Book: Vanished Arizona,

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If perchance any of my readers have followed this narrative so
far, and there be among them possibly any men, young or old, I
would say to such ones: "Desist! For what I am going to tell
about in this chapter, and possibly another, concerns nobody but
women, and my story will now, for awhile, not concern itself with
the Eighth Foot, nor the army, nor the War Department, nor the
Interior Department, nor the strategic value of Sunset Crossing,
which may now be a railroad station, for all I know. It is simply
a story of my journey from the far bank of the Little Colorado to
Fort Whipple, and then on, by a change of orders, over mountains
and valleys, cactus plains and desert lands, to the banks of the
Great Colorado.

My attitude towards the places I travelled through was naturally
influenced by the fact that I had a young baby in my arms the
entire way, and that I was not able to endure hardship at that
time. For usually, be it remembered, at that period of a child's
life, both mother and infant are not out of the hands of the
doctor and trained nurse, to say nothing of the assistance so
gladly rendered by those near and dear,

The morning of the 28th of April dawned shortly after midnight,
as mornings in Arizona generally do at that season, and after a
hasty camp breakfast, and a good deal of reconnoitering on the
part of the officers, who did not seem to be exactly satisfied
about the Mexican's knowledge of the ford, they told him to push
his pony in, and cross if he could.

He managed to pick his way across and back, after a good deal of
floundering, and we decided to try the ford. First they hitched
up ten mules to one of the heavily loaded baggage-wagons, the
teamster cracked his whip, and in they went. But the quicksand
frightened the leaders, and they lost their courage. Now when a
mule loses courage, in the water, he puts his head down and is
done for. The leaders disappeared entirely, then the next two and
finally the whole ten of them were gone, irrevocably, as I
thought. But like a flash, the officers shouted: "Cut away those
mules! Jump in there!" and amid other expletives the men plunged
in, and feeling around under the water cut the poor animals loose
and they began to crawl out on the other bank. I drew a long
breath, for I thought the ten mules were drowned.

The guide picked his way over again to the other side and caught
them up, and then I began to wonder how on earth we should ever
get across.

There lay the heavy army wagon, deep mired in the middle of the
stream, and what did I see? Our army chests, floating away down
the river. I cried out: "Oh! do save our chests!" "They're all
right, we'll get them presently," said Jack. It seemed a long
time to me, before the soldiers could get them to the bank, which
they did, with the aid of stout ropes. All our worldly goods were
in those chests, and I knew they were soaked wet and probably
ruined; but, after all, what did it matter, in the face of the
serious problem which confronted us?

In the meantime, some of the men had floated the other boxes and
trunks out of the wagon back to the shore, and were busy taking
the huge vehicle apart. Any one who knows the size of an army
wagon will realize that this was hard work, especially as the
wagon was mired, and nearly submerged. But the men worked
desperately, and at last succeeded in getting every part of it
back onto the dry land.

Somebody stirred up the camp-fire and put the kettle on, and Mrs.
Bailey and I mixed up a smoking strong hot toddy for those brave
fellows, who were by this time well exhausted. Then they set to
work to make a boat, by drawing a large canvas under the body of
the wagon, and fastening it securely. For this Lieutenant of mine
had been a sailor-man and knew well how to meet emergencies.

One or two of the soldiers had now forded the stream on
horseback, and taken over a heavy rope, which was made fast to
our improvised boat. I was acquainted with all kinds of boats,
from a catamaran to a full-rigged ship, but never a craft like
this had I seen. Over the sides we clambered, however, and were
ferried across the treacherous and glassy waters of the Little
Colorado. All the baggage and the two ambulances were ferried
over, and the other wagon was unloaded and drawn over by means of
ropes.

This proceeding took all day, and of course we could get no
farther, and were again obliged to camp in that most
uncomfortable river-bottom. But we felt safer on that side. I
looked at the smooth surface of the river, and its alkali shores,
and the picture became indelibly impressed upon my memory. The
unpleasant reality destroyed any poetic associations which might
otherwise have clung to the name of Sunset Crossing in my ever
vivid imagination.

After the tents were pitched, and the camp snugged up, Mr. Bailey
produced some champagne and we wished each other joy, that we had
made the dangerous crossing and escaped the perils of Sanford's
Pass. I am afraid the champagne was not as cold as might have
been desired, but the bottle had been wrapped in a wet blanket,
and cooled a little in that way, and we drank it with zest, from
a mess-cup.




