Arizona Nights
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Stewart Edward White >> Arizona Nights
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They were queer people, most of 'em from Missoury and
such-like southern seaports, and they were tur'ble sick of
travel by the time they come in sight of Emigrant Pass. Up to
Santa Fe they mostly hiked along any old way, but once there they
herded up together in bunches of twenty wagons or so, 'count of
our old friends, Geronimo and Loco. A good many of 'em had
horned cattle to their wagons, and they crawled along about two
miles an hour, hotter'n hell with the blower on, nothin' to
look at but a mountain a week way, chuck full of alkali, plenty
of sage-brush and rattlesnakes--but mighty little water.
Why, you boys know that country down there. Between the
Chiricahua Mountains and Emigrant Pass it's maybe a three or four
days' journey for these yere bull-slingers.
Mostly they filled up their bellies and their kegs, hoping to
last through, but they sure found it drier than cork legs, and
generally long before they hit the Springs their tongues was
hangin' out a foot. You see, for all their plumb nerve in comin'
so far, the most of them didn't know sic'em. They were plumb
innocent in regard to savin' their water, and Injins, and such;
and the long-haired buckskin fakes they picked up at Santa Fe for
guides wasn't much better.
That was where Texas Pete made his killing.
Texas Pete was a tough citizen from the Lone Star. He was about
as broad as he was long, and wore all sorts of big whiskers and
black eyebrows. His heart was very bad. You never COULD tell
where Texas Pete was goin' to jump next. He was a side-winder
and a diamond-back and a little black rattlesnake all rolled
into one. I believe that Texas Pete person cared about as little
for killin' a man as for takin' a drink--and he shorely drank
without an effort. Peaceable citizens just spoke soft and minded
their own business; onpeaceable citizens Texas Pete used to plant
out in the sagebrush.
Now this Texas Pete happened to discover a water hole right out
in the plumb middle of the desert. He promptly annexed said
water hole, digs her out, timbers her up, and lays for emigrants.
He charged two bits a head--man or beast--and nobody got a
mouthful till he paid up in hard coin.
Think of the wads he raked in! I used to figure it up, just for
the joy of envyin' him, I reckon. An average twenty-wagon
outfit, first and last, would bring him in somewheres about fifty
dollars--and besides he had forty-rod at four bits a glass. And
outfits at that time were thicker'n spatter.
We used all to go down sometimes to watch them come in. When
they see that little canvas shack and that well, they begun to
cheer up and move fast. And when they see that sign, "Water, two
bits a head," their eyes stuck out like two raw oysters.
Then come the kicks. What a howl they did raise, shorely. But
it didn't do no manner of good. Texas Pete didn't do nothin' but
sit there and smoke, with a kind of sulky gleam in one corner of
his eye. He didn't even take the trouble to answer, but his
Winchester lay across his lap. There wasn't no humour in the
situation for him.
"How much is your water for humans?" asks one emigrant.
"Can't you read that sign?" Texas Pete asks him.
"But you don't mean two bits a head for HUMANS!" yells the man.
"Why, you can get whisky for that!"
"You can read the sign, can't you?" insists Texas Pete.
"I can read it all right?" says the man, tryin' a new deal, "but
they tell me not to believe more'n half I read."
But that don't go; and Mr. Emigrant shells out with the rest.
I didn't blame them for raisin' their howl. Why, at that time
the regular water holes was chargin' five cents a head from the
government freighters, and the motto was always "Hold up Uncle
Sam," at that. Once in a while some outfit would get mad and go
chargin' off dry; but it was a long, long way to the Springs, and
mighty hot and dusty. Texas Pete and his one lonesome water hole
shorely did a big business.
Late one afternoon me and Gentleman Tim was joggin' along above
Texas Pete's place. It was a tur'ble hot day--you had to prime
yourself to spit--and we was just gettin' back from drivin' some
beef up to the troops at Fort Huachuca. We was due to cross the
Emigrant Trail--she's wore in tur'ble deep--you can see the ruts
to-day. When we topped the rise we see a little old outfit just
makin' out to drag along.
It was one little schooner all by herself, drug along by two poor
old cavallos that couldn't have pulled my hat off. Their tongues
was out, and every once in a while they'd stick in a chuck-hole.
Then a man would get down and put his shoulder to the wheel, and
everybody'd take a heave, and up they'd come, all a-trembling and
weak.
Tim and I rode down just to take a look at the curiosity.
A thin-lookin' man was drivin', all humped up.
"Hullo, stranger," says I, "ain't you 'fraid of Injins?"
