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  Title: Arizona Nights

  Author: Stewart Edward White

  Release Date: January 19, 2008 [EBook #753]

  Last updated: January 22, 2009

  Language: English

  *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIZONA NIGHTS ***

  ARIZONA NIGHTS

  by

  STEWART EDWARD WHITE

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAP.

  I. THE OLE VIRGINIA

  II. THE EMIGRANTS

  III. THE REMITTANCE MAN

  IV. THE CATTLE RUSTLERS

  V. THE DRIVE

  VI. CUTTING OUT

  VII. A CORNER IN HORSES

  VIII. THE CORRAL BRANDING

  IX. THE OLD TIMER

  X. THE TEXAS RANGERS

  XI. THE SAILOR WITH ONE HAND

  XII. THE MURDER ON THE BEACH

  XIII. BURIED TREASURE

  XIV. THE CHEWED SUGAR CANE

  XV. THE CALABASH STEW

  XVI. THE HONK-HONK BREED

  PART II—THE TWO GUN MAN

  I. THE CATTLE RUSTLERS

  II. THE MAN WITH NERVE

  III. THE AGREEMENT

  IV. THE ACCOMPLISHMENT

  PART III—THE RAWHIDE

  I. THE PASSING OF THE COLT’S FORTY-FIVE

  II. THE SHAPES OF ILLUSION

  III. THE PAPER A YEAR OLD

  IV. DREAMS

  V. THE ARRIVAL

  VI. THE WAGON TIRE

  VII. ESTRELLA

  VIII. THE ROUND-UP

  IX. THE LONG TRAIL

  X. THE DISCOVERY

  XI. THE CAPTURE

  XII. IN THE ARROYO

  XIII. THE RAWHIDE

  XIV. THE DESERT

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE OLE VIRGINIA

  The ring around the sun had thickened all day long, and the turquoise blue of the Arizona sky had filmed. Storms in the dry countries are infrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm.

  We had ridden since sun-up over broad mesas, down and out of deep canons, along the base of the mountain in the wildest parts of the territory. The cattle were winding leisurely toward the high country; the jack rabbits had disappeared; the quail lacked; we did not see a single antelope in the open.

  “It’s a case of hole up,” the Cattleman ventured his opinion. “I have a ranch over in the Double R. Charley and Windy Bill hold it down. We’ll tackle it. What do you think?”

  The four cowboys agreed. We dropped into a low, broad watercourse, ascended its bed to big cottonwoods and flowing water, followed it into box canons between rimrock carved fantastically and painted like a Moorish facade, until at last in a widening below a rounded hill, we came upon an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a round corral. This was the Double R.

  Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits. We turned our horses out, spread our beds on the floor, filled our pipes, and squatted on our heels. Various dogs of various breeds investigated us. It was very pleasant, and we did not mind the ring around the sun.

  “Somebody else coming,” announced the Cattleman finally.

  “Uncle Jim,” said Charley, after a glance.

  A hawk-faced old man with a long white beard and long white hair rode out from the cottonwoods. He had on a battered broad hat abnormally high of crown, carried across his saddle a heavy “eight square” rifle, and was followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds.

  The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight of our group, launched himself with lightning rapidity at the biggest of the ranch dogs, promptly nailed that canine by the back of the neck, shook him violently a score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the next. During the ensuing few moments that hound was the busiest thing in the West. He satisfactorily whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up a tree, upset the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits, stampeded the horses, and raised a cloud of dust adequate to represent the smoke of battle. We others were too paralysed to move. Uncle Jim sat placidly on his white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, smoking.

  In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally because there was no more trouble to make. The hound returned leisurely, licking from his chops the hair of his victims. Uncle Jim shook his head.

  “Trailer,” said he sadly, “is a little severe.”

  We agreed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle Jim with a fresh batch of soda biscuits.