CHAPTER XVI

STONEMAN'S LAKE

The road began now to ascend, and after twenty miles' travelling
we reached a place called Updyke's Tanks. It was a nice place,
with plenty of wood and grass. The next day we camped at Jay
Coxe's Tanks. It was a hard day's march, and I was tired out when
we arrived there. The ambulance was simply jerked over those
miles of fearful rocks; one could not say driven or dragged over,
for we were pitched from rock to rock the entire distance.

Stoneman's Lake Road was famous, as I afterwards heard. Perhaps
it was just as well for me that I did not know about it in
advance.

The sure-footed mules picked their way over these sharp-edged
rocks. There was not a moment's respite. We asked a soldier to
help with holding the baby, for my arms gave out entirely, and
were as if paralyzed. The jolting threw us all by turns against
the sides of the ambulance (which was not padded), and we all got
some rather bad bruises. We finally bethought ourselves of the
pappoose basket, which we had brought along in the ambulance,
having at the last moment no other place to put it. So a halt was
called, we placed the tired baby in this semi-cradle, laced the
sides snugly over him, and were thus enabled to carry him over
those dreadful roads without danger.

He did not cry much, but the dust made him thirsty. I could not
give him nourishment without stopping the entire train of wagons,
on account of the constant pitching of the ambulance; delay was
not advisable or expedient, so my poor little son had to endure
with the rest of us. The big Alsatian cavalryman held the cradle
easily in his strong arms, and so the long miles were travelled,
one by one.

At noon of this day we made a refreshing halt, built a fire and
took some luncheon. We found a shady, grassy spot, upon which the
blankets were spread, and we stretched ourselves out upon them
and rested. But we were still some miles from water, so after a
short respite we were compelled to push on. We had been getting
steadily higher since leaving Sunset Crossing, and now it began
to be cold and looked like snow. Mrs. Bailey and I found it very
trying to meet these changes of temperature. A good place for the
camp was found at Coxe's Tanks, trenches were dug around the
tents, and the earth banked up to keep us warm. The cool air, our
great fatigue, and the comparative absence of danger combined to
give us a heavenly night's rest.

Towards sunset of the next day, which was May Day, our cavalcade
reached Stoneman's Lake. We had had another rough march, and had
reached the limit of endurance, or thought we had, when we
emerged from a mountain pass and drew rein upon the high green
mesa overlooking Stoneman's Lake, a beautiful blue sheet of
water lying there away below us. It was good to our tired eyes,
which had gazed upon nothing but burnt rocks and alkali plains
for so many days. Our camp was beautiful beyond description, and
lay near the edge of the mesa, whence we could look down upon the
lovely lake. It was a complete surprise to us, as points of
scenery were not much known or talked about then in Arizona.
Ponds and lakes were unheard of. They did not seem to exist in
that drear land of arid wastes. We never heard of water except
that of the Colorado or the Gila or the tanks and basins, and
irrigation ditches of the settlers. But here was a real Italian
lake, a lake as blue as the skies above us. We feasted our eyes
and our very souls upon it.

Bailey and the guide shot some wild turkeys, and as we had
already eaten all the mutton we had along, the ragout of turkey
made by the soldier-cook for our supper tasted better to us tired
and hungry travellers, perhaps, than a canvasback at Delmonico's
tastes to the weary lounger or the over-worked financier.

In the course of the day, we had passed a sort of sign-board,
with the rudely written inscription, "Camp Starvation," and we
had heard from Mr. Bailey the story of the tragic misfortunes at
this very place of the well-known Hitchcock family of Arizona.
The road was lined with dry bones, and skulls of oxen, white and
bleached in the sun, lying on the bare rocks. Indeed, at every
stage of the road we had seen evidences of hard travel, exhausted
cattle, anxious teamsters, hunger and thirst, despair,
starvation, and death.

However, Stoneman's Lake remains a joy in the memory, and far and
away the most beautiful spot I ever saw in Arizona. But unless
the approaches to it are made easier, tourists will never gaze
upon it.

In the distance we saw the "divide," over which we must pass in
order to reach Camp Verde, which was to be our first stopping
place, and we looked joyfully towards the next day's march, which
we expected would bring us there.

We thought the worst was over and, before retiring to our tents
for the night, we walked over to the edge of the high mesa and,
in the gathering shadows of twilight, looked down into the depths
of that beautiful lake, knowing that probably we should never see
it again.

And indeed, in all the years I spent in Arizona afterward, I
never even heard of the lake again.