"Yes," says he.
"Then why are you travellin' through an Injin country all alone?"
"Couldn't keep up," says he. "Can I get water here?"
"I reckon," I answers.
He drove up to the water trough there at Texas Pete's, me and
Gentleman Tim followin' along because our trail led that way.
But he hadn't more'n stopped before Texas Pete was out.
"Cost you four bits to water them hosses," says he.
The man looked up kind of bewildered.
"I'm sorry," says he, "I ain't got no four bits. I got my roll
lifted off'n me."
"No water, then," growls Texas Pete back at him.
The man looked about him helpless.
"How far is it to the next water?" he asks me.
"Twenty mile," I tells him.
"My God!" he says, to himself-like.
Then he shrugged his shoulders very tired.
"All right. It's gettin' the cool of the evenin'; we'll make
it." He turns into the inside of that old schooner.
"Gi' me the cup, Sue."
A white-faced woman who looked mighty good to us alkalis opened
the flaps and gave out a tin cup, which the man pointed out to
fill.
"How many of you is they?" asks Texas Pete.
"Three," replies the man, wondering.
"Well, six bits, then," says Texas Pete, "cash down."
At that the man straightens up a little.
"I ain't askin' for no water for my stock," says he, "but my wife
and baby has been out in this sun all day without a drop of
water. Our cask slipped a hoop and bust just this side of Dos
Cabesas. The poor kid is plumb dry."
"Two bits a head," says Texas Pete.
At that the woman comes out, a little bit of a baby in her arms.
The kid had fuzzy yellow hair, and its face was flushed red and
shiny.
"Shorely you won't refuse a sick child a drink of water, sir,"
says she.
But Texas Pete had some sort of a special grouch; I guess he was
just beginning to get his snowshoes off after a fight with his
own forty-rod.
"What the hell are you-all doin' on the trail without no money at
all?" he growls, "and how do you expect to get along? Such plumb
tenderfeet drive me weary."
"Well," says the man, still reasonable, "I ain't got no money,
but I'll give you six bits' worth of flour or trade or an'thin' I
got."
"I don't run no truck-store," snaps Texas Pete, and turns square
on his heel and goes back to his chair.
"Got six bits about you?" whispers Gentleman Tim to me.
"Not a red," I answers.
Gentleman Tim turns to Texas Pete.
"Let 'em have a drink, Pete. I'll pay you next time I come
down."
"Cash down," growls Pete.
"You're the meanest man I ever see," observes Tim. "I wouldn't
speak to you if I met you in hell carryin' a lump of ice in your
hand."
"You're the softest _I_ ever see," sneers Pete. "Don't they have
any genooine Texans down your way?"
"Not enough to make it disagreeable," says Tim.
"That lets you out," growls Pete, gettin' hostile and handlin' of
his rifle.
Which the man had been standin' there bewildered, the cup hangin'
from his finger. At last, lookin' pretty desperate, he stooped
down to dig up a little of the wet from an overflow puddle lyin'
at his feet. At the same time the hosses, left sort of to
themselves and bein' drier than a covered bridge, drug forward
and stuck their noses in the trough.
Gentleman Tim and me was sittin' there on our hosses, a little to
one side. We saw Texas Pete jump up from his chair, take a quick
aim, and cut loose with his rifle. It was plumb unexpected to
us. We hadn't thought of any shootin', and our six-shooters was
tied in, 'count of the jumpy country we'd been drivin' the steers
over. But Gentleman Tim, who had unslung his rope, aimin' to
help the hosses out of the chuckhole, snatched her off the horn,
and with one of the prettiest twenty-foot flip throws I ever see
done he snaked old Texas Pete right out of his wicky-up, gun and
all. The old renegade did his best to twist around for a shot at
us; but it was no go; and I never enjoyed hog-tying a critter
more in my life than I enjoyed hog-tying Texas Pete. Then we
turned to see what damage had been done.
We were some relieved to find the family all right, but Texas
Pete had bored one of them poor old crow-bait hosses plumb
through the head.
"It's lucky for you you don't get the old man," says Gentleman
Tim very quiet and polite.
Which Gentleman Tim was an Irishman, and I'd been on the range
long enough with him to know that when he got quiet and polite it
was time to dodge behind something.
"I hope, sir" says he to the stranger, "that you will give your
wife and baby a satisfying drink. As for your hoss, pray do not
be under any apprehension. Our friend, Mr. Texas Pete, here, has
kindly consented to make good any deficiencies from his own
corral."
Tim could talk high, wide, and handsome when he set out to.
