below since it started, says that another
half -hour will —
215]
CHAPTER XIV
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
FEW mightier monarchs than Menelek H of
Abyssinia ever swayed the destinies of a peo-
ple. Throughout the vast territory of the
Abyssinian highlands his individual will is law to
some millions of subjects; law also to hordes of sav-
age Mohammedan and pagan tribesmen without the
confines of his kingdom. His court includes no coun-
cillors. Alone throughout the long years of his reign
Menelek has dealt with all domestic and foreign af-
fairs of state.
But now this last splendid survival of the feudal
absolutism exercised and enjoyed by mediaeval rulers
is about to disappear beneath encroaching waves of
civilization, that do not long spare the picturesque.
Cables from far-off Adis Ababa, Menelek's capital,
bring news that he has formed a cabinet and pub-
lished the appointment of Ministers of War, Finance,
Justice, Foreign Affairs, and Commerce. And this
change has come, not from the pressure of any party
or faction within his kingdom, for such do not exist,
but out of the fount of his own wisdom. So sound is
this wisdom as to prove him a most worthy descendant
[316]
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
of the sage Hebrew King whom Menelek claims as
ancestor — if, indeed, more proofs were necessary
than the statesmanlike way in which he has dealt with
jealous diplomats, and the martial skill with which,
at Adowa in 1896, he defeated the flower of the Ital-
ian army and won from Italy an honorable truce.
No existing royal house owns lineage so ancient as
that claimed by Menelek II, Negus Negusti, "King
of the Kings of Ethiopa, and Conquering Lion of
Judah."
Old Abyssinian tradition has it that in the tentK
century, B. C, early in her reign, Makeda, Queen of
Sheba, paid a ceremonial visit to the Court of King
Solomon, coming with her entire court and a magnifi-
cent retinue bearing royal gifts of frankincense and
balm, gold and ivory and precious stones. Her gor-
geous caravan was bright with the many-colored
plumes and silks of litters, blazing with the golden
ornaments of elephant and camel caparisons, glitter-
ing with the glint of spears and bucklers.
That the two greatest souls of their time, so met,
should fuse and blend is little to be wondered at.
She of Sheba bore Solomon a son and called him
Menelek, so the legend runs. Later the boy was
twitted by playmates for that he had no father. In
this annoyance the Queen sent an embassy to Solo-
mon asking some act that should establish their son's
royal paternity. Promptly Solomon returned the
[ 317 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
embassy bearing to Sheba's court in far southwest
Arabia a royal decree declaring Menelek his son, and
accompanied it by a son of each of the leaders of the
twelve tribes of Israel, enjoined to serve as a sort of
juvenile royal court to Menelek.
Whether or not the claim of Menelek II be true,
that he himself is lineally descended from the son of
Solomon and Sheba's Queen, certain it is that In rac€
type Abyssinians are plainly come of sons of Israel,
crossed and modified with Coptic, Hamite, and Ethi-
opian blood. To this day they cling closely as the
most orthodox Hebrew, to some of the dearest Israel-
itish tenets, notably abstention from pork and from
meat not killed by bleeding, observance of the Sab-
bath, and the rite of circumcision. Notwithstanding
this the Abyssinians have been Christians since the
fourth century of this era, when, only eight years
after the great Constantine decreed the recognition of
Christianity by the State, a proselyting monk came
among them with a faith so strong, a heart so pure,
and an eloquence so irresistible, that, singlehanded,
he accomplished the ' conversion of the Abyssinian
race.
Throughout the centuries the Abyssinians have
held fast to their faith as first it was taught them.
The great wave of Mohapimedanism that swept up
the Nile and across the Indian Ocean broke and
parted the moment it struck the Abyssinian plateau.
[318]
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
It completely surrounded, but never could mount
the tableland.
Thus cut off for centuries from all other Christian
Churches, the Abyssinian religion remains to-day but
little changed. Could Paul or John return to earth,
of all the Christian sects throughout the world, the
forms and tenets of the Abyssinian Church would be
the only ones they would find nearly all their own;
for the ritual is older than that of either Rome or
Moscow.