  The old man was one of the typical “long hairs.” He had come to the Galiuro Mountains in ‘69, and since ‘69 he had remained in the Galiuro Mountains, spite of man or the devil. At present he possessed some hundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to water, in a dry season, from an ordinary dishpan. In times past he had prospected.

  That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to slumber, he held forth on big-game hunting and dogs, quartz claims and Apaches.

  “Did you ever have any very close calls?” I asked.

  He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with some awful tobacco, and told the following experience:

  In the time of Geronimo I was living just about where I do now; and that was just about in line with the raiding. You see, Geronimo, and Ju [1], and old Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp Apache, raid south to the line, slip over into Mexico when the soldiers got too promiscuous, and raid there until they got ready to come back. Then there was always a big medicine talk. Says Geronimo:

  “I am tired of the warpath. I will come back from Mexico with all my warriors, if you will escort me with soldiers and protect my people.”

  “All right,” says the General, being only too glad to get him back at all.

  So, then, in ten minutes there wouldn’t be a buck in camp, but next morning they shows up again, each with about fifty head of hosses.

  “Where’d you get those hosses?” asks the General, suspicious.

  “Had ‘em pastured in the hills,” answers Geronimo.

  “I can’t take all those hosses with me; I believe they’re stolen!” says the General.

  “My people cannot go without their hosses,” says Geronimo.

  So, across the line they goes, and back to the reservation. In about a week there’s fifty-two frantic Greasers wanting to know where’s their hosses. The army is nothing but an importer of stolen stock, and knows it, and can’t help it.

  Well, as I says, I’m between Camp Apache and the Mexican line, so that every raiding party goes right on past me. The point is that I’m a thousand feet or so above the valley, and the renegades is in such a devil of a hurry about that time that they never stop to climb up and collect me. Often I’ve watched them trailing down the valley in a cloud of dust. Then, in a day or two, a squad of soldiers would come up, and camp at my spring for a while. They used to send soldiers to guard every water hole in the country so the renegades couldn’t get water. After a while, from not being bothered none, I got thinking I wasn’t worth while with them.

  Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the old Virginia mine then. We’d got down about sixty feet, all timbered, and was thinking of cross-cutting. One day Johnny went to town, and that same day I got in a hurry and left my gun at camp.

  I worked all the morning down at the bottom of the shaft, and when I see by the sun it was getting along towards noon, I put in three good shots, tamped ‘em down, lit the fusees, and started to climb out.

  It ain’t n
oways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, and then have to climb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it burning behind you. I never did get used to it. You keep thinking, “Now suppose there’s a flaw in that fuse, or something, and she goes off in six seconds instead of two minutes? where’ll you be then?” It would give you a good boost towards your home on high, anyway.

  So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top without looking—and then I froze solid enough. There, about fifty feet away, climbing up the hill on mighty tired hosses, was a dozen of the ugliest Chiricahuas you ever don’t want to meet, and in addition a Mexican renegade named Maria, who was worse than any of ‘em. I see at once their hosses was tired out, and they had a notion of camping at my water hole, not knowing nothing about the Ole Virginia mine.

  For two bits I’d have let go all holts and dropped backwards, trusting to my thick head for easy lighting. Then I heard a little fizz and sputter from below. At that my hair riz right up so I could feel the breeze blow under my hat. For about six seconds I stood there like an imbecile, grinning amiably. Then one of the Chiricahuas made a sort of grunt, and I sabed that they’d seen the original exhibit your Uncle Jim was making of himself.

  Then that fuse gave another sputter and one of the Apaches said “Un dah.” That means “white man.” It was harder to turn my head than if I’d had a stiff neck; but I managed to do it, and I see that my ore dump wasn’t more than ten foot away. I mighty near overjumped it; and the next I knew I was on one side of it and those Apaches on the other. Probably I flew; leastways I don’t seem to remember jumping.