The man started to say something; but I managed to herd him to
one side.
"Let him alone," I whispers. "When he talks that way, he's mad;
and when he's mad, it's better to leave nature to supply the
lightnin' rods."
He seemed to sabe all right, so we built us a little fire and
started some grub, while Gentleman Tim walked up and down very
grand and fierce.
By and by he seemed to make up his mind. He went over and untied
Texas Pete.
"Stand up, you hound," says he. "Now listen to me. If you make
a break to get away, or if you refuse to do just as I tell you, I
won't shoot you, but I'll march you up country and see that
Geronimo gets you."
He sorted out a shovel and pick, made Texas Pete carry them right
along the trail a quarter, and started him to diggin' a hole.
Texas Pete started in hard enough, Tim sittin' over him on his
hoss, his six-shooter loose, and his rope free. The man and I
stood by, not darin' to say a word. After a minute or so Texas
Pete began to work slower and slower. By and by he stopped.
"Look here," says he, "is this here thing my grave?"
"I am goin' to see that you give the gentleman's hoss decent
interment," says Gentleman Tim very polite.
"Bury a hoss!" growls Texas Pete.
But he didn't say any more. Tim cocked his six-shooter.
"Perhaps you'd better quit panting and sweat a little," says he.
Texas Pete worked hard for a while, for Tim's quietness was
beginning to scare him up the worst way. By and by he had got
down maybe four or five feet, and Tim got off his hoss.
"I think that will do," says he.
"You may come out. Billy, my son, cover him. Now, Mr. Texas
Pete," he says, cold as steel, "there is the grave. We will
place the hoss in it. Then I intend to shoot you and put you in
with the hoss, and write you an epitaph that will be a comfort to
such travellers of the Trail as are honest, and a warnin' to
such as are not. I'd as soon kill you now as an hour from now,
so you may make a break for it if you feel like it."
He stooped over to look into the hole. I thought he looked an
extra long time, but when he raised his head his face had changed
complete.
"March!" says he very brisk.
We all went back to the shack. From the corral Tim took Texas
Pete's best team and hitched her to the old schooner.
"There," says he to the man. "Now you'd better hit the trail.
Take that whisky keg there for water. Good-bye."
We sat there without sayin' a word for some time after the
schooner had pulled out. Then Tim says, very abrupt:
"I've changed my mind."
He got up.
"Come on, Billy," says he to me. "We'll just leave our friend
tied up. I'll be back to-morrow to turn you loose. In the
meantime it won't hurt you a bit to be a little uncomfortable,
and hungry--and thirsty."
We rode off just about sundown, leavin' Texas Pete lashed tight.
Now all this knocked me hell-west and crooked, and I said so, but
I couldn't get a word out of Gentleman Tim. All the answer I
could get was just little laughs.
We drawed into the ranch near midnight, but next mornin' Tim had
a long talk with the boss, and the result was that the whole
outfit was instructed to arm up with a pick or a shovel apiece,
and to get set for Texas Pete's. We got there a little after
noon, turned the old boy out--without firearms--and then began to
dig at a place Tim told us to, near that grave of Texas Pete's.
In three hours we had the finest water-hole developed you ever
want to see. Then the boss stuck up a sign that said:
PUBLIC WATER-HOLE. WATER, FREE.
"Now you old skin," says he to Texas Pete, "charge all you want
to on your own property. But if I ever hear of your layin' claim
to this other hole, I'll shore make you hard to catch."
Then we rode off home. You see, when Gentleman Tim inspected
that grave, he noted indications of water; and it struck him that
runnin' the old renegade out of business was a neater way of
gettin' even than merely killin' him.
Somebody threw a fresh mesquite on the fire. The flames leaped
up again, showing a thin trickle of water running down the other
side of the cave. The steady downpour again made itself
prominent through the re-established silence.
"What did Texas Pete do after that?" asked the Cattleman.
"Texas Pete?" chuckled Windy Bill. "Well, he put in a heap of
his spare time lettin' Tim alone."
CHAPTER THREE
THE REMITTANCE MAN
After Windy Bill had finished his story we began to think it time
to turn in. Uncle Jim and Charley slid and slipped down the
chute-like passage leading from the cave and disappeared in the
direction of the overhang beneath which they had spread their
bed. After a moment we tore off long bundles of the nigger-head
blades, lit the resinous ends at our fire, and with these torches
started to make our way along the base of the cliff to the other
cave.