And remembering the Abyssinian folklore tale of
the twelve sons of the chiefs of the twelve tribes of
Israel sent by Solomon to Makeda as attendants on
Menelek I, it is most curious and interesting to know
that the heads of certain twelve Abyssinian families
(none of whom are longer notables, some even the
rudest ignorant herdsmen), and their forebears from
time immemorial, have had and still possess inaliena-
ble right of audience with their monarch at any time
they may ask it, even taking precedence over royalty
itself. Indeed Mr. George Clerk, for the last five years
assistant to Sir John Harrington, British Minister
to the Court of Menelek, recently told me that he and
other diplomats accredited to Adis Ababa, were not
infrequently subjected to the annoyance of having an
audience interrupted or delayed by the unannounced
coming for a hearing of one of these favored twelve.
Many of Menelek's judgments are masterpieces.
THE RED-BLOODED
Recently two brothers came before him, the younger
with the plaint that the elder sought the larger and
better part of certain property they had to divide.
Promptly Menelek ordered the elder to describe fully
the entire property and state what part he wanted for
himself. It was done.
"And this," questioned Menelek, "you consider a
just division of the property into two parts of equal
value?"
" Yes, Negus," answered the elder.
"Then," decreed Menelek, "give your brother
first choice ! "
Over wide territory beyond the Abyssinian border,
Menelek's power is as much feared and his will as
much respected as among his own subjects. Of this
there occurred recently a most dramatic proof.
Bordering Abyssinia on the east is the Danakil
country. It adjoins the Province of Shoa, of which
Menelek was Ras, or feudal King, before his acces-
sion to the Abyssinian throne. The Danakils are a
savage pagan people of mixed Hamite (early Egyp-
tian) and Ethiopian ancestry. They are perhaps
the most tirelessly warlike race in all Africa. Often
severely beaten by their Italian and Somali neighbors,
they have never been subdued. Indeed slaughter
may, in a way, be said to be a part of their religion,
for it is the fetich every young warrior must provide
for the worship of the woman of his choice before he
[ 320 ]
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
may hope to win and have her. It is necessary that
he should have killed royal game — lion, rhinoceros,
or elephant — but not enough. Singlehanded he must
kill a man and bring the maid a trophy of the slaugh-
ter before she will even consider him, and Danakil
maids of spirit often demand some plurality of tro-
phies. Thus the license for each Danakil mating is
written in the life blood of some neighboring tribes-
man ; thus are the few poltroons in Danakilland con-
demned to stay celibate.
Only Menelek's word do they heed ; his might they
dread.
Through the Danakil country, between Errer
Gotto and Oder, not long ago travelled the caravan
of William Northrup McMillan, conveying the sec-
tions of several steel boats with which he purposed
navigating and exploring the Blue Nile from its
source to Khartoom, a region that had never been
traversed by white men. In the party was M. Dubois-
DesauUe, a gay and reckless ex-officer of the French
Foreign Legion who had long served in Algiers
against raiding Arab sheiks. He harbored no fear of
the unorganized wild tribesmen through whose coun-
try they were travelling. McMillan knew them bet-
ter, however ; he held his command under strict mili-
tary discipline, marched in close order with scouts
out, forbade straying from the column, and zareba-ed
his night camps. For the march was a severe one
[321]
THE RED-BLOODED
and he had neither the time nor sufficient force to
search for or to succor missing stragglers.
tirged with the rest never to go unarmed and to
stay close with the caravan, Dubois-DesauUe's only
reply was a laughing, ^^ Jamais! Jamais. Je ne porte
pas des armes pour ces hahouins! Je les feral s^enfuir
avec des batons! NHnquietez pas de moV*
Interested in botany and entomology, holding the
natives in utter contempt, repeatedly he strayed from
the column for hours without even so much as a pis-
tol by way of arms, until finally McMillan told him
that if he again so strayed he would be placed under
guard for the balance of the march. But the very
next day, riding a mule with the advance guard led
by H. Morgan Brown, Dubois-Desaulle slipped un-
observed into the bush, probably in pursuit of some
winged wonder that had crossed his path.