  That didn’t seem to do me much good. The renegades were grinning and laughing to think how easy a thing they had; and I couldn’t rightly think up any arguments against that notion—at least from their standpoint. They were chattering away to each other in Mexican for the benefit of Maria. Oh, they had me all distributed, down to my suspender buttons! And me squatting behind that ore dump about as formidable as a brush rabbit!

  Then, all at once, one of my shots went off down in the shaft.

  “Boom!” says she, plenty big; and a slather of rock, and stones come out of the mouth, and began to dump down promiscuous on the scenery. I got one little one in the shoulder-blade, and found time to wish my ore dump had a roof. But those renegades caught it square in the thick of trouble. One got knocked out entirely for a minute, by a nice piece of country rock in the head.

  “Otra vez!” yells I, which means “again.”

  “Boom!” goes the Ole Virginia prompt as an answer.

  I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance to look, the Apaches has all got to cover, and is looking scared.

  “Otra vez!” yells I again.

  “Boom!” says the Ole Virginia.

  This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely cut loose. I ought to have been half-way up the bill watching things from a safe distance, but I wasn’t. Lucky for me the shaft was a little on the drift, so she didn’t quite shoot my way. But she distributed about a ton over those renegades. They sort of half got to their feet uncertain.

  “Otra vez!” yells I once more, as bold as if I could keep her shooting all day.

  It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it didn’t go through I could see me as an Apache parlour ornament. But it did. Those Chiricahuas give one yell and skipped. It was surely a funny sight, after they got aboard their war ponies, to see them trying to dig out on horses too tired to trot.

  I didn’t stop to get all the laughs, though. In fact, I give one jump off that ledge, and I lit a-running. A quarter-hoss couldn’t have beat me to that shack. There I grabbed old Meat-in-the-pot and made a climb for the tall country, aiming to wait around until dark, and then to pull out for Benson. Johnny Hooper wasn’t expected till next day, which was lucky. From where I lay I could see the Apaches camped out beyond my draw, and I didn’t doubt they’d visited the place. Along about sunset they all left their camp, and went into the draw, so there, I thinks, I sees a good chance to make a start before dark. I dropped down from the mesa, skirted the butte, and angled down across the country. After I’d gone a half mile from the cliffs, I ran across Johnny Hooper’s fresh trail headed towards camp!

  My heart jumped right up into my mouth at that. Here was poor old Johnny, a day too early, with a pack-mule of grub, walking innocent as a yearling, right into the bands of those hostiles. The trail looked pretty fresh, and Benson’s a good long day with a pack animal, so I thought perhaps I might catch him before he runs into trouble. So I ran back on the trail as fast as I could make it. The sun was down by now, and it was getting dusk.

  I didn’t overtake him, and when I got to the top of the canon I crawled along very cautious and took a look. Of course, I expected to see everything up in smoke, but I nearly got up and yelled when I see everything all right, and old Sukey, the pack-mule, and Johnny’s hoss hitched up as peaceful as babies to the corral.

  “THAT’S all right!” thinks I, “they’re back in their camp, and haven’t discovered Johnny yet. I’ll snail him out of there.”

  So I ran down the hill and into the shack. Johnny sat in his chair—what there was of him. He must have got in about two hours before sundown, for they’d had lots of time to put in on him. That’s the reason they’d stayed so long up the draw. Poor old Johnny! I was glad it was night, and he was dead. Apaches are the worst Injuns there is for tortures. They cut off the bottoms of old man Wilkins’s feet, and stood him on an ant-hill—.

  In a minute or so, though, my wits gets to work.

  “Why ain’t the shack burned?” I asks myself, “and why is the hoss and the mule tied all so peaceful to the corral?”

  It didn’t take long for a man who knows Injins to answer THOSE conundrums. The whole thing was a trap—for me—and I’d walked into it, chuckle-headed as a prairie-dog!

  With that I makes a run outside—by now it was dark—and listens. Sure enough, I hears hosses. So I makes a rapid sneak back over the trail.