Once without the influence of the fire our impromptu links cast
an adequate light. The sheets of rain became suddenly visible as
they entered the circle of illumination. By careful scrutiny of
the footing I gained the entrance to our cave without mishap. I
looked back. Here and there irregularly gleamed and spluttered
my companions' torches. Across each slanted the rain. All else
was of inky blackness except where, between them and me, a faint
red reflection shone on the wet rocks. Then I turned inside.
Now, to judge from the crumbling powder of the footing, that
cave had been dry since Noah. In fact, its roof was nearly a
thousand feet thick. But since we had spread our blankets, the
persistent waters had soaked down and through. The thousand-foot
roof had a sprung a leak. Three separate and distinct streams of
water ran as from spigots. I lowered my torch. The canvas
tarpaulin shone with wet, and in its exact centre glimmered a
pool of water three inches deep and at least two feet in
diameter.
"Well, I'll be," I began. Then I remembered those three wending
their way along a wet and disagreeable trail, happy and peaceful
in anticipation of warm blankets and a level floor. I chuckled
and sat on my heels out of the drip.
First came Jed Parker, his head bent to protect the fire in his
pipe. He gained the very centre of the cave before he looked up.
Then he cast one glance at each bed, and one at me. His grave,
hawk-like features relaxed. A faint grin appeared under his long
moustache. Without a word he squatted down beside me.
Next the Cattleman. He looked about him with a comical
expression of dismay, and burst into a hearty laugh.
"I believe I said I was sorry for those other fellows," he
remarked.
Windy Bill was the last. He stooped his head to enter,
straightened his lank figure, and took in the situation without
expression.
"Well, this is handy," said he; "I was gettin' tur'ble dry, and
was thinkin' I would have to climb way down to the creek in all
this rain."
He stooped to the pool in the centre of the tarpaulin and drank.
But now our torches began to run low. A small dry bush grew near
the entrance. We ignited it, and while it blazed we hastily
sorted a blanket apiece and tumbled the rest out of the drip.
Our return without torches along the base of that butte was
something to remember. The night was so thick you could feel the
darkness pressing on you; the mountain dropped abruptly to the
left, and was strewn with boulders and blocks of stone.
Collisions and stumbles were frequent. Once I stepped off a
little ledge five or six feet--nothing worse than a barked shin.
And all the while the rain, pelting us unmercifully, searched out
what poor little remnants of dryness we had been able to retain.
At last we opened out the gleam of fire in our cave, and a
minute later were engaged in struggling desperately up the slant
that brought us to our ledge and the slope on which our fire
burned.
"My Lord!" panted Windy Bill, "a man had ought to have hooks on
his eyebrows to climb up here!"
We renewed the fire--and blessed the back-load of mesquite we had
packed up earlier in the evening. Our blankets we wrapped around
our shoulders, our feet we hung over the ledge toward the blaze,
our backs we leaned against the hollow slant of the cave's
wall. We were not uncomfortable. The beat of the rain sprang up
in the darkness, growing louder and louder, like horsemen passing
on a hard road. Gradually we dozed off.
For a time everything was pleasant. Dreams came fused with
realities; the firelight faded from consciousness or returned
fantastic to our half-awakening; a delicious numbness overspread
our tired bodies. The shadows leaped, became solid, monstrous.
We fell asleep.
After a time the fact obtruded itself dimly through our stupor
that the constant pressure of the hard rock had impeded our
circulation. We stirred uneasily, shifting to a better position.
That was the beginning of awakening. The new position did not
suit. A slight shivering seized us, which the drawing closer of
the blanket failed to end. Finally I threw aside my hat and
looked out. Jed Parker, a vivid patch-work comforter wrapped
about his shoulders, stood upright and silent by the fire. I
kept still, fearing to awaken the others. In a short time I
became aware that the others were doing identically the same
thing. We laughed, threw off our blankets, stretched, and fed
the fire.
A thick acrid smoke filled the air. The Cattleman, rising, left
a trail of incandescent footprints. We investigated hastily, and
discovered that the supposed earth on the slant of the cave was
nothing more than bat guano, tons of it. The fire, eating its
way beneath, had rendered untenable its immediate vicinity. We
felt as though we were living over a volcano. How soon our
ledge, of the same material, might be attacked, we had no means
of knowing. Overcome with drowsiness, we again disposed our
blankets, resolved to get as many naps as possible before even
these constrained quarters were taken from us.
This happened sooner and in a manner otherwise than we had
expected. Windy Bill brought us to consciousness by a wild yell.