Camp was made early in the afternoon on the banks
of the Doha River, and a strong party, with shikari
trackers, led by Brown, was sent out in search of the
straggler. Night came on before they could pick
up his trail, and nothing further could be done except
to build signal fires on adjacent hills ; but all without
result. Anxiety for his safety crystallized into chill
fear for his life, when the dull glow of the signal fires
was suddenly extinguished by the next morning's sun ;
for the desert knows neither twilight nor dawn — the
[ 322 ]
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
sun bursts up blood-red out of shrouding darkness
like a rocket from its case, and at once it is day.
An hour later Brown's shikaris found the place
where Dubois-Desaulle had strayed from the column,
followed his trail through the bush hither and thither
for two miles, to a point where he had found a native
warrior seated beneath a tree. They read, with
their unerring skill at *^ sign " lore, that there he had
stood and talked for some time with the native, and
then pressed on, rider and footman travelling side by
side, till, within the shelter of especially dense sur-
rounding bush, the footman had dropped behind
the rider — for what dastardly assassin's purpose the
next twenty steps revealed. There stark lay the body
of gay Dubois-Desaulle, dropped from his mule
without a struggle by a mortal spear-thrust in his
back, the manner of his mutilation a Danakil's sign
manual !
Immediately messengers were sent to the caravan
bearing the news and asking reinforcements. At this
time the indomitable chief, McMillan, was laid up with
veldt sores on the legs, unable to walk or even to ride
except in a litter. Promptly, however, he despatched
Lieutenant Fairfax and William Marlow, with about
thirty more men, to Brown's Support, with orders
never to quit till he got the murderer. By a forced
march, Fairfax reached Brown at four in the
afternoon.
[ 3S3 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
When journeying in desert places and amid deadly
perils, it is always an unusually terrible shock to lose
one from among sa few, and to be forced to lay him
in unconsecrated ground remote from home and
friends. So it was a sobbing, saddened trio that
stood by while a grave was dug to receive all that was
mortal of their gallant comrade. And witliin it they
laid him, wrapped in the ample folds of an Abyssin-
ian tope; stones were heaped above the grave — at
least the four-footed beasts should not have a chance
to rend him ! — and three volleys were fired as a last
honor to Dubois-Desaulle, ex-legionary of the Army
of Algiers.
Tears dried, eyes hardened, jaws tightened, and
away on the plain trail of the murderer marched the
little column. Turning at the edge of the thick jun-
gle for a last look back, the three noted an extraordi-
nary circumstance that touched them deeply and
made them feel that even the savage desert S3^mpa-
thized. A miniature whirlwind of the sort frequent
in the desert was slowly circling the grave ; and even
as they looked it swung immediately over it and there
stood for some moments, its tall dust column rising
up into the zenith like the smoke of a funeral pyre!
Then on they marched and there they left him, sure
that by night lions would be roaring him a requiem
not unfitting his wild spirit.
Just at dusk the party reached a large Danakil
[324]
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
town into which the murderer's trail led, and camped
before it.
Told that one of his men had killed their comrade
and that they wanted him, Ali Gorah, the chief, was
surly and insolent. He refused to give him up, said
that he wished no war with them, but that if they
wanted any of his people they must fight for them.
Then guards were set about the camp and the little
command lay down to sleep within a spear's throw of
thousands of Ali Gorah's wild Danakils. The night
passed without alarms, and then conference was re-
sumed. Fairfax cajoled and threatened, threatened
summoning an army that would wipe Danakil's land
off the map; but all to no purpose. The chief re-
mained obdurate.
Early in the day a courier was sent to McMillan
with the story of their plight and a request for sup-
plies and more men. These were instantly sent, leav-
ing McMillan himself well nigh helpless, fuming at
his own enforced inaction, alone with the Marlow,
his personal attendant, a handful of men, and a total
of only two rifles, as the sole guard of the caravan
for ten more anxious days.
