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Conversation was carried on principally by signs and nods, and
through the interpreter (a white man named Cooley). Besides, the
officers had picked up many short phrases of the harsh and
gutteral Apache tongue.

Diablo was charmed with the young, handsome wife of one of the
officers, and asked her husband how many ponies he would take for
her, and Pedro asked Major Worth, if all those white squaws
belonged to him.

The party passed off pleasantly enough, and was not especially
subversive to discipline, although I believe it was not repeated.

Afterwards, long afterwards, when we were stationed at David's
Island, New York Harbor, and Major Worth was no longer a
bachelor, but a dignified married man and had gained his star in
the Spanish War, we used to meet occasionally down by the barge
office or taking a Fenster-promenade on Broadway, and we would
always stand awhile and chat over the old days at Camp Apache in
'74. Never mind how pressing our mutual engagements were, we
could never forego the pleasure of talking over those wild days
and contrasting them with our then present surroundings. "Shall
you ever forget my party ?" he said, the last time we met.




CHAPTER XIII

A NEW RECRUIT

In January our little boy arrived, to share our fate and to
gladden our hearts. As he was the first child born to an
officer's family in Camp Apache, there was the greatest
excitement. All the sheep-ranchers and cattlemen for miles around
came into the post. The beneficent canteen, with its soldiers'
and officers' clubrooms did not exist then. So they all gathered
at the cutler's store, to celebrate events with a round of
drinks. They wanted to shake hands with and congratulate the new
father, after their fashion, upon the advent of the blond-haired
baby. Their great hearts went out to him, and they vied with each
other in doing the handsome thing by him, in a manner according
to their lights, and their ideas of wishing well to a man; a
manner, sometimes, alas! disastrous in its results to the man!
However, by this time, I was getting used to all sides of
frontier life.

I had no time to be lonely now, for I had no nurse, and the only
person who was able to render me service was a laundress of the
Fifth Cavalry, who came for about two hours each day, to give the
baby his bath and to arrange things about the bed. I begged her
to stay with me, but, of course, I knew it was impossible.

So here I was, inexperienced and helpless, alone in bed, with an
infant a few days old. Dr. Loring, our excellent Post Surgeon,
was both kind and skillful, but he was in poor health and
expecting each day to be ordered to another station. My husband
was obliged to be at the Commissary Office all day, issuing
rations to troops and scouts, and attending to the duties of his
position.

But, realizing in a measure the utter helplessness of my
situation, he sent a soldier up to lead a wire cord through the
thick wall at the head of my bed and out through the small yard
into the kitchen. To this they attached a big cow-bell, so, by
making some considerable effort to reach up and pull this wire, I
could summon Bowen, that is, if Bowen happened to be there. But
Bowen seemed always to be out at drill or over at the company
quarters, and frequently my bell brought no response. When he did
come, however, he was just as kind and just as awkward as it was
possible for a great big six-foot farmer-soldier to be.

But I grew weaker and weaker with trying to be strong, and one
day when Jack came in and found both the baby and myself crying,
he said, man-like, "What's the matter?" I said, "I must have some
one to take care of me, or we shall both die."

He seemed to realize that the situation was desperate, and
mounted men were sent out immediately in all directions to find a
woman.

At last, a Mexican girl was found in a wood-chopper's camp, and
was brought to me. She was quite young and very ignorant and
stupid, and spoke nothing but a sort of Mexican "lingo," and did
not understand a word of English. But I felt that my life was
saved; and Bowen fixed up a place on the couch for her to sleep,
and Jack went over to the unoccupied room on the other side of
the cabin and took possession of the absent doctor's bed.

I begged Jack to hunt up a Spanish dictionary, and fortunately
one was found at the cutler's store, which, doubtless the cutler
or his predecessor had brought into the country years before.

The girl did not know anything. I do not think she had ever been
inside a casa before. She had washed herself in mountain streams,
and did not know what basins and sponges were for. So it was of
no use to point to the objects I wanted.

I propped myself up in bed and studied the dictionary, and,
having some idea of the pronunciation of Latin languages, I
essayed to call for warm water and various other necessary
articles needed around a sick bed. Sometimes I succeeded in
getting an idea through her impervious brain, but more often she
would stand dazed and immovable and I would let the dictionary
drop from my tired hands and fall back upon the pillow in a sweat
of exhaustion. Then Bowen would be called in, and with the help
of some perfunctory language and gestures on his part, this
silent creature of the mountains would seem to wake up and try to
understand.