I wonder now, did it really exist or was it an illusion, a dream,
or the mirage which appears to the desert traveller, to satisfy
him and lure him on, to quiet his imagination, and to save his
senses from utter extinction?

In the morning the camp was all astir for an early move. We had
no time to look back: we were starting for a long day's march,
across the "divide," and into Camp Verde.

But we soon found that the road (if road it could be called) was
worse than any we had encountered. The ambulance was pitched and
jerked from rock to rock and we were thumped against the iron
framework in a most dangerous manner. So we got out and picked
our way over the great sharp boulders.

The Alsatian soldier carried the baby, who lay securely in the
pappoose cradle.

One of the cavalry escort suggested my taking his horse, but I
did not feel strong enough to think of mounting a horse, so great
was my discouragement and so exhausted was my vitality. Oh! if
girls only knew about these things I thought! For just a little
knowledge of the care of an infant and its needs, its nourishment
and its habits, might have saved both mother and child from such
utter collapse.

Little by little we gave up hope of reaching Verde that day. At
four o'clock we crossed the "divide,"and clattered down a road so
near the edge of a precipice that I was frightened beyond
everything: my senses nearly left me. Down and around, this way
and that, near the edge, then back again, swaying, swerving,
pitching, the gravel clattering over the precipice, the six mules
trotting their fastest, we reached the bottom and the driver
pulled up his team. "Beaver Springs!" said he, impressively,
loosening up the brakes.

As Jack lifted me out of the ambulance, I said: "Why didn't you
tell me?" pointing back to the steep road. "Oh," said he, "I
thought it was better for you not to know; people get scared
about such things, when they know about them before hand."

"But," I remarked, "such a break-neck pace!" Then, to the
driver, "Smith, how could you drive down that place at such a
rate and frighten me so?"

"Had to, ma'am, or we'd a'gone over the edge."

I had been brought up in a flat country down near the sea, and I
did not know the dangers of mountain travelling, nor the
difficulties attending the piloting of a six-mule team down a
road like that. >From this time on, however, Smith rose in my
estimation. I seemed also to be realizing that the Southwest was
a great country and that there was much to learn about. Life out
there was beginning to interest me.

Camp Verde lay sixteen miles farther on; no one knew if the road
were good or bad. I declared I could not travel another mile,
even if they all went on and left me to the wolves and the
darkness of Beaver Springs.

We looked to our provisions and took account of stock. There was
not enough for the two families. We had no flour and no bread;
there was only a small piece of bacon, six potatoes, some
condensed milk, and some chocolate. The Baileys decided to go on;
for Mrs. Bailey was to meet her sister at Verde and her parents
at Whipple. We said good-bye, and their ambulance rolled away.
Our tent was pitched and the baby was laid on the bed, asleep
from pure exhaustion.

The dread darkness of night descended upon us, and the strange
odors of the bottom-lands arose, mingling with the delicious
smoky smell of the camp-fire.

By the light of the blazing mesquite wood, we now divided what
provisions we had, into two portions: one for supper, and one for
breakfast. A very light meal we had that evening, and I arose
from the mess-table unsatisfied and hungry.

Jack and I sat down by the camp-fire, musing over the hard times
we were having, when suddenly I heard a terrified cry from my
little son. We rushed to the tent, lighted a candle, and oh!
horror upon horrors! his head and face were covered with large
black ants; he was wailing helplessly, and beating the air with
his tiny arms.

"My God!" cried Jack, "we're camped over an ant-hill!"

I seized the child, and brushing off the ants as I fled, brought
him out to the fire, where by its light I succeeded in getting
rid of them all. But the horror of it! Can any mother brought up
in God's country with kind nurses and loved ones to minister to
her child, for a moment imagine how I felt when I saw those
hideous, three-bodied, long-legged black ants crawling over my
baby's face? After a lapse of years, I cannot recall that moment
without a shudder.

The soldiers at last found a place which seemed to be free from
ant-hills, and our tent was again pitched, but only to find that
the venomous things swarmed over us as soon as we lay down to
rest.

And so, after the fashion of the Missouri emigrant, we climbed
into the ambulance and lay down upon our blankets in the bottom
of it, and tried to believe we were comfortable.