Daily councils were held, always ending in mutual
threats, Fairfax could make no progress, but he
would not leave.
One day Ali Gorah lined up two thousand warriors
in battle array before Fairfax's small command and
[325]
,THE RED-BLOODED
ordered him to move off, under pain of instant attack.
But there Fairfax stubbornly stayed, in the very face
of the certainty that his command could not last ten
minutes if the chief should actually order a charge.
His dauntless courage won, and the war party was
withdrawn.
In the meantime some of his Somalis had learned
from the Danakils that the murderer's name was
Mirach, and that he was the greatest warrior of the
tribe, a man with trophies of all sorts of royal game
and of no less than forty men to his matrimonial
credit. By the eleventh day mutual irritation had
nigh reached the fusing point. Fairfax had care-
fully trained a gun crew to handle a Colt machine-
gun that McMillan was bringing as a present to Ras
Makonnen, the victor of the field of Adowa, and de-
bated with his mates the question of risking an at-
tack.
Luckily, however, the previous day McMillan had
bethought him of a letter of Menelek's he carried, a
letter ordering all his subjects to lend the bearer any
aid or succor he might need. This letter he sent by
his Abyssinian headman to Mantoock, the nearest
Abyssinian Ras and a sort of overlord of the Dana-
kils, with request for his advice and aid. Promptly
came Mantoock, with only one attendant, heard the
story, begged McMillan to have no further care, and
raced away for AH Gorah's village, where happily
[326]
THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED
he arrived in mid afternoon of the eleventh day, just
as Fairfax was making dispositions for opening a
finish fight.
Mantoock's first act was to advise Fairfax to with-
draw his command and rejoin the caravan; and,
assured that Mirach would be brought away a pris-
oner, Fairfax assented and withdrew. Then Man-
toock entered alone the village of Ali Gorah and there
spent the night. What passed that night between
the Christian and the pagan chiefs we do not know.
Probably little was said; nothing more was needed,
indeed, than the interpretation of the letter of the
Negus and the exhibition of the royal seal it bore.
Full well Ali Gorah knew the heavy penalty of dis-
obedience.
So it happened that near noon of the twelfth day
Mantoock brought Mirach into McMillan's camp,
accompanied by thirty of his family and the headmen
of the tribe, Mirach marching in fully armed with
spears and shield, insolent and fearless.
Asked why he had done the deed, Mirach replied:
"I was resting in the shade. The Feringee ap-
proached and asked me to guide him to the river. I
told him to pass on and not to disturb me. Then he
stayed and talked and talked till I got tired and told
him not to tempt me further ; for I had never yet had
such a chance to kill a white man. Still he annoyed
jne with his foolish talk until, weary of it, I led him
THE RED-BLOODED
away into the thickets to his death and won trophies
dear to Danakil's maidens."
Three camels, worth twenty dollars each, or a total
of sixty dollars, Is usual blood-money In Abyssinia.
When that Is paid and received, feuds among the
tribesmen end, and murders are soon forgotten. But
Mirach was so highly valued as a warrior by his peo-
ple that they offered McMillan no less than three
hundred camels for his life. They were dumbfounded
when their offer was refused.
Disarmed and shackled, Mirach remained a sullen
but defiant prisoner with the caravan for the next two
weeks' march, when the crossing of the Hawash River
brought them well Into Abyssinian territory and made
it safe to rush him forward, in the charge of a small
escort, to Adis Ababa.
There he was tried beneath the sombre shade of the
famous Judgment Tree, condemned, and two months
later hanged In the market place : and there for days
his grinning face and shriveling carcass swung, a
menacing proof to the wildest visiting tribesmen of
them all of the vast power of the Negus Negusti.
ta«8]
CHAPTER XV
DJAMA AOUt's heroism
7 I THROUGHOUT Somaliland, among a race
I famous for their fearlessness, the name of
Djama Aout is held a synonym for reckless
courage. He did the bravest deed I ever saw, a deed
heroic in its purpose, ferociously sage in its execu-
tion ; the deed of a man bred of a race that knew no
longer-range weapon than an assegai, trained from
youth to fight and kill at arm's length or in hand
grapple ; a deed that, incidentally, saved my life."
