Overland Tales

by Josephine Clifford

  _THE ROMANCE OF GILA BEND._

  Travelling from Los Angeles to Tucson, you can, if you choose, sleepunder a roof almost every night, providing you have good teams. Thereare Government forage stations along the whole route, where travellersare "taken in" by the station-keepers, though not on Government account.I do not say that it is pleasant at all these stations, particularly fora woman, as she will seldom or never meet one of her own sex on the way.When we left Fort Yuma, Sam, the driver, assured me that I would not seea white woman's face between there and Tucson. He was mistaken. I metnot only one, but a whole family of them, one after another.

  The day that brought us to Oatman's Flat was murky, dark, and gloomy--aday in full harmony with the character of the country we were travellingthrough. We descended into the Flat by an abrupt fall in the road thatlanded us at once among a clump of scraggy, darkling willows, droopingwearily over a sluggish little creek. In the distance we could see thewhite sand of the bed of the Gila, and half-buried in it the ghastly,water-bleached limbs of the trees that the river had uprooted year afteryear in its annual frenzy. We could not go the upper road, on account ofthe Gila's having washed out a portion of it, and the lower road seemedto be regarded by Sam with all the disfavor it deserved. Verde orgrease-wood, as ragged and scraggy as the willows, covered the wholeFlat, except where, towards the centre, a dilapidated shanty stood on asandy, cheerless open space. Not far from it were the remains of afence, enclosing some six paces of uneven ground, and on the only upperrail left of the inclosure sat a dismal-looking, solitary crow.

  There was something so repulsively dreary about the whole place that itmade me shudder, and when Sam, pointing to it with his whip, said it wasthe spot where the Oatman family had been murdered and lay buried, I wasnot in the least surprised. Only one of the whole family had escaped--alittle chap who had crawled away after he had been left for dead, andbrought the white people from the next settlement to the scene of themassacre. There was nothing to be done but to bury the mutilatedcorpses; after this, the place had been deserted and shunned by the fewwho lived here, though there had been no more Indian depredationscommitted for years past.

  I was glad that the road did not take us very near the shanty, though Iwatched it with a strange fascination. Sam, too, had his eyes fixed onsomething that might have been the shadow of one of the victims,flitting by the black gap which had once been the door. The place was soweird that the ghostly shadow seemed to belong there; it chimed in sowell with the rest, that I accepted it as a part of the uncanny whole.We had been going along at the usual leisurely gait, but Sam whipped upthe mules all at once, and leaned out of the ambulance to speak to Phil,who drove the army wagon containing our baggage. The road was good andsolid, so I took no alarm at first; but when the speed was continued,and the baggage-wagon kept thundering close behind us, I ventured toask, "Is there danger from Indians here?"

  "There hain't no Indians been seen around here for more'n three years,"was the answer, which satisfied me at the time.

  When we came to Burke's Station, where we were to pass the night, asurprise awaited us. The house, a squalid _adobe_, was built in thestyle common along the route--an open passage-way with rooms on eitherside. The principal room to the left was bar-room and store-room; theroom to the right was reception-room, sitting-room, bed-room, and behindit was the kitchen. The passage-way was dining-hall. When the tall youngMissourian, mine host, had ushered me into the room, he stepped to theopening leading to the kitchen and called out:

  "Here, Sis, come and speak to the lady."

  Obedient to the call, a bashful, half-grown girl appeared, wiping herhands on her apron, and looking up timidly from under her longeyelashes. I took her by the hand. "How do you, child? How in the worlddid you get here, and where is your mother?" I asked.

  Sam and Phil stood in the hall-door nudging each other, until Sam couldrestrain himself no longer.

  "Why, that's his wife," pointing to the young Goliah from Missouri, "andher dad and mam's living in the old shanty down on the Flat. I'll bederned if they didn't give me the worst scare I had yet--thought theywas Indians, shore!"

  I looked from one to the other. "And how old are you?" I asked the girl.

  "Almost fifteen!" was the answer; and when the men withdrew she told meabout the rest of her family, whom I would probably find along the road.