Consciousness reported to us a strange, hurried sound like the
long roll on a drum. Investigation showed us that this cave,
too, had sprung a leak; not with any premonitory drip, but all at
once, as though someone had turned on a faucet. In ten seconds a
very competent streamlet six inches wide had eroded a course down
through the guano, past the fire and to the outer slope. And by
the irony of fate that one--and only one--leak in all the roof
expanse of a big cave was directly over one end of our tiny
ledge. The Cattleman laughed.
"Reminds me of the old farmer and his kind friend," said he.
"Kind friend hunts up the old farmer in the village.
"'John,' says he, 'I've bad news for you. Your barn has burned
up.'
"'My Lord!' says the farmer.
"'But that ain't the worst. Your cow was burned, too.'
"'My Lord!' says the farmer.
"'But that ain't the worst. Your horses were burned.'
"'My Lord!' says the farmer.
"'But, that ain't the worst. The barn set fire to the house, and
it was burned--total loss.'
"'My Lord!' groans the farmer.
"'But that ain't the worst. Your wife and child were killed,
too.'
"'At that the farmer began to roar with laughter.
"'Good heavens, man!' cries his friend, astonished, 'what in
the world do you find to laugh at in that?'
"'Don't you see?' answers the farmer. 'Why, it's so darn
COMPLETE!'
"Well," finished the Cattleman, "that's what strikes me about
our case; it's so darn complete!"
"What time is it?" asked Windy Bill.
"Midnight," I announced.
"Lord! Six hours to day!" groaned Windy Bill. "How'd you like to
be doin' a nice quiet job at gardenin' in the East where you
could belly up to the bar reg'lar every evenin', and drink a
pussy cafe and smoke tailor-made cigareets?"
"You wouldn't like it a bit," put in the Cattleman with decision;
whereupon in proof he told us the following story:
Windy has mentioned Gentleman Tim, and that reminded me of the
first time I ever saw him. He was an Irishman all right, but he
had been educated in England, and except for his accent he was
more an Englishman than anything else. A freight outfit brought
him into Tucson from Santa Fe and dumped him down on the plaza,
where at once every idler in town gathered to quiz him.
Certainly he was one of the greenest specimens I ever saw in this
country. He had on a pair of balloon pants and a Norfolk jacket,
and was surrounded by a half-dozen baby trunks. His face was
red-cheeked and aggressively clean, and his eye limpid as a
child's. Most of those present thought that indicated
childishness; but I could see that it was only utter
self-unconsciousness.
It seemed that he was out for big game, and intended to go after
silver-tips somewhere in these very mountains. Of course he was
offered plenty of advice, and would probably have made
engagements much to be regretted had I not taken a strong fancy
to him.
"My friend," said I, drawing him aside, "I don't want to be
inquisitive, but what might you do when you're home?"
"I'm a younger son," said he. I was green myself in those days,
and knew nothing of primogeniture.
"That is a very interesting piece of family history," said I,
"but it does not answer my question."
He smiled.
"Well now, I hadn't thought of that," said he, "but in a manner
of speaking, it does. I do nothing."
"Well," said I, unabashed, "if you saw me trying to be a younger
son and likely to forget myself and do something without meaning
to, wouldn't you be apt to warn me?"
"Well, 'pon honour, you're a queer chap. What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you hire any of those men to guide you in the
mountains, you'll be outrageously cheated, and will be lucky if
you're not gobbled by Apaches."
"Do you do any guiding yourself, now?" he asked, most innocent of
manner.
But I flared up.
"You damn ungrateful pup," I said, "go to the devil in your
own way," and turned square on my heel.
But the young man was at my elbow, his hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, I say now, I'm sorry. I didn't rightly understand. Do
wait one moment until I dispose of these boxes of mine, and then
I want the honour of your further acquaintance."
He got some Greasers to take his trunks over to the hotel, then
linked his arm in mine most engagingly.
"Now, my dear chap," said he, "let's go somewhere for a B & S,
and find out about each other."
We were both young and expansive. We exchanged views, names,
and confidences, and before noon we had arranged to hunt
together, I to collect the outfit.
The upshot of the matter was that the Honourable Timothy Clare
and I had a most excellent month's excursion, shot several good
bear, and returned to Tucson the best of friends.
At Tucson was Schiefflein and his stories of a big strike down
in the Apache country. Nothing would do but that we should both
go to see for ourselves. We joined the second expedition; crept
in the gullies, tied bushes about ourselves when monumenting
corners, and so helped establish the town of Tombstone. We made
nothing, nor attempted to. Neither of us knew anything of
mining, but we were both thirsty for adventure, and took a
schoolboy delight in playing the game of life or death with the
Chiricahuas.
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