The speaker was C. W. L. Bulpett, himself well
qualified by personal experience to sit in judgment,
as Court of Last Resort, on any act of courage; a
man who, at forty, without training and on a heavy
wager that he could not walk a mile, run a mile, and
ride a mile, all in sixteen and a half minutes, finished
the three miles in sixteen minutes and seven seconds;
a man who, midway of a dinner at Greenwich, bet
that he could swim the half-mile across the Thames
and back in his evening clothes before the coffee was
served, and did it ; and who has crossed Africa from
Khartoom to the Red Sea.
If more were needed to prove Mr. Bulpett's past-
[329]
THE RED-BLOODED
mastership in hardihood, it is perhaps sufficient to
mention that he voluntarily got himself in the fix that
needed Djama Aout's aid, although in telling the
story he did not convey the impression that his own
part in it was more than secondary and inconsequen-
tial.
"We were big-game hunting, lion and rhino pre-
ferred, along the border of Somaliland," he contin-
ued. *' Besides the pony and camel men, we had four
Somali shikaris, trained trackers, who knew the hab-
its of beasts and read their tracks and signs like a
book ; men of a breed whose women will not give them-
selves as wives except to men who have scored kills of
both royal game and men.
*' Sahib McMillan's personal shikari was Djama
Aout; mine, Abdi Dereh. At the time of this inci-
dent the Sahib had several lions to his credit, while I
yet had none. So the Sahib kindly declared that,
however and by whomsoever jumped, the try at the
next lion should be mine. The section we were in
was the usual *lion country' of East Africa, wide
stretches of dry, level plain with occasional low roll-
ing hills, thinly timbered everywhere with the thorny
mimosa, most of it low bush, some grown to small
trees twenty or thirty feet in height.
** To cover a wider range of shooting, we one day
decided to divide the camp, and I moved off about
tour miles and pitched my tent on a low hill, which
[330]
DJAMA AOUT'S HEROISM
left the old camp in clear view across the plain.
Early the next morning I went out after eland and
had an excellent morning's sport. Returned to camp
shortly after noon tired and dusty, I took a bath, got
into pajamas and slippers, had my luncheon, and
was sitting comfortably smoking within my tent, when
one of my men hurried in to say a messenger was
coming on a pony at top speed. Presently he ar-
rived, with word from the Sahib that he had a big
male lion at bay in a thicket bordering the river and
urging me to hurry to him.
*'This my first chance at lion, I seized my rifle,
mounted a pony, without stopping to dress, and, fol-
lowed by Abdi Dereh and another shikari^ dashed
away behind the messenger at my pony's best pace.
Arrived, I found the Sahib and about a dozen men,
shikaris and pony men, surrounding a dense mimosa
thicket no more than thirty or forty yards in di-
ameter. Nigh two-thirds of its circumference was
bounded by a bend of a deep stream the lion was not
likely to try to cross, which left a comparatively
narrow front to guard against a charge.
"'Here you are, Don Carlos!' called the Sahib,
as I jumped off my pony. 'Here's your lion in the
bush. Up to you to get him out. Djama Aout and
the rest will stay to help you while I go back and
move the caravan to a new camp-site. No sugges-
tion to make, except I scarcely think I'd go in the,
[331]
THE BED-BLOODED
bush after him; too thick to see ten feet ahead of
you,' and away he rode toward his camp.
" The situation was simple, even to a novice at the
game of lion-shooting. With my line of shouting
men forced to range themselves across the narrow
land front of the thicket and no chance of his exit on
the river front, only two lines of strategy remained:
it was either fire the bush and drive him out upon us
or enter the bush on hands and knees and creep about
till I sighted him. The latter was well-nigh suicidal,
for it was absolutely sure he would scent, hear, and
locate me before I could see him, and thus would be
almost complete master of the situation. Naturally,
therefore, I first had the bush fired, as near to wind-
ward as the bend of the river permitted, and took a
stand covering his probable line of exit from the
thicket. But it was a failure — not enough dead
wood to carry the fire through the bush and it soon
flickered and died out. Thus nothing remained but
the last alternative, and I took it.
