_JUANITA._
"Every man in the settlement started out after him; but he got away, andwas never heard of again."
I had listened quietly to the end, though my eyes had wanderedimpatiently from the face of the man to the region to which he pointedwith his finger. There was nothing to be seen out there but the hot airvibrating over the torn, sandy plain, and the steep, ragged banks of theriver, without any water in it--as is frequently the case at this seasonof the year. The man who had spoken--formerly a soldier, but, after hisdischarge from the army, station-keeper at this point--had become sothoroughly "Arizonified" that he thought he was well housed in thisstructure, where the mud-walls rose some six feet from the ground, andan old tent was hung over a few crooked _manzanita_ branches for a roof.There was a wide aperture in the wall, answering the purpose of a door;and a few boards laid on trestles, and filled in with straw, which hecalled his bunk. He had raised it on these trestles, partly because thesnakes couldn't creep into the straw so "handy," and partly because the_coyotes_, breaking down the barricade in the doorway one night, huntingfor his chickens, had brought their noses into unpleasant proximity withhis face while lying on the ground. He had confided these facts to meearly in the morning, shortly after my arrival, continuing his discourseby a half-apology for his naked feet, to which he pointed with theingenuous confession that "he'd run barefooted till his shoes wouldn'tgo on no more." He held them up for my inspection, to show that he hadthem--the shoes, I mean, not the feet--a pair of No. 14's, entirelynew, army make.
We had arrived just before daybreak, my escort and I having made a "drymarch"--which would have been too severe on Uncle Sam's mules in thescorching sun of a June day--during the night. The morning, flashing upin the East with all the glorious colors that give token of the coming,overpowering heat, brought with it also the faint, balmy breath of windin which to bathe one's limbs before the sun burst forth in its burningmajesty. Phil, the ambulance-driver, and my oracle, said I could wanderoff as far as I wanted without fear of Indians; so I had ascended thesteep hill back of the station, and, spying what looked like a graveyardat the foot of it, on the other side, I had immediately clambered downin search of new discoveries. I knew that there had formerly been amilitary post here: it is just so far from the Mexican border thatfugitives from the law of that country would instinctively fly this wayfor refuge; and just near enough the line where the "friendly Indian"ceases to be a pleasant delusion, to make the presence of a strongmilitary force at all times necessary for the protection of whitesettlers. But there are none; and Uncle Sam, protecting his own property"on the march" through here as well as possible, allows the citizen andmerchant to protect himself and his goods the best way he can. Why thecamp had been removed, I cannot tell--neither, perhaps, could those whooccupied it--but I am pretty sure they were all very willing to go. I'venever seen the soldier yet that wasn't glad of a change of post andquarters.
There were quite a number of graves in this rude burying-ground (I don'tlike that name, on the whole; but it seemed just the proper thing tocall this collection of graves), and among them were two that attractedmy attention particularly. The one was a large, high grave, with rathera pretentious headstone, bearing the inscription:
"TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES OWENS, Who came to his death May 20, 186-."
The other seemed smaller, though it was difficult to determine the exactdimensions, on account of the rocks, bones, and dry brush piled on it.It is the custom of the Mexicans in passing by a grave to throw on it astone, a clump of earth, or a piece of brush or bone, if they havenothing else, as a mark of respect: so I concluded at once that some oneof that nationality lay buried here. One, too, who had some faithfulfriend; for there was a look about the grave that spoke of constantattention and frequent visits to it.