  Sis was badly dressed; a coarse cotton gown, made with a yoke about aninch and a half in depth, was drawn up close around her neck, and hungloosely about her slender, immature form; her naked feet were thrustinto coarse boots, and a large check apron completed her costume. Butthere was a shy, daisy-like grace about her that made one forget thedress and see only the dove-like eyes and half-pensive smile on herface. Her husband treated her in all things like a child, and she obeyedhim without a murmur or a question. When we left he told us that wewould find Sis's aunt at Kenyon's Station, and charged us to say thatSis was well, and not the least bit homesick.

  We made Kenyon's Station early in the day, Sam and Phil greatly enjoyingthe prospect of seeing another white woman here. She appeared on thethreshold, a brawny, coarse-handed woman of about forty, tidy-looking,in spite of her bare feet and the short pipe in her mouth. By her sideappeared a shock-headed girl of twelve, with eyes agog and mouth open atthe strange apparition of a civilized-looking white woman. The husbandstood beside the ambulance--six feet and a half in his cowhide boots--agood-humored smile on his leathery face, and lifted me to the ground asthough I had been a feather. Though the house, like that at Burke'sStation, was only _adobe_, there was an air of homely comfort about it,inside and out, that made it much more cheerful than the other place.

  Aunt Polly was an excellent housekeeper--as viewed from a Texanstandpoint--and after she had in the most _naive_ manner satisfied hercuriosity in regard to my looks and general make-up, she commencedpreparations for dinner. Sarah Eliza Jane, sole daughter of the houseand race, stayed by me in the room. Sitting in a low, home-made chair,she stared steadily at me, sitting on a taller home-made chair, till shehad comprehended that the bits of braid and lace in my lap were to bemanufactured into a collar similar to the one I wore in my dress. Whenshe learned that the collar was to be for her, she ran out to thekitchen, shouting for her mother to come and see what I was doing. Themother's delight was as frank and hearty as the daughter's, and all atonce the secret leaked out that the family was in possession of a fineAmerican cow. Never speak disparagingly to me of Pikes and Texans. Theleast kindness shown to them is returned tenfold, and the smallestadvance of friendliness is met by them half-way. When dinner (or supper)was placed on the table, there came with it the most delicious butter Ihad eaten for many a long day, to say nothing of a glass of buttermilk,the sweetest I ever tasted. But I must tell you how Aunt Polly made thebutter, in case you should emigrate to Arizona without a patent diamondchurn. The cream was put into a high tin quart cup, and beaten with aspoon till the butter came--which it did in about fifteen minutes.

  By the time dinner was over we had become quite intimate, and Aunt Pollyhaving resumed her pipe, gave me a short account of her history sinceemigrating from Texas. The two most striking incidents were the loss ofher former husband by a stroke of lightning, about ten months ago, andthe acquisition of her present husband by a stroke of policy, aboutthree months ago. Though she did not show me the weeds she had worn onbecoming a widow, she exhibited the gorgeous "good clothes" she wore onagain becoming a wife. She stood at a little distance from me and spreadout the second-day dress, so that I could see the whole of the pattern,consisting of detached bouquets--brilliantly variegated in color andgigantic in size--scattered over a plain of light sky-blue. The dressworn for "the occasion" was a gauzy white muslin, which must have had adelicate effect--if she wore bare feet and a pipe in her mouth with it.Her husband had proved kind and indulgent. Since their marriage he hadbeen at Maricopa Wells, and had bought at the store there anotherbeautiful dress of many colors--which, alas! had run out of hissaddle-bags, after a two ho
urs' hard rain, on his way home. I saw thedress pattern, and--oh, it was pitiful.