"Dropping on hands and knees, I began to creep
into the thicket. Soon my hands were bleeding from
the dry mimosa thorns littering the ground, my back
from the thorny boughs arching low above me. For
8ome distance I could see no more than the length of
my rifle before me or to right or left. Presently,
when near the centre of the brush patch, Abdi Dereh
next behind me, a second shikari behind him, and
[332]
DJAMA AOUT'S HEROISM
Djama Aout bringing up the rear, I caught a glimpse
of the lion's hind quarters and tail, scarcely six feet
ahead of me.
" I fired at once, most imprudently, for the expo-
sure could not possibly afford a fatal shot. Instantly
after the shot, the lion circled the dense clump imme-
diately in front of me and charged me through a nar-
row opening. As he came, I gave him my second
barrel from the hip — no time to aim -— and in trying
to spring aside out of his path, slipped in my loose
slippers and fell flat on my back.
"Later we learned that my first shot had torn
through his loins and my second had struck between
neck and shoulder and ranged the entire length of his
body. But even the terrible shock of two great .450
cordite-driven balls did not serve to stop him, and the
very moment I hit the ground he lit diagonally across
my body, his belly pressing mine, his hot breath
burning my cheek, his fierce eyes glaring into mine.
" Though it seemed an age, the rest was a matter
of seconds. Abdi Dereh, my rifle-bearer, was in the
act of shoving the gun muzzle against the lion's ribs
for a shot through the heart, when a shot from with-
out the bush — we never learned by whom fired, prob-
ably by one of the pony men — broke his arm and
knocked him flat. Then the second shikari sprang
forward and bent to pick up the gun, when one stroke
of the lion's great fore paw tore away most of the
[333]
THE RED-BLOODED
flesh from one side of his head and face and laid him
senseless.
" Freed for an instant from the attacks of my men,
the lion turned to the prey held helpless beneath him,
and with a fierce roar, was in the very act of advanc-
ing his cavernous mouth and gleaming fangs to seize
me by the head, when in jumped Djama Aout to my
succor. His only weapon was the SahiVs .38 Smith
& Wesson self-cocking six-shooter. His was the
quickest piece of sound thinking, shrewd acting, and
desperate valor conceivable. I was staring death in
the face — he knew it at a glance. Just within those
enormous jaws, and all would be over with me. The
light charge of the pistol, however placed, would be
little more than a flea-bite on a monster already
ripped laterally and longitudinally through and
through by two great .450 cordite shells. Indeed
the lion was not even gasping from his wounds; his
great heart was beating strong and steady against
mine. Of what avail a little pistol-ball, or six of
them?
"All this must have raced through Djama Aout's
brain in a second, in the very second Shikali Number
Two was falling under the lion's blow. In another
second he conceived a plan, absolutely the only one
that possibly could have saved me.
"Just at the instant the lion turned and opened
[334]
DJAMA AOUT'S HEROISM
his jaws to seize and crush mj head, forward sprang
Djania Aout ; within the lion's jaws and into his great
yawning mouth Djama Aout thrust pistol, hand, and
forearm, and, though the hard-driven teeth crunched
cruelly through sinews and into bone, steadily pulled
the trigger till the pistol's six loads were discharged
down the lion's very throat!
"Shrinking from the shock of the shots, the lion
released Djama Aout's mangled arm and freed me
of his weight. Unhurt, even unscratched by the lion,
I quickly swung myself up into the biggest mimosa
near, a poor four feet from the ground, within easy
reach of our enemy if he had not been too sick of
his wounds to leap at me.
"Having fallen from the pain and shock of his
wounded arm, Djama Aout rose, backed off a little
distance, and stood at bay, the pistol clubbed in his
left hand.