And so I worried through those dreadful days--and the nights! Ah!
we had better not describe them. The poor wild thing slept the
sleep of death and could not hear my loudest calls nor desperate
shouts.

So Jack attached a cord to her pillow, and I would tug and tug at
that and pull the pillow from under her head. It was of no avail.
She slept peacefully on, and it seemed to me, as I lay there
staring at her, that not even Gabriel's trump would ever arouse
her.

In desperation I would creep out of bed and wait upon myself and
then confess to Jack and the Doctor next day.

Well, we had to let the creature go, for she was of no use, and
the Spanish dictionary was laid aside.

I struggled along, fighting against odds; how I ever got well at
all is a wonder, when I think of all the sanitary precautions
taken now-a-days with young mothers and babies. The Doctor was
ordered away and another one came. I had no advice or help from
any one. Calomel or quinine are the only medicines I remember
taking myself or giving to my child.

But to go back a little. The seventh day after the birth of the
baby, a delegation of several squaws, wives of chiefs, came to
pay me a formal visit. They brought me some finely woven baskets,
and a beautiful pappoose-basket or cradle, such as they carry
their own babies in. This was made of the lightest wood, and
covered with the finest skin of fawn, tanned with birch bark by
their own hands, and embroidered in blue beads; it was their best
work. I admired it, and tried to express to them my thanks. These
squaws took my baby (he was lying beside me on the bed), then,
cooing and chuckling, they looked about the room, until they
found a small pillow, which they laid into the basket-cradle,
then put my baby in, drew the flaps together, and laced him into
it; then stood it up, and laid it down, and laughed again in
their gentle manner, and finally soothed him to sleep. I was
quite touched by the friendliness of it all. They laid the cradle
on the table and departed. Jack went out to bring Major Worth in,
to see the pretty sight, and as the two entered the room, Jack
pointed to the pappoose-basket.

Major Worth tip-toed forward, and gazed into the cradle; he did
not speak for some time; then, in his inimitable way, and half
under his breath, he said, slowly, "Well, I'll be d--d!" This was
all, but when he turned towards the bedside, and came and shook
my hand, his eyes shone with a gentle and tender look.

And so was the new recruit introduced to the Captain of Company
K.

And now there must be a bath-tub for the baby. The cutler
rummaged his entire place, to find something that might do. At
last, he sent me a freshly scoured tub, that looked as if it
might, at no very remote date, have contained salt mackerel
marked "A One." So then, every morning at nine o'clock, our
little half-window was black with the heads of the curious squaws
and bucks, trying to get a glimpse of the fair baby's bath. A
wonderful performance, it appeared to them.

Once a week this room, which was now a nursery combined with
bedroom and living-room, was overhauled by the stalwart Bowen.
The baby was put to sleep and laced securely into the
pappoose-basket. He was then carried into the kitchen, laid on
the dresser, and I sat by with a book or needle-work watching
him, until Bowen had finished the room. On one of these
occasions, I noticed a ledger lying upon one of the shelves. I
looked into it, and imagine my astonishment, when I read: "Aunt
Hepsey's Muffins," "Sarah's Indian Pudding," and on another page,
"Hasty's Lemon Tarts," "Aunt Susan's Method of Cooking a Leg of
Mutton," and "Josie Well's Pressed Calf Liver." Here were my own,
my very own family recipes, copied into Bowen's ledger, in large
illiterate characters; and on the fly-leaf, "Charles Bowen's
Receipt Book." I burst into a good hearty laugh, almost the first
one I had enjoyed since I arrived at Camp Apache.

The long-expected promotion to a first lieutenancy came at about
this time. Jack was assigned to a company which was stationed at
Camp MacDowell, but his departure for the new post was delayed
until the spring should be more advanced and I should be able to
undertake the long, rough trip with our young child.

The second week in April, my baby just nine weeks old, we began
to pack up. I had gained a little in experience, to be sure, but
I had lost my health and strength. I knew nothing of the care of
a young infant, and depended entirely upon the advice of the Post
Surgeon, who happened at that time to be a young man, much better
versed in the sawing off of soldiers' legs than in the treatment
of young mothers and babies.