My long, hard journey of the preceding autumn, covering a period
of two months; my trying experiences during the winter at Camp
Apache; the sudden break-up and the packing; the lack of
assistance from a nurse; the terrors of the journey; the
sympathy for my child, who suffered from many ailments and
principally from lack of nourishment, added to the profound
fatigue I felt, had reduced my strength to a minimum. I wonder
that I lived, but something sustained me, and when we reached
Camp Verde the next day, and drew up before Lieutenant
O'Connell's quarters, and saw Mrs. O'Connell's kind face beaming
to welcome us, I felt that here was relief at last.

The tall Alsatian handed the pappoose cradle to Mrs. O'Connell.

"Gracious goodness! what is this?" cried the bewildered woman;
"surely it cannot be your baby! You haven't turned entirely
Indian, have you, amongst those wild Apaches?"

I felt sorry I had not taken him out of the basket before we
arrived. I did not realize the impression it would make at Camp
Verde. After all, they did not know anything about our life at
Apache, or our rough travels to get back from there. Here were
lace-curtained windows, well-dressed women, smart uniforms, and,
in fact, civilization, compared with what we had left.

The women of the post gathered around the broad piazza, to see
the wonder. But when they saw the poor little wan face, the blue
eyes which looked sadly out at them from this rude cradle, the
linen bandages covering the back of the head, they did not laugh
any more, but took him and ministered to him, as only kind women
can minister to a sick baby.

There was not much rest, however, for we had to sort and
rearrange our things, and dress ourselves properly. (Oh! the
luxury of a room and a tub, after that journey!) Jack put on his
best uniform, and there was no end of visiting, in spite of the
heat, which was considerable even at that early date in May. The
day there would have been pleasant enough but for my wretched
condition.

The next morning we set out for Fort Whipple, making a long day's
march, and arriving late in the evening. The wife of the
Quartermaster, a total stranger to me, received us, and before we
had time to exchange the usual social platitudes, she gave one
look at the baby, and put an end to any such attempts. "You have
a sick child; give him to me;" then I told her some things, and
she said: "I wonder he is alive." Then she took him under her
charge and declared we should not leave her house until he was
well again. She understood all about nursing, and day by day,
under her good care, and Doctor Henry Lippincott's skilful
treatment, I saw my baby brought back to life again. Can I ever
forget Mrs. Aldrich's blessed kindness?

Up to then, I had taken no interest in Camp MacDowell, where was
stationed the company into which my husband was promoted. I knew
it was somewhere in the southern part of the Territory, and
isolated. The present was enough. I was meeting my old Fort
Russell friends, and under Doctor Lippincott's good care I was
getting back a measure of strength. Camp MacDowell was not yet a
reality to me.

We met again Colonel Wilkins and Mrs. Wilkins and Carrie, and
Mrs. Wilkins thanked me for bringing her daughter alive out of
those wilds. Poor girl; 'twas but a few months when we heard of
her death, at the birth of her second child. I have always
thought her death was caused by the long hard journey from Apache
to Whipple, for Nature never intended women to go through what we
went through, on that memorable journey by Stoneman's Lake.

There I met again Captain Porter, and I asked him if he had
progressed any in his courtship, and he, being very much
embarrassed, said he did not know, but if patient waiting was of
any avail, he believed he might win his bride.

After we had been at Whipple a few days, Jack came in and
remarked casually to Lieutenant Aldrich, "Well, I heard Bernard
has asked to be relieved from Ehrenberg.

"What!" I said, "the lonely man down there on the river--the
prisoner of Chillon--the silent one? Well, they are going to
relieve him, of course?"

"Why, yes," said Jack, falteringly, "if they can get anyone to
take his place."

"Can't they order some one?" I inquired.

"Of course they can," he replied, and then, turning towards the
window, he ventured: "The fact is Martha, I've been offered it,
and am thinking it over." (The real truth was, that he had
applied for it, thinking it possessed great advantages over Camp
MacDowell. )

"What! do I hear aright? Have your senses left you? Are you
crazy? Are you going to take me to that awful place? Why, Jack, I
should die there!"

"Now, Martha, be reasonable; listen to me, and if you really
decide against it, I'll throw up the detail. But don't you see,
we shall be right on the river, the boat comes up every fortnight
or so, you can jump aboard and go up to San Francisco." (Oh, how
alluring that sounded to my ears!) "Why, it's no trouble to get
out of Arizona from Ehrenberg. Then, too, I shall be independent,
and can do just as I like, and when I like," et caetera, et
caetera. "Oh, you'll be making the greatest mistake, if you
decide against it. As for MacDowell, it's a hell of a place, down
there in the South; and you never will be able to go back East
with the baby, if we once get settled down there. Why, it's a
good fifteen days from the river."

