We met a dozen or more men of the
very roughest type, each one heavily armed.
They were in parties of
two and three, and Faye thinks that a signal was passed between one of
them and the "pal." But there was no attack as had been predicted!
What might have taken place, however, if Faye had not been prepared,
no one can tell. Certainly part of Junot's story had been carried
out - the horse thief came to the tent and came with us to Maginnis,
and it was not because he wanted the protection of the troops. Faye
insists that an attack was never thought of, but as he was responsible
for government property, including the animals, he had to make
preparation to protect them. Of course those men wanted only the
animals. We passed many places on the divide that were ideal for an
ambush - bluffs, huge boulders, and precipices - everything perfect for
a successful hold up.
The men came on to the post with us, and were in camp two nights with
the soldiers. The second day from the Judith, we stopped for luncheon
near a small stream where there were a great many choke-cherry bushes,
and "Buckskin Joe"* - that was his name - brought large bunches of the
cherries to me. His manner showed refinement, and I saw that his
wonderful eyes could be tender as well as steely. Perhaps he had
sisters at the old home, and perhaps, too, I was the first woman he
had seen in months to remind him of them. I shall always believe that
he is from good people some place East, that his "dare-devil" nature
got him into some kind of trouble there, and that he came to this wild
country to hide from Justice. The very morning after we got here, not
long after our breakfast, he appeared at our tent with a fine young
deer slung across the back of his horse, which he presented to us. He
had just killed it. It was most acceptable, as there was no fresh meat
in camp. He and his "pal" stayed around that day and night, and then
quietly disappeared. Not one of the soldiers, even, saw them go.
*About six years after this occurrence, there was a graphic account in
the Western papers of the horrible death of "Buckskin Joe," who was
known as one of the most daring and slippery horse thieves in the
Territory. After evading arrest many times, he was finally hunted down
by a sheriff's posse, when his fiendish fighting excited the
admiration of those who were killing him. A bullet broke one of his
legs, and he went down, but he kept on shooting - and so fast that no
one dared approach him. And when the forearm of his pistol hand was
shattered, he grasped the pistol with the other hand and continued to
shoot, even when he could not sit up, but had to hold himself up by
the elbow of his broken arm. He was finally killed, fairly riddled
with bullets. He knew, of course, all the time what his fate would be
if taken alive, and he chose the cold lead instead of the end of a
rope.
It was pleasant to meet our old friends here. Colonel Palmer is in
command, and I was particularly glad to see them. After Mrs. Palmer
had embraced me she held me off a little and said: "What have you been
doing to your face? my, but you are ugly!" The skin on the blistered
side has peeled off in little strips, leaving the new skin very white
in between the parched brown of the old, so I expect I do resemble a
zebra or an Indian with his war paint on. The post, which is only a
camp as yet, is located at the upper end of a beautiful valley, and
back of us is a canon and mountains are on both sides. Far down the
valley is a large Indian village, and we can distinctly see the
tepees, and often hear the "tom-toms" when the Indians dance. There
are other Indian camps near, and it is not safe to go far from the
tents without an escort. It seems to be a wonderful country for
game - deer, grouse, and prairie chicken. Twice we have seen deer come
down from the mountains and drink from the stream just below the post.
Bettie and I have scared up chicken every time we have taken little
runs around the camp, and Faye has shot large bags of them. They are
not as great a treat to us as to our friends, for we had so many on
the way over.
We have two wall tents, one for sitting room and one for bedroom, and
in front a "fly" has been stretched. Our folding camp furniture makes
the tents very comfortable. Back of these is the mess, or dining tent,
and back of that is the cook tent. Charlie has a small range now,
which keeps him squeaking or half singing all the time. One morning,
before we got this stove from the quartermaster, breakfast was late,
very late. The wind was blowing a gale, and after waiting and waiting,
we concluded that Charlie must be having trouble with the little
sheet-iron camp stove. So Faye went back to see what was the matter.
He returned laughing, and said he had found a most unhappy Chinaman;
that Charlie was holding the stove down with a piece of wood with one
hand, and with the other was trying to keep the breakfast on the
stove.
You know the stovepipe goes up through a piece of tin fastened in the
roof of the tent, which is slanting, and when the canvas catches the
wind and flops up and down and every other way, the stovepipe
naturally has to go with it. The wind was just right that morning to
flop everything - canvas, pipe, stove, and breakfast, too - particularly
the delicate Saratoga chips Charlie had prepared for us, and which,
Faye said, were being blown about like yellow rose leaves.
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