The packing up was done under difficulties, and with much help
from our faithful Bowen. It was arranged for Mrs. Bailey, who was
to spend the summer with her parents at Fort Whipple, to make the
trip at the same time, as our road to Camp MacDowell took us
through Fort Whipple. There were provided two ambulances with six
mules each, two baggage-wagons, an escort of six calvarymen fully
armed, and a guide. Lieutenant Bailey was to accompany his wife
on the trip.

I was genuinely sorry to part with Major Worth, but in the
excitement and fatigue of breaking up our home, I had little time
to think of my feelings. My young child absorbed all my time.
Alas! for the ignorance of young women, thrust by circumstances
into such a situation! I had miscalculated my strength, for I had
never known illness in my life, and there was no one to tell me
any better. I reckoned upon my superbly healthy nature to bring
me through. In fact, I did not think much about it; I simply got
ready and went, as soldiers do.

I heard them say that we were not to cross the Mogollon range,
but were to go to the north of it, ford the Colorado Chiquito at
Sunset Crossing, and so on to Camp Verde and Whipple Barracks by
the Stoneman's Lake road. It sounded poetic and pretty. Colorado
Chiquito, Sunset Crossing, and Stoneman's Lake road! I thought to
myself, they were prettier than any of the names I had heard in
Arizona.




CHAPTER XIV

A MEMORABLE JOURNEY

How broken plunged the steep descent! How barren! Desolate and
rent By earthquake shock, the land lay dead, Like some proud
king in old-time slain. An ugly skeleton, it gleamed In burning
sands. The fiery rain Of fierce volcanoes here had sown Its
ashes. Burnt and black and seamed With thunder-strokes and strewn
With cinders. Yea, so overthrown, That wilder men than we had
said, On seeing this, with gathered breath, "We come on the
confines of death!" --JOAQUIN MILLER.


Six good cavalrymen galloped along by our side, on the morning of
April 24th, 1875, as with two ambulances, two army wagons, and a
Mexican guide, we drove out of Camp Apache at a brisk trot.

The drivers were all armed, and spare rifles hung inside the
ambulances. I wore a small derringer, with a narrow belt filled
with cartridges. An incongruous sight, methinks now, it must have
been. A young mother, pale and thin, a child of scarce three
months in her arms, and a pistol belt around her waist!

I scarcely looked back at Camp Apache. We had a long day's march
before us, and we looked ahead. Towards night we made camp at
Cooley's ranch, and slept inside, on the floor. Cooley was
interpreter and scout, and although he was a white man, he had
married a young Indian girl, the daughter of one of the chiefs
and was known as a squaw man. There seemed to be two Indian girls
at his ranch; they were both tidy and good-looking, and they
prepared us a most appetizing supper.

The ranch had spaces for windows, covered with thin unbleached
muslin (or manta, as it is always called out there), glass
windows being then too great a luxury in that remote place.
There were some partitions inside the ranch, but no doors; and,
of course, no floors except adobe. Several half-breed children,
nearly naked, stood and gazed at us as we prepared for rest. This
was interesting and picturesque from many standpoints perhaps,
but it did not tend to make me sleepy. I lay gazing into the fire
which was smouldering in the corner, and finally I said, in a
whisper, "Jack, which girl do you think is Cooley's wife?"

"I don't know," answered this cross and tired man; and then
added, "both of 'em, I guess."

Now this was too awful, but I knew he did not intend for me to
ask any more questions. I had a difficult time, in those days,
reconciling what I saw with what I had been taught was right, and
I had to sort over my ideas and deep-rooted prejudices a good
many times.

The two pretty squaws prepared a nice breakfast for us, and we
set out, quite refreshed, to travel over the malapais (as the
great lava-beds in that part of the country are called). There
was no trace of a road. A few hours of this grinding and
crunching over crushed lava wearied us all, and the animals found
it hard pulling, although the country was level.

We crossed Silver Creek without difficulty, and arrived at
Stinson's ranch, after traveling twenty-five miles, mostly
malapais. Do not for a moment think of these ranches as farms.
Some of them were deserted sheep ranches, and had only adobe
walls standing in ruins. But the camp must have a name, and on
the old maps of Arizona these names are still to be found. Of
course, on the new railroad maps, they are absent. They were
generally near a spring or a creek, consequently were chosen as
camps.

Mrs. Bailey had her year-old boy, Howard, with her. We began to
experience the utmost inconvenience from the lack of warm water
and other things so necessary to the health and comfort of
children. But we tried to make light of it all, and the two
Lieutenants tried, in a man's way, to help us out. We declared we
must have some clean towels for the next day, so we tried to
rinse out, in the cold, hard water of the well, those which we
had with us, and, as it was now nightfall and there was no fire
inside this apparently deserted ranch, the two Lieutenants stood
and held the wet towels before the camp-fire until they were dry.