And so he piled up the arguments in favor of Ehrenberg, saying
finally, "You need not stop a day there. If the boat happens to
be up, you can jump right aboard and start at once down river."

All the discomforts of the voyage on the "Newbern," and the
memory of those long days spent on the river steamer in August
had paled before my recent experiences. I flew, in imagination,
to the deck of the "Gila," and to good Captain Mellon, who would
take me and my child out of that wretched Territory.

"Yes, yes, let us go then," I cried; for here came in my
inexperience. I thought I was choosing the lesser evil, and I
knew that Jack believed it to be so, and also that he had set his
heart upon Ehrenberg, for reasons known only to the understanding
of a military man.

So it was decided to take the Ehrenberg detail.




CHAPTER XVII

THE COLORADO DESERT

Some serpents slid from out the grass That grew in tufts by
shattered stone, Then hid below some broken mass Of ruins older
than the East, That Time had eaten, as a bone Is eaten by some
savage beast.

Great dull-eyed rattlesnakes--they lay All loathsome,
yellow-skinned, and slept Coiled tight as pine knots in the sun,
With flat heads through the centre run; Then struck out sharp,
then rattling crept Flat-bellied down the dusty way.

--JOAQUIN MILLER.


At the end of a week, we started forth for Ehrenberg. Our escort
was now sent back to Camp Apache, and the Baileys remained at
Fort Whipple, so our outfit consisted of one ambulance and one
army wagon. One or two soldiers went along, to help with the
teams and the camp.

We travelled two days over a semi-civilized country, and found
quite comfortable ranches where we spent the nights. The greatest
luxury was fresh milk, and we enjoyed that at these ranches in
Skull Valley. They kept American cows, and supplied Whipple
Barracks with milk and butter. We drank, and drank, and drank
again, and carried a jugful to our bedside. The third day brought
us to Cullen's ranch, at the edge of the desert. Mrs. Cullen was
a Mexican woman and had a little boy named Daniel; she cooked us
a delicious supper of stewed chicken, and fried eggs, and good
bread, and then she put our boy to bed in Daniel's crib. I felt
so grateful to her; and with a return of physical comfort, I
began to think that life, after all, might be worth the living.

Hopefully and cheerfully the next morning we entered the vast
Colorado desert. This was verily the desert, more like the desert
which our imagination pictures, than the one we had crossed in
September from Mojave. It seemed so white, so bare, so endless,
and so still; irreclaimable, eternal, like Death itself. The
stillness was appalling. We saw great numbers of lizards darting
about like lightning; they were nearly as white as the sand
itself, and sat up on their hind legs and looked at us with their
pretty, beady black eyes. It seemed very far off from everywhere
and everybody, this desert--but I knew there was a camp somewhere
awaiting us, and our mules trotted patiently on. Towards noon
they began to raise their heads and sniff the air; they knew that
water was near. They quickened their pace, and we soon drew up
before a large wooden structure. There were no trees nor grass
around it. A Mexican worked the machinery with the aid of a mule,
and water was bought for our twelve animals, at so much per head.
The place was called Mesquite Wells; the man dwelt alone in his
desolation, with no living being except his mule for company. How
could he endure it! I was not able, even faintly, to comprehend
it; I had not lived long enough. He occupied a small hut, and
there he staid, year in and year out, selling water to the
passing traveller; and I fancy that travellers were not so
frequent at Mesquite Wells a quarter of a century ago.

The thought of that hermit and his dreary surroundings filled my
mind for a long time after we drove away, and it was only when we
halted and a soldier got down to kill a great rattlesnake near
the ambulance, that my thoughts were diverted. The man brought
the rattles to us and the new toy served to amuse my little son.

At night we arrived at Desert Station. There was a good ranch
there, kept by Hunt and Dudley, Englishmen, I believe. I did not
see them, but I wondered who they were and why they staid in such
a place. They were absent at the time; perhaps they had mines or
something of the sort to look after. One is always imagining
things about people who live in such extraordinary places. At all
events, whatever Messrs. Hunt and Dudley were doing down there,
their ranch was clean and attractive, which was more than could
be said of the place where we stopped the next night, a place
called Tyson's Wells. We slept in our tent that night, for of all
places on the earth a poorly kept ranch in Arizona is the most
melancholy and uninviting. It reeks of everything unclean,
morally and physically. Owen Wister has described such a place in
his delightful story, where the young tenderfoot dances for the
amusement of the old habitues.

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