" While apparently sick unto death, the lion might
muster strength for a last attack, so I called to
Marlow, who, under orders, had waited without the
thicket, bearing an elephant gun. Ignorant of
whether or not the lion was even wounded, in the
brave boy came, crept in range and fired a great
eight-bore ball fair through the lion's heart.
" It was only a few hours until, working with knife
and tweezers, the Sahib had all the mimosa thorns dug
THE RED-BLOODED
out of my back and legs, but it was many months
before Djama Aout recovered partial use of his good
right arm, and it may very well be generations be-
fore the story of \vs heroic deed ceases to be sung in
Somali villages.'*
[836]
CHAPTER XVI
A MODERN CfEUR-DE-LION
TO seek to come to death grips with the King of
Beasts, a man must himself be nothing short
of lion-hearted. Such men there are, a few,
men with an inborn lust of battle, a love of staking
their own lives against the heaviest odds ; men who,
lacking a Crusader's cult or a country's need to cut
and thrust for, go out among the savage denizens of
the desert seeking opportunity to fight for their faith
in their own strong arms and steady nerves ; men who
shrink from a laurel but treasure a trophy. William
Northrup McMillan, a native of St. Louis, who has
spent the last eight years in exploration of the Blue
Nile and in travel through Abyssinia and British
East Africa, is such a man.
A friend of Mr. McMillan has told me the follow-
ing story of one of his hunting experiences. While I
can only tell it in simple prose, the deed described
deserves perpetuity in the stately metre of a saga.
The Jig-Jigga country, a province of Abyssinia
lying near the border of British Somaliland and gov-
erned by Abdullah Dowa, an Arab sheik owing alle-
giance to King Menelek, is the best lion country in all
[337]
THE RED-BLOODED
Africa. 3"ig-Jigga is an arid plateau averaging
5,000 feet above sea level, poorly watered but gener-
ously grassed, sparsely timbered with the thorny mi-
mosa (full brother to our own Texas mesquite), and
swarming everywhere with innumerable varieties of
the wild game on which the lion preys and fattens —
eland, oryx, hartebeest, gazelle, and zebra.
There are two ways of hunting lion. First, from
the perfectly safe shelter of a zareha, a tightly en-
closed hut built of thorny mimosa bows, with no open-
ing but a narrow porthole for rifle fire. Within the
zareha the hunter is shut in at nightfall by his shika-
riSi usually having one shikari with him, sometimes
with a goat as a third companion and a lure for lion.
An occasional bite of the goat's ear by sharp shikari
teeth inspires shrill bleats sure to bring any lion lurk-
ing near in range of the hunter's rifle. At other
times goat ears are spared, and the loudest-braying
donkey of the caravan is picketed immediately in
front of the zareba^s porthole, his normal vocal activ-
ities stimulated by the occasional prod of a stick.
Sometimes several weary sleepless nights are spent
without result, but sooner or later, without the slight-
est sound hinting his approach, suddenly a great yel-
low body flashes out of the darkness and upon the
cringing lure. For an instant there are the sinister
sounds of savage snarls, rending flesh, cracking bones,
and screams of pain and fear, and then a dull red
[338]
A MODERN C(EUR-DE~LION
flash heralds the rifle's roar, and the tawny terror
falls gasping his life out across his prey.
The second, and the only sportsmanlike way of
lion-hunting, is by tracking him in the open. The
pony men circle till they find a trail, follow it till
close enough to the game to race ahead and bring it
to bay, circle about it while a messenger brings up
the Sahib, who dismounts and advances afoot to a
combat wherein the echo of a misplaced shot may
sound his own death-knell.
One morning while camped in the Jig-Jigga coun-
try, William Mario w, our SahiVs valet, was out with
the pony men trailing a wounded oryx, while the
Sahib himself was three miles away shooting eland.
In mid forenoon Marlow's men struck the fresh track
of two great male lions, plainly out on a hunting
party of their own.