Mrs. Bailey and I, too tired to move, sat and watched them and
had each our own thoughts. She was an army girl and perhaps had
seen such things before, but it was a situation that did not seem
quite in keeping with my ideas of the fitness of things in
general, and with the uniform in particular. The uniform,
associated in my mind with brilliant functions, guard-mount,
parades and full-dress weddings--the uniform, in fact, that I
adored. As I sat, gazing at them, they both turned around, and,
realizing how almost ludicrous they looked, they began to laugh.
Whereupon we all four laughed and Jack said: "Nice work for
United States officers! hey, Bailey ?"

"It might be worse," sighed the handsome, blond-haired Bailey.

Thirty miles the next day, over a good road, brought us to
Walker's ranch, on the site of old Camp Supply. This ranch was
habitable in a way, and the owner said we might use the bedrooms;
but the wild-cats about the place were so numerous and so
troublesome in the night, that we could not sleep. I have
mentioned the absence of windows in these ranches; we were now to
experience the great inconvenience resulting therefrom, for the
low open spaces furnished great opportunity for the cats. In at
one opening, and out at another they flew, first across the
Bailey's bed, then over ours. The dogs caught the spirit of the
chase, and added their noise to that of the cats. Both babies
began to cry, and then up got Bailey and threw his heavy campaign
boots at the cats, with some fitting remarks. A momentary silence
reigned, and we tried again to sleep. Back came the cats, and
then came Jack's turn with boots and travelling satchels. It was
all of no avail, and we resigned ourselves. Cruelly tired, here
we were, we two women, compelled to sit on hard boxes or the edge
of a bed, to quiet our poor babies, all through that night, at
that old sheep-ranch. Like the wretched emigrant, differing only
from her inasmuch as she, never having known comfort perhaps,
cannot realize her misery.

The two Lieutenants slipped on their blouses, and sat looking
helplessly at us, waging war on the cats at intervals. And so the
dawn found us, our nerves at a tension, and our strength gone--a
poor preparation for the trying day which was to follow.

We were able to buy a couple of sheep there, to take with us for
supplies, and some antelope meat. We could not indulge, in
foolish scruples, but I tried not to look when they tied the live
sheep and threw them into one of the wagons.

Quite early in the day, we met a man who said he had been fired
upon by some Indians at Sanford's Pass. We thought perhaps he had
been scared by some stray shot, and we did not pay much attention
to his story.

Soon after, however, we passed a sort of old adobe ruin, out of
which crept two bare-headed Mexicans, so badly frightened that
their dark faces were pallid; their hair seemed standing on end,
and they looked stark mad with fear. They talked wildly to the
guide, and gesticulated, pointing in the direction of the Pass.
They had been fired at, and their ponies taken by some roving
Apaches. They had been in hiding for over a day, and were hungry
and miserable. We gave them food and drink. They implored us, by
the Holy Virgin, not to go through the Pass.

What was to be done? The officers took counsel; the men looked to
their arms. It was decided to go through. Jack examined his
revolver, and saw that my pistol was loaded. I was instructed
minutely what to do, in case we were attacked.

For miles we strained our eyes, looking in the direction whence
these men had come.

At last, in mid-afternoon, we approached the Pass, a narrow
defile winding down between high hills from this table-land to
the plain below. To say that we feared an ambush, would not
perhaps convey a very clear idea of how I felt on entering the
Pass.

There was not a word spoken. I obeyed orders, and lay down in the
bottom of the ambulance; I took my derringer out of the holster
and cocked it. I looked at my little boy lying helpless there
beside me, and at his delicate temples, lined with thin blue
veins, and wondered if I could follow out the instructions I had
received: for Jack had said, after the decision was made, to go
through the Pass, "Now, Mattie, I don't think for a minute that
there are any Injuns in that Pass, and you must not be afraid. We
have got to go through it any way; but"--he hesitated,--"we may
be mistaken; there may be a few of them in there, and they'll
have a mighty good chance to get in a shot or two. And now
listen: if I'm hit, you'll know what to do. You have your
derringer; and when you see that there is no help for it, if they
get away with the whole outfit, why, there's only one thing to be
done. Don't let them get the baby, for they will carry you both
off and--well, you know the squaws are much more cruel than the
bucks. Don't let them get either of you alive. Now"--to the
driver--"go on."