  After this display of good-will and fine clothes on her part, she saidshe had a favor to ask of me, too. She pointed to my trunk, and said herhusband was crazy to know whether there was a waterfall in it? He hadread so much about waterfalls in the stray papers that fell into hishands that he had the greatest curiosity in the world to know what itwas, and to see one with his own eyes. He imagined it to be a kind ofbox or bag that ladies wore on their heads to carry their hair in, and,seeing no foreign matter on my head, he "reckoned that I packed it withme in my trunk." Aunt Polly had shrewdly guessed it to be a new fashionof "putting up" the hair; but they both had about as correct an idea ofit as a blind man has of colors. With deep regret I owned that there wasno waterfall in my trunk; but seeing their disappointment, I succeeded,with the aid of a pair of stockings and a pin-cushion, in putting up myhair into quite a little Niagara, to the great delight of thesefashion-worshipping people.

  How charming the grove of trees looks, when you draw up under theirshadow at Gila Bend, after days of travel over tedious sand-plains orthrough wildernesses of grease-wood and cactus. The whisper of the windin the trees, the bark of the dog that ran out to meet us, and thecackle of the busy hens around the doorway, told us that we should findgood and happy people here. There was the solitary house as usual, butit seemed more pretentious than those at the other stations. Thepassage-way was higher and wider, the rooms more numerous, and finishedwith whitewash and good glass windows. At the windows curtains; agay-colored counterpane on the bed, and wolf-skins in front of it andthe lounge.

  The station-keeper was a black-bearded, good-looking man, and his namewas George Washington--(I won't give the rest of his name--it's toolong). I knew I should find Sis's elder sister here as Mrs. George W.----, for she had been married on the same day with her Aunt Polly. Theblue eyes, under long, silken lashes, that met my gaze on the thresholdat Gila Bend were like Sis's, only these were the eyes of a woman; therewere the same pretty movements, too, only there was more ofself-assertion in them. She might have been eighteen; from out of themuslin dress she wore shone the whitest shoulders that belle everexhibited in a ball-room. Her hands and feet were small, and her richbrown hair, oddly, though not unbecomingly dressed, lay on a foreheadwhite and pure as that of a child.

  No wonder George W. was proud of his wife, and had tried hard to win assuch the barefooted girl whom he found one day, with her family and somesorry ox-teams, camped near his house, on their way from Texas toCalifornia. It was quite a large family. There was the girl's mother,her step-father, her sister, her brother, the aunt, and the aunt'slittle girl. Aunt Polly seemed to be the leading man, for to herbelonged the two best ox-teams, one of which was driven by herself, theother by the girl, Dorinda. She had hired or bought her niece from thestep-father for this purpose, after she had lost her husband bylightning, and Dora had been faithful to her task, although prettynearly worn out crossing the Desert from Maricopa Wells to Gila Bend,where George W. first found them. After he had taken a deep look intothe girl's eyes, he very disinterestedly invited the whole family tocome into his house--as far as they would go in--to rest there from thelong, hard journey. The family was treated to the best the houseafforded, and the oxen were fed on such hay as they had perhaps neverdreamed of before.

  The Texans were in no hurry to move on, and George W. was in no hurry tohave them go; being a bachelor, he was naturally fond of ladies'society. Dora, Sis, and the ten-year-old brother soon became warmlyattached to him, and they, with the big dog, Bose, would daily wanderoff to the Gila to catch fish. When they got there the two barefootedgirls and the brother would wade into the stream with ever fresh zest,as they recalled that dreadful drag across the waterless desert. Bosealways went into the water with them, George W. alone remaining on thebank, fishing-line in hand.

  One day, when Dora had watched the cool, clear water gliding swiftlyover her sun-browned feet in silence, she raised her eyes suddenly fromunder the long, shading lashes:

  "Why do you never come into the water? Don't you like to stand in it?"she asked of George.

  "Come and sit beside me here, and I will tell you!"

  She nestled down beside him, and he called to Bose, who laid his head onhis master's knee and looked knowingly from one to the other.

  "About three years ago, before I had built this house of mine, I livedin a little shanty, about a mile from the river--just back here. Thesummer was very hot. I had suffered much from the sun and the want ofwater in crossing the country, and after the man who came out here withme had gone on to Fort Yuma, I was left entirely alone. When I see youover your ankles in the water now, I am often tempted to call you back,only I know that you are young and strong, and I remember but too wellwhat pleasure there is in it. Besides, you do not remain in it as I did,for long weary hours every day, standing in the shade of a willowcatching fish for my dinner. There was little else here to eat then, andI never left off fishing till I was taken with rheumatism, from which Ihad suffered years before. I was all alone and could not move, and hadnearly perished for want of water, because I could not walk down to theriver to get it. Nor could I cook anything, because beans require agreat deal of water, and I would have died alone in my shanty, if it hadnot been for this dog." (Bose wagged his tail to indicate that heunderstood what was being said.) "A dozen times a day Bose would trotdown to the river, dip up a small tin pailful of water, and bring it tome where I stood or lay. Otherwise the faithful old fellow never left myside, day or night, and though he would, no doubt, nurse me throughanother spell of rheumatism, it would be dreadful to be sick and alonehere after you and your people have left me."

  Dora was stroking the dog's rough coat. "It would be dreadful," sherepeated, absently, a tear rolling from her lashes to her cheek. Herwords and the look in her eyes thrilled the man to his inmost soul.

  "Dora," he said, and arrested the hand travelling over Bose's head;"Dora, I am old enough to be your father--"

  "Yes," she replied, looking up artlessly--but there was something in hisface that made her eyes drop and the warm blood flush her cheeks.

  When he spoke again it was of something quite different, and afterawhile the conversation turned to her family. Her stepfather did notalways treat her well; he had struck her cruelly once, and her motherdared not interfere, she knowing his temper but too well. George couldhardly keep from putting his arms about her to shield her from the man'srough ways, and in his heart he vowed that it should be different ifDora did but will it so. The stepfather and aunt had spoken of pullingup stakes soon, but what wonder that Dora was averse to going?

  In the evening George W. proposed to the stepfather that he remain atthe station and "farm it" near the river, while the mother kept housefor them all and served meals to the travelling public of Arizona. Fromsheer perverseness the stepfather refused, saying that he wanted to goon to California, and George W. determined to hasten matters in anotherdirection. He hovered as much as possible about Dora, who, since the dayby the riverside, had taken Bose into her confidence and affection.Wherever she went the dog went, too, and his master augured well forhimself from this, though Dora was shy and more distant than when shefirst came to Gila Bend.

  One day the Texans commenced gathering up their "tricks" and makingready to go. Dora's eyes were red, and George W., to cheer her, perhaps,proposed that she should go with him to where he suspected one of thehens had made a nest in the bushes by the river bank. When they cameback she seemed even more shy, though she stole up to him in thetwilight, where he stood by the big mesquite tree, and hastily put herhands into his. He drew her to him quickly, pressed her head to hisbreast, and murmured: "Thanks, my little girl!" as he touched her hairwith his lips. An hour later there was clamor and confusion at GilaBend. George W. seemed to have caused it all, for to him the auntvehemently declared that she _would_ have the girl to drive her ox-teaminto California--she had hired her and paid for her; and the step-fathershouted that he
had control of the child, and go she should, whether orno.

  Poor George passed a sleepless night. The picture of Dora, barefootedand weary, toiling hopelessly through the sand on the desert, was alwaysbefore him, and he swore to himself that she should not go from him;that he would shelter her henceforth from the cruel, burning sun, andthe sharp words and sharper blows of her stepfather. In the morning,after exacting a promise from the aunt and the stepfather to remainuntil he returned, he started out alone on his trusty horse, Boserunning close by his side. When he had left the shelter of the trees, hehalted and looked keenly about him in every direction. A sharp bark fromBose made him turn toward the river. Swift of foot as the antelope ofthe plains, Dora was crossing the stretch of land between the road andthe river, and when she reached the lone horseman waiting for her, alight bound brought her foot into the stirrup and her flushed face on alevel with his.

  "Thanks, my little girl, I knew you would come," he said, as on thenight before; but this time he held her face between his hands andlooked searchingly into her eyes. "What if they should try to take mylittle girl away before I come back--would she go off and leave me?"

  She met his look fearlessly and confidingly. "Tell me what direction youare going, and I will run away and follow you, if they break up beforeyour return."

  "Toward Fort Yuma. I shall ride day and night, and return to you in tendays. Good-bye; keep faith and keep courage."

  "Good-bye!" for the first time the soft, bare arms were laid around hisneck, and the blushing, child-like face half-buried in his full blackbeard. "Let me keep Bose here," she called after him, and at a word fromhis master, the dog sped after her over the cactus-covered ground.

  At Gila Bend, preparations for departure on George's return were kept onfoot--purposely, it seemed, to keep before Dora's eyes the fact that shewas expected to go with her people when they went. The days passed, onelike the other; there was no event to break the monotony of thisdesert-life. Yes, there was a change; but none knew of it nor perceivedit, except, perhaps, Dora's mother. From a thoughtless, easily-guidedgirl, Dora was changing into a self-reliant, strong-spirited woman. Hermother knew of her resolve as well as though she had heard her utter it;she looked upon her eldest-born with all the greater pride when shediscovered that "the gal had a heap of her dad's grit," as well as hismild blue eyes.

  When the morning of the tenth day dawned, Dora was up betimes, mending,with deft fingers, all the little rents she could find, in her thin,well-worn dress. Never before had she felt that she was poor, or thatshe wanted more than the simple gown and the limp sun-bonnet making upher attire.

  "Moving" had been their permanent state and normal condition as long asshe could think back; and she had known mostly only those who lived inthe same condition. She had never seen town or city; yet, in thesettlements through which they had passed, she had seen enough ofbackwoods finery to know that her wardrobe was scantily furnished. Atlast, one by one, the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and she leanedher head on the edge of the bed where her sister lay still asleep, andsobbed till Sis woke up and looked at her with wondering eyes.

  In the course of the day, Dora went to the river two or three times,Bose always close at her heels. Whatever may have been the character ofthe mysterious consultations they held, in the afternoon the dog wasmissing until near sundown, when he dashed into the station, panting andwith protruding tongue, his tail wagging excitedly while lapping up thewater Dora had filled his basin with. Unobserved she stole away, andwhen quite a distance from the house, Bose came tearing through thecactus after her, "pointing" in the direction from where a light dustarose. The little cloud came nearer, and soon a horseman could bediscovered in it. A race began between Dora and the dog, and when thedifferent parties met, Bose was fain to leap up and salute the horse'sface, because the rider was otherwise engaged. When Dora was perched infront of him, the horse continued the journey in a slow walk, while thegirl looked the question she was too timid to ask. George answered herlook: "Yes, darling, I think your aunt will be satisfied."

  "Then you have brought a man?" Her curiosity had conquered, for shecould see no human being beside themselves.

  "I have." His laugh made her shrink a little--like the _mimosasensitiva_, when touched by ever so dainty a finger--and, he added,soberly, "Two of them. One is the station-keeper at Kenyon's Station.Their wagon will come into sight directly; but I don't want them to seemy little girl out here with me."

  An hour afterward a heavily laden wagon, drawn by two stout horses, wasrolling into Gila Bend, followed by Mr. George W., mounted on Bess. Apleasant welcome was extended by all to the new arrivals; even Bose, thehypocrite, barked and capered and flounced his tail as though he hadn'tgreeted his master, two miles down the road, a little while ago. Supperwas served by the mother and aunt--this latter lady being narrowly butfurtively watched by the station-keeper of Kenyon's Station. Allthoughts of business or departure seemed banished for that night. Theaunt and the newly-come station-keeper enjoying their pipe in quietharmony, a little apart from the rest, so much taken up with each otherthat the second man was left entirely to the family. The next morningthis second man was offered to the aunt by George W. as a substitute forDora; but, as the Kenyon's station-keeper had offered himself to her asa husband, earlier in the day, the substitute was declined. NeitherGeorge nor the second man, however, seemed put out about it. Indeed,there was something suspicious about the readiness with which he went towork on the half-finished corral building at the station. The aunt andthe stepfather did not seem to notice this. Only the mother thought herown thoughts about it.

