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.