  Everything seemed all right till I got up to the rimrock. Then I heard more hosses—ahead of me. And when I looked back I could see some Injuns already at the shack, and starting to build a fire outside.

  In a tight fix, a man is pretty apt to get scared till all hope is gone. Then he is pretty apt to get cool and calm. That was my case. I couldn’t go ahead—there was those hosses coming along the trail. I couldn’t go back—there was those Injins building the fire. So I skirmished around till I got a bright star right over the trail head, and I trained old Meat-in-the-pot to bear on that star, and I made up my mind that when the star was darkened I’d turn loose. So I lay there a while listening. By and by the star was blotted out, and I cut loose, and old Meat-in-the-pot missed fire—she never did it before nor since; I think that cartridge—

  Well, I don’t know where the Injins came from, but it seemed as if the hammer had hardly clicked before three or four of them bad piled on me. I put up the best fight I could, for I wasn’t figuring to be caught alive, and this miss-fire deal had fooled me all along the line. They surely had a lively time. I expected every minute to feel a knife in my back, but when I didn’t get it then I knew they wanted to bring me in alive, and that made me fight harder. First and last, we rolled and plunged all the way from the rimrock down to the canon-bed. Then one of the Injins sung out:

  “Maria!”

  And I thought of that renegade Mexican, and what I’d heard bout him, and that made me fight harder yet.

  But after we’d fought down to the canon-bed, and had lost most of our skin, a half-dozen more fell on me, and in less than no time they had me tied. Then they picked me up and carried me over to where they’d built a big fire by the corral.

  Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began lazily to refill his pipe. From the open mud fireplace he picked a coal. Outside, the rain, faithful to the prophecy of the wide-ringed sun, beat fitfully against the roof.

  “That was the closest call I ever had,” said he at last.

  “But, Uncle Ji
m,” we cried in a confused chorus, “how did you get away? What did the Indians do to you? Who rescued you?”

  Uncle Jim chuckled.

  “The first man I saw sitting at that fire,” said he, “was Lieutenant Price of the United States Army, and by him was Tom Horn.”

  “‘What’s this?’ he asks, and Horn talks to the Injins in Apache.

  “‘They say they’ve caught Maria,’ translates Horn back again.

  “‘Maria-nothing!’ says Lieutenant Price. ‘This is Jim Fox. I know him.’”

  “So they turned me loose. It seems the troops had driven off the renegades an hour before.”

  “And the Indians who caught you, Uncle Jim? You said they were Indians.”

  “Were Tonto Basin Apaches,” explained the old man—“government scouts under Tom Horn.”

  [1] Pronounced “Hoo.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE EMIGRANTS

  After the rain that had held us holed up at the Double R over one day, we discussed what we should do next.

  “The flats will be too boggy for riding, and anyway the cattle will be in the high country,” the Cattleman summed up the situation. “We’d bog down the chuck-wagon if we tried to get back to the J. H. But now after the rain the weather ought to be beautiful. What shall we do?”

  “Was you ever in the Jackson country?” asked Uncle Jim. “It’s the wildest part of Arizona. It’s a big country and rough, and no one lives there, and there’s lots of deer and mountain lions and bear. Here’s my dogs. We might have a hunt.”

  “Good!” said we.

  We skirmished around and found a condemned army pack saddle with aparejos, and a sawbuck saddle with kyacks. On these, we managed to condense our grub and utensils. There were plenty of horses, so our bedding we bound flat about their naked barrels by means of the squaw-hitch. Then we started.

  That day furnished us with a demonstration of what Arizona horses can do. Our way led first through a canon-bed filled with rounded boulders and rocks, slippery and unstable. Big cottonwoods and oaks grew so thick as partially to conceal the cliffs on either side of us. The rimrock was mysterious with caves; beautiful with hanging gardens of tree ferns and grasses growing thick in long transverse crevices; wonderful in colour and shape. We passed the little canons fenced off by the rustlers as corrals into which to shunt from the herds their choice of beeves.