  Later in the day, when the father and the brother were with the man atthe corral, the aunt with her station-keeper, and Sis thoughtfully keptemployed by her mother, Dora found a chance to steal out to the wagon,where George was waiting for her. From under the wagon sheet he drew twoor three bundles, which, on being opened, contained what Dora thoughtthe finest display of dry-goods she had ever seen. Lost in admiration,her face suddenly fell, and a queer, unexplained sense of somethingpainful or humiliating jarred on her feelings when several pairs ofladies' shoes and numerous pairs of stockings made their appearance fromout of one of the bundles. She drew back, hurt and abashed, and whenGeorge asked--

  "But, Dora, don't you like your finery? I thought you liked pink. Isn'tthis dress pretty?"

  She answered confusedly, "I--I didn't know they were for me--andbesides--I can't take them. I know I am a poor--ignorant girl--but--" asob finished the sentence as she turned to go to the house.

  But she did not go. I don't know what George W. said to her while heheld her close to him. It was something about his right to buy fineryfor his little wife, and the like nonsense, which Dora did not repeat toSis when she presented to her a dress of the brightest possible scarlet.

  That night they all sat out under the trees together. There was no morereserve or secrecy maintained. A dozen papers of the choicest brands oftobacco and half a dozen bottles of "Colorado river water," from FortYuma, had wonderfully mollified the stepfather. The mother would havebeen happy, even without the indigo-blue dress that fell to her share,and Buddy was radiant in new suspenders and a white store shirt. As soonas possible a Justice of the Peace was imported from Arizona City, towhich place he was faithfully returned, after having made two happycouples at Gila Bend.

  Many months after, on my way back from Tucson, we came quiteunexpectedly, between the latter place and Sacaton, on a new shanty. Itwas built of unhewn logs of cottonwood and mesquite trees, the branches,with their withered foliage, furnishing the roof. A certain cheerful,home-like air about the place made me surmise the presence of a woman.

  I was not mistaken; for though the only door of the hut was closed, andI could see no window, a loud but pleasant treble voice rang outdirectly: "Dad! Bud! come right h'yere to me. I know that's her comin'thar--I jist know it is," and a little lithe body rushed out of the doorand up to the ambulance, as though she meant to take wagon, mules, andall by storm. A rough-
looking man came slowly from behind the house, andBud, with a selection of dogs at his heels, clambered over a piece offence--merely for the sake of climbing, as there was plenty of openspace to cross.

  The delegation insisted on my alighting, which I did in consideration ofDora's mother being at the head of it. The family had moved back herefrom Oatman's Flat, where they had given Sam his Indian scare on our wayout. Once in the house I no longer wondered how she had discovered theambulance, with the door closed and no windows in the house. The wallshad not been "chinked," so that between the logs was admitted as muchlight and air as the most fastidious could desire. All around were thesigns of busy preparation. It was near Christmas, and they wereexpecting company for the holidays--a family moving from Texas toCalifornia had sent word by some vehicle swifter than their ox-teamsthat they would be with them by Christmas-day.

  Though the house contained but this one airy room, it was neat and wellkept. Just outside the door there were two Dutch ovens, and this was thekitchen. Beyond the half-fenced clearing the willows and cottonwoodsgrew close by the river, and the mild December sun of Arizona lying onthe rude homestead seemed to give promise of future peace and well-doingto these who had planted their roof-tree on the banks of the Gila.

  The mother sent her love and a fresh-baked cake by us to her daughter. Aloaf of the same cake was given to me, and I can say that it tastedbetter than what I have often eaten at well-set tables, though there wasno cow to furnish milk or butter, and only a few chickens to lay eggs.At Gila Bend, you remember, they had chickens, too; and when I got outof the ambulance there some days later, I stopped to admire a brood oflittle chicks just out of the shell.

  "How pretty they are," said I, looking up into George W.'s honest face.

  "Ah!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up, "but go inside, to Dora."

  He led the way to the room, and there, in a little cradle, lay a sweet,pretty girl-baby--the first white child, so far as history records, thatwas ever born at Gila Bend.