On my return, having done justice to the breakfast the station-keeperhad prepared (and for which he had killed one of his chickens, in orderto "entertain me in a lady-like manner," as he said to Phil), Iquestioned him about the American whose grave I had seen out there.Before he could answer, a shadow fell across the doorway, and I halfrose from the ambulance-cushion I was occupying, when I saw an Indian, ayoung fellow of about twenty, stand still in front of it, half hidingthe form of an aged crone, on whose back was fastened a small bundle offire-wood, such as is laboriously gathered along the beds and banks ofwater-courses, in this almost treeless country. The Indian stooped tolift the load from the woman's back; and she turned to go, without evenhaving lifted her eyes, either to the ambulance that stood near thedoorway, the soldiers that lounged around it, or myself. Thestation-keeper seized an old tin-cup, filled it with coffee, piled theremains of the breakfast on a tin-plate, and disappeared in the doorway.Returning, he answered me, at last:
"The grave you saw was dug for a man that lived here while I was yet asoldier in the ---- Infantry at this camp. He had brought a Spanishwoman with him, his wife, with whom he lived in one of those houses,right there, on the bank of the river. He had sold some horses to theGovernment, at Drum Barracks, and was sent out here with them; andseeing that it was quite a settlement, he thought he'd stay. _She_ was amighty fine-looking woman--a tall, stoutish figure, with as much prideas if she had been a duchess. Among the Mexicans in the settlement was aman who, they said, had been a brigand in Mexico, had broken jail, andcome here, first to hide, and then to live. It warn't long till he beganloafering about Owens' place; and one night, while Owens was standing inhis door, smoking, there was a shot fired from the direction of thehill, behind this place, and Owens fell dead in his own doorway. Therewas no doubt in anybody's mind who the murderer was, for his cabin wasempty, and he could be found nowhere about camp. The soldiers, as wellas the other fellows, were determined to lynch him, and every man in thesettlement started out after him; but he got away, and no one ever heardof him again."
"And the woman?" I asked.
"Oh, nobody could hurt her; and she raved and ranted dreadful forawhile. But she turned up absent one morning, about a week after we hadput him under the ground, and her husband's watch and money had gonewith her."
"But," said I, impatiently, "where is the settlement you speak of? Ihave not found a trace of it yet."
"Well, you see, they were _adobe_-houses that they built, and the rainswere very heavy last year, and the Gila commenced washing out this way;the banks caved in and carried the rubbish away. They hadn't beenoccupied for some time; but the house where Owens lived is just rightacross there--if you go near the bank you can see where he built a good,solid chimbley, like they've got at home. The camp used to be down theflat apiece. I had my house there last year; but it washed away with therain: so I built up here, where there's better shelter for my chickens.They're my only friends, besides Bose, and I've got to be choice of 'em.I don't see a white face for months, sometimes, since the war is over,and it keeps me company kinder, to see the places where the houses usedto be."
"And the other grave--that with the bones and rocks piled on it?"
The man threw a look toward the doorway, and put his hands in hispockets.
"That's Juanita's grave. She was an Indian girl."
He walked out of the door; and, as I had nothing better to do, I toostepped out, thinking to go as far to look for the ruins of that"chimbley" as the blazing sun would permit. The first I saw when I cameout of the doorway was the old Indian woman, sitting on the ground inthe shade of the house, her back against the wall, her knees drawn up,her elbow resting on them, the doubled fist supporting the face, whilethe other hand hung listlessly across them. The face was aged andwrinkled, the hair a dirty gray, and the eyes seemed set--petrified, Ihad almost said--with some great, deep sorrow. Beside her stood thetin-cup, untouched and unnoticed; the tin-plate had been almost emptiedof its contents; but a drumstick in the hands of the young Indian, and asuspicious glossiness about his mouth and chin, seemed to mark the roadthe chicken had taken. The station-keeper stood by the woman, and saidsomething to her in a jargon I could not understand; but s
he took nomore notice of him or what he said than if it were a fly that had buzzedup to her. She moved neither her eyes nor her head, looking out straightbefore her. I walked as far as the banks of the river, failed todiscover the remains of the "chimbley," and turned back to the house.The station-keeper was not to be seen; the Indian boy paused from hislabors to take a look at me; but the woman seemed to be a thousand milesaway, so little did she take heed of my presence.
It was nearly noon, and I concluded to pass the rest of the day insleep, as we were to leave the station at about ten in the night, whenthe moon should be up. The "whole house" had been given up to me, and acomfortable bed arranged out of mattress and wagon-seats, so that I feltcomparatively safe from prowