LOST IN THE DESERT.
On the afternoon in which last chapter’s events occurred, a train of three wagons plodded slowly up to the southern bank of the Gila, about twenty miles east from the place where Pedro forded it. Here was quite a good ford, and it was somewhat in use, being on a northern trail—one of the many from Mexico to the north. The country about it was exactly similar to that around the other ford with one exception—away in the east, Vulture Mountain was barely visible in the distance. From that mountain toward the east the Gila river was constantly under the quiet supervision of a sandy-rocky range of disconnected mountains, to its extreme source. But here all was flat, sterile, and quiet.
The wagons were accompanied by several horsemen, and one horsewoman—or rather, young girl. In fact, these were almost the entire party, the only ones in the wagons being the teamster, one American, and two Canadians.
It was a small train—a “whiffit-outfit.” Three wagons were a small number beside the dozens that generally consorted. It could easily be seen it was not the property of a large stock-owner or freighter, but was evidently the property of a single man—an emigrant.
It was even so. The man yonder on the verge of the bank—that sturdy, bronzed man of fifty or thereabouts, about whom the other horsemen gather, is the owner: Joel Wheeler, a northern New Yorker.
Hearing of the rapid fortunes which were constantly being made by enterprising Americans in Mexico, he had left a comfortable home in New York to gain immense riches. After being in that “golden” land for several years he had found out what many others had done before him—that the men in Mexico were as keen and shrewd at a bargain as any one else—in fact, many times more so.
His exchequer ran low; marauding savages and violent disease thinned his flocks; his native servants plundered him; until, completely disgusted and homesick, he packed his goods and chattels and started, en route for his old State.
His daughter, the horsewoman on the sorrel pony, was a sweet, lovely girl of eighteen. Blessed with natural beauty, the several years’ sojourn in Mexico had done much to enliven and develop it—being a brunette she was rendered doubly comely by the fresh, dry air of that country.
Another of its pleasant freaks had it played upon her; it had given her that much to be desired blessing, perfect health. From a pallid, feeble invalid she had become a jovial, blooming maid—a very picture of sound health. During her residence in Mexico she had, without losing her northern modesty and chastity, contracted the universal abandon of the graceful, indolent people, which, while it detracted nothing from her purity, visibly added to her external attractions. In one respect, however, she still clung to her former breeding—her equitation. While it was, and is, customary for Mexican ladies, when so inclined, to ride astride of a horse, and while she knew it was much the easiest way, she still rode, as she termed it, “in civilized fashion.”
Christina Wheeler (Christina being curtailed to the tantalizing appellation of Kissie) was a courageous, high-spirited girl. Though being in possession of several masculine traits, she still preserved that feminine reserve and chariness of conduct which is so necessary in male eyes, and without which woman sinks to the level of a beautiful, favorite dog, or a precise, costly gem. She was a kind and beloved mistress to the few servants; and while treating them graciously and well, brooked no unseemly or obtrusive familiarity. Besides her beauty she was no nobler nor more intellectual than scores of women one may chance upon during a day’s ride through a prosperous and refined district. But her beauty was regal—more—bewitching, as many a disappointed Mexican dandy only too well remembered, who had basked in her impartial smiles only to mope and sulk afterward.
Did I say impartial smiles? I was wrong—entirely so. If report said truly, the sweetest were bestowed on her father’s chief man, or foreman. He was with the party, being an adopted son of the old gentleman. Sturdy, self-reliant and brave, and withal, handsome, being brought up from infancy with Christina, no wonder her romantic spirit had endowed him with all the qualities requisite as a hero. It had; and as she gazed at him now, as he conversed with her father, she felt pleased at seeing how much he relied on young Carpenter.
The young man bestrode a light-colored steed, known from its peculiar color throughout the western and southern States as a “clay-bank.” He was well curried and rubbed down; indeed a curry-comb attached to his saddle-horn denoted this was an every-day occurrence, even in the desert.
Such a man was Samuel Carpenter. At twenty-five years of age he well understood wild life, and it showed his tidy, neat habits—every thing belonging to him being kept in perfect order.
The other two horsemen were rough-looking, wiry men of middle age. One, mounted on a gray “States horse,” was Burt Scranton—Carpenter’s assistant. The other was a man well known in southern Texas and northern Mexico—“Tim Simpson, the guide.”
The latter, for a stipulated sum, had agreed to conduct the party by the shortest and quickest way to the Leavenworth and Texas trail—being nearly four hundred miles from their present position.
Like many others of his calling he was reticent in the extreme, scarcely speaking save in monosyllables. He had several reasons for this: one was that it kept him out of trouble; another, that he was not annoyed by a cross-fire of questions, which guides detest.
The teamsters were Kit Duncan, an American, and Napoleon and Louis Robidoux, two brother Canadians, whom Joel Wheeler had brought from New York. They were now returning with glad hearts toward their northern home.
It is unnecessary to state the party was well armed—every man carried a rifle, and the regulation brace of revolvers and a “bowie.” The wagons were drawn by horses—six to a wagon.
Instead of sitting in the wagon and driving, the teamsters had adopted the southern habit, of riding the “near” wheel-horse and guiding the leaders by a single line. When wishing to “gee,” he steadily pulled the line; to “haw,” a short jerk was sufficient.
This is the party, its outfit and position, now on the southern bank of the Gila.
They forded the river and stood headed northward on the other side. Now they were in the heart of the Indian country—now they must be wary and guard against the hostile and cunning savages.
“Well,” remarked Mr. Wheeler, looking north, “had we better stop here, or go on?”
The question was addressed to the guide, who was down on his knees searching for Indian “sign.” He arose.
“Stop hyar.”
“Why? what are your reasons?”
“Water hyar. No water fur forty mile.”
“Is that so? Well, then we had better stop. We can’t afford to lie out all night without water, can we Sam?”
“No, sir,” replied the young man. “We should be obliged to fast if we did. When the weather is sultry, especially on the southern prairies, food begets thirst. We should suffer without water. Any old plainsman will tell you when out of water to keep your stomach empty, unless a dry cracker can be called food. It is true, medical men say the reverse; but, sir, men that have suffered thirst know that food without water is dangerous. I have tried it.”
“K’rect!” muttered the old guide, in assent.
“Skience is one thing an’ experience is another,” declared Burt Scranton. “I’ve studied one an’ tried t’other. Unhitch, boys.”
All hands went to work to prepare for the night. While the preparations for camping were going on, the cook, Kit Duncan (the hardest worked, and consequently sourest and snarliest man in the party), who was also a teamster, went down to the stream to fill his kettle with water.
A “jack-rabbit,” startled at his approach, sprung from under a projecting sand-point, and darted away up the bank. As it gracefully and rapidly “loped” away, Christina (or Kissie, as we shall call her), ever on the alert, noticed it.
“Oh, what an enormous rabbit!” she cried. “The largest I ever saw. Pray, Simpson, is that the common rabbit?”
“No. Jack-rabbit.”
“What a very odd name. Why do they call it so?”
The guide did not give the true answer—that because of its resemblance to a laughable beast of burden; but answered shortly, as he filled his pipe:
“Big ear; like—like—like—donkey.”
“Oh, hum! I perceive. See, it has stopped under that little bush. There—Oh, my! it is hurt—it is lame! see how it limps—I will catch it, it is so curious.”
Kissie was impulsive. Without further preface she lightly struck the sorrel pony with her riding whip, and on a swift gallop went after the rabbit, which slowly limped away.
The guide, being the only idle one, alone noticed her. He shook with suppressed laughter, awaiting the result.
The guide well knew, though Kissie did not, that this strange rabbit plays some unaccountable pranks, and is the direct cause of many hearty laughs at a “greenhorn’s” expense. Seeing a human being, he at once retreats, limping as if badly hurt. This attracts some one not “well up” in prairie life, and he pursues it. But let the sequel tell its own tale.
As Kissie drew near, the rabbit bounded away as if suddenly cured of its disability, gaining some distance; then he limped again—this time dragging one of its hind-legs laboriously.
His long ears were laid upon his back, which was suddenly shrunken, as if by a shot in the spine; he pawed hastily with his fore-feet; and, evidently, was badly hurt. Perhaps his sudden activity was the result of severe fright, succeeded by a reaction—so reasoned Kissie.
“Bunny, Bunny,” she cried, “you are mine—you are my captive.”
She was quite close upon him, and was drawing closer at every spring. The rabbit was almost caught.
“Count not your chickens before they are hatched,” warns an old saw. Perhaps it would have been better for Kissie to have recollected it. But on she went, with no other desire or thought besides catching the feebly-struggling animal.
To her surprise she drew no nearer, though the rabbit seemed scarce moving, and Dimple was going at a smart gallop. Surprised and nettled, she plied the whip, and once again she was on the rabbit’s very heels.
Once again the rabbit suddenly darted away as lightly as a deer; but only for a few smart leaps.
Again he seemed stricken by that odd impediment to his flight. It was very strange—what could it mean?
For an hour the strange chase continued, the participants sustaining their respective positions, while Dimple panted and lagged, and Kissie alternately wondered and plied the whip.
It was a rare place for a protracted chase. For miles and miles northward (the course they were following) the great, flat plain stretched away—although level, always hard and solid.
The chase still continued, still repeating itself: now a spurt, and the rabbit is near; Bunny springs once or twice and the sorrel pony is behind again.
Once she thought she had heard a shout far behind; but intent upon overtaking the rabbit, still kept on and looked not back.
At last the chase was terminated rather suddenly. Evidently becoming wearied with his frolics, the rabbit cast a single look behind, then to Kissie’s utter dismay, darted away at full speed.
She had seen frightened antelopes flee like the wind; she had seen wild mustangs scour away in affright; but never before had she seen a “jack-rabbit” on his mettle.
There was a sudden streak before her, a small white speck bobbing up and down; and when Kissie reined in the pony she was alone. The rabbit was far away.
“Duped! miserably deceived!” were her exclamations as the truth forced itself upon her. “To think that insignificant creature had so much reason in him. Why, he was only deceiving me, after all—a mean trick to gratify his wicked little heart. I might have known it by the way he acted. Well, I never; and what a laugh there will be when I get back. Deceived by a paltry rabbit. I can imagine how they will laugh. Father will never let me hear the last of it—neither will that horrid Burt Scranton; only Sam will be my champion. And how that horrid guide will grin, too—I declare it makes me provoked to think of it.”
She pouted prettily and gazed where the sly animal had disappeared. Then she spoke again:
“Well, it is of no use that I can see—my remaining here. It is ’most supper-time and I will go back, without my boasted capture. So, Dimple—tired, pet? We are going back.”
She turned the pony’s head around and slowly cantered off, still musing over her defeat, without raising her head.
She had ridden a mile, perhaps, when it occurred to her she had better discover the whereabouts of the train. Accordingly she reined in, and raising her eyes, slowly scanned the prairie before her.
It was bare; the train was not in sight.
Thinking some intervening hillock hid them from her sight, she rode some distance at right angles; but still no white-capped wagons did she see.
She certainly must have become turned round; she must be bewildered as to the direction she had been pursuing.
But no. She distinctly remembered seeing her shadow at her right hand when pursuing the rabbit. She was certain of that—quite sure. What easier than to ride back, keeping the shadow to the left of her? She could not then go astray.
Christina was quick-witted. She had no sooner found the wagons were not in sight when the above reflection ran through her mind. She was impulsive, decided; and knowing this to be the only means of again finding the wagons, started back, with her shadow over her left shoulder.
“Man proposes, God disposes.”
She soon discovered that. No sooner had she started on the return track, than, as if to vex and annoy her, a bank of snow-colored clouds rose rapidly in the south. At the same moment a southerly breeze came lightly over the plain.
As said before, Kissie was a girl of keen and quick perceptions. She saw the bank of clouds arising; she knew if not breeding a terrible squall, they were at least rolling on to obscure the sun; then what were her chances of regaining camp?
She knew they were few; she knew the necessity of hard riding; and, plying the whip again, rode at a gallop with the shadow still over her left shoulder.
On the Southern plains, as with the Southern people, changes come and go with great speed. It was so in the present case; for before the sorrel pony had cantered a mile the heavens above were clouded; the sun was obscured.
A loud, swishing noise accompanied the fleecy clouds, somewhat in the rear of the advanced vapor. She reined in.
She was sufficiently versed in Southern life to feel no alarm at the approaching wind. Had it been from the north—a norther—she would have trembled; but, coming from the south, she felt no alarm; it was nothing but a “field” of drifting vapor, and in the course of an hour the sky might be clear again.
So, turning her pony’s hind quarters to the coming wind, she braced herself and waited its approach.
It came with a roar, and striking Dimple, almost took her off her feet; but the sturdy little beast spread her legs and stood like a rock. Almost as soon as told it was past, rushing toward the north, gathering strength every moment: and, beyond a steady breeze, and a few floating particles in the air, the atmosphere was quiet.
Kissie looked at her tiny watch, and sighed: in another hour the sun would sink below the horizon. What, then, would become of her if she did not succeed in finding the camp?
“I must ride somewhere,” she said, growing seriously alarmed. “If I haven’t the sun to guide me I must steer without it.”
So saying, she re-turned her pony’s head and rode away in a canter.
She had not gone far when she reined in with a very white face. Covering her eyes with her hands, she bowed her head, and her heart sunk.
“Oh, my God! what shall I do?” she moaned. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?”
Well might she feel alarmed! well might she be terror-stricken; for in her abstraction she had turned round twice.