Jack was a man of few words, and seldom spoke much in times like
that.

So I lay very quiet in the bottom of the ambulance. I realized
that we were in great danger. My thoughts flew back to the East,
and I saw, as in a flash, my father and mother, sisters and
brother; I think I tried to say a short prayer for them, and that
they might never know the worst. I fixed my eyes upon my
husband's face. There he sat, rifle in hand, his features
motionless, his eyes keenly watching out from one side of the
ambulance, while a stalwart cavalry-man, carbine in hand, watched
the other side of the narrow defile. The minutes seemed like
hours.

The driver kept his animals steady, and we rattled along.

At last, as I perceived the steep slope of the road, I looked
out, and saw that the Pass was widening out, and we must be
nearing the end of it. "Keep still," said Jack, without moving a
feature. My heart seemed then to stop beating, and I dared not
move again, until I heard him say, "Thank God, we're out of it!
Get up, Mattie! See the river yonder? We'll cross that to-night,
and then we'll be out of their God d----d country!"

This was Jack's way of working off his excitement, and I did not
mind it. I knew he was not afraid of Apaches for himself, but for
his wife and child. And if I had been a man, I should have said
just as much and perhaps more.

We were now down in a flat country, and low alkali plains lay
between us and the river. My nerves gradually recovered from the
tension in which they had been held; the driver stopped his team
for a moment, the other ambulance drove up alongside of us, and
Ella Bailey and I looked at each other; we did not talk any, but
I believe we cried just a little. Then Mr. Bailey and Jack
(thinking we were giving way, I suppose) pulled out their big
flasks, and we had to take a cup of good whiskey, weakened up
with a little water from our canteens, which had been filled at
Walker's ranch in the morning. Great Heavens! I thought, was it
this morning that we left Walker's ranch, or was it a year ago?
So much had I lived through in a few hours.




CHAPTER XV

FORDING THE LITTLE COLORADO

At a bend in the road the Mexican guide galloped up near the
ambulance, and pointing off to the westward with a graceful
gesture, said: "Colorado Chiquito! Colorado Chiquito!" And, sure
enough, there in the afternoon sun lay the narrow winding river,
its surface as smooth as glass, and its banks as if covered with
snow.

We drove straight for the ford, known as Sunset Crossing. The
guide was sure he knew the place. But the river was high, and I
could not see how anybody could cross it without a boat. The
Mexican rode his pony in once or twice; shook his head, and said
in Spanish, "there was much quicksand. The old ford had changed
much since he saw it." He galloped excitedly to and fro, along
the bank of the river, always returning to the same place, and
declaring "it was the ford; there was no other; he knew it well."

But the wagons not having yet arrived, it was decided not to
attempt crossing until morning, when we could get a fresh start.

The sun was gradually sinking in the west, but the heat down in
that alkali river-bottom even at that early season of the year
was most uncomfortable. I was worn out with fright and fatigue;
my poor child cried piteously and incessantly. Nothing was of any
avail to soothe him. After the tents were pitched and the
camp-fires made, some warm water was brought, and I tried to wash
away some of the dust from him, but the alkali water only
irritated his delicate skin, and his head, where it had lain on
my arm, was inflamed by the constant rubbing. It began to break
out in ugly blisters; I was in despair. We were about as
wretchedly off as two human beings could be, and live, it seemed
to me. The disappointment at not getting across the river,
combined with the fear that the Indians were still in the
neighborhood, added to my nervousness and produced an exhaustion
which, under other circumstances, would have meant collapse.

The mournful and demoniacal cries of the coyotes filled the
night; they seemed to come close to the tent, and their number
seemed to be legion. I lay with eyes wide open, watching for the
day to come, and resolving each minute that if I ever escaped
alive from that lonely river-bottom with its burning alkali, and
its millions of howling coyotes, I would never, never risk being
placed in such a situation again.

At dawn everybody got up and dressed. I looked in my small
hand-mirror, and it seemed to me my hair had turned a greyish
color, and while it was not exactly white, the warm chestnut
tinge never came back into it, after that day and night of
terror. My eyes looked back at me large and hollow from the
small glass, and I was in that state when it is easy to imagine
the look of Death in one's own face. I think sometimes it comes,
after we have thought ourselves near the borders. And I surely
had been close to them the day before.

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