Instantly Marlow rushed a messenger away to
fetch the Sahib, and he and the pony men then took
the trail at a run. Within two hours the pony men
succeeded in circling the quarry and stopping it in
a mimosa thicket. Shortly thereafter, while they
were circling and shouting about the thicket to pre-
vent a charge before the SahiVs arrival, an incident
occurred which proves alike the utter fearlessness and
the marvellous knowledge of the game of the Somali.
Suddenly out of the shadows of the thicket sprang
one of the lions and launched himself like a thunder-
[ 339 ]
THE RED-BLOODED
bolt upon one of the ponj men, bearing horse and
rider to the ground. Losing his spear in the fall and
held fast bj one leg beneath his horse, the rider was
defenceless. However, he seized a thorny stick and
began beating the lion across the face, while the lion
tore at the pony's flank and quarters. Then down
from his horse sprang another pony man, and know-
ing he could not kill the lion with his spear quickly
enough to save his companion, approached and
crouched directly in front of the lion till his own face
was scarcely two feet from the lion's, and there made
such frightful grimaces and let off such shrill shrieks,
that, frightened from his prey, the lion slunk snarling
to the edge of the thicket.
Just at this moment the Sahib raced upon the
scene, accompanied by his Secretary, H. Morgan
Brown. In the run he had far outdistanced his gun-
bearers. Marlow was unarmed and Brown carried
nothing but a camera. Thus the Sahib* s single-shot
.577 rifle was the only effective weapon in the party,
and for it he did not even have a single spare car-
tridge. The one little cylinder of brass within the
chamber of his rifle, with the few grains of powder
and nickeled lead it held, was the only certain safe-
guard of the group against death or mangling.
All this must have flashed across the Sahib* 8 mind
as he leaped from his pony and took stand in the open,
sixty step^ from where the lion stood roaring and
[ 340 ]
A MODERN CGEUR-DE-LION
savagely lashing his tail. A little back of the Sahib
and to his left stood Brown with his camera, beside
him Marlow.
Instantly, firm planted on his feet, the Sahib threw
the rifle to his face for a steady standing shot. But
quicker even than this act, instinctively, the furious
King of Beasts had marked the giant bulk of the Sahib
as the one foeman of the half-score round him worthy
of his gleaming ivory weapons, and at him straight
he charged the very instant the gun was levelled, com-
ing in great bounds that tossed clouds of dust behind
him, coming with hoarse roars at every bound, roars
to shake nerves not made of steel and still the beating
of the stoutest heart. On came the lion, and there
stood the Sahib — on and yet on — till it must have
seemed to his companions that the Sahib was frozen
in his tracks.
But all the time a firm hand and a true eye held the
bead of the rifle sight to close pursuit of the lion's
every move, so held it till only a narrow sixteen yards
separated man and beast. Then the Sahib's rifle
cracked; and, with marvellous nerve. Brown snapped
his camera a second later and caught the picture of
the kill. Hitting the beast squarely in the forehead
just at the take-off of a bound, the heavy .577 bullet
cleaned out the lion's brain pan and killed him in-
stantly, his body turning in mid-air and hitting the
ground inert. A better rifle-shot would be impossi-
[341]
THE RED-BLOODED
ble, and as good a camera snapshot has certainly
never been made in the very face of instant, impend-
ing, deadly peril.
A half -hour later Lion Number Two, slower of res-
olution than his mate, fell to theSahiys^rst shot, with
a broken neck, while lashing himself into fit fury for
a charge. This was more even than a royal kill;
each of the lions was, in size, a record among Jig-
Jigga hunters, the first measuring eleven feet, one
inch from tip of nose to tip of tail, the second eleven
feet.
And then the party marched back to camp with the
trophies, Djama Aout, the head shikari, chanting
paeans to his Sahib's prowess, while his mates roared a
hoarse Somali chorus, and all night long, by ancient
law of shikari, the camp feasted, chanted, and danced,
one sable saga-maker after another chanting his pride
to serve so valiant a Sahib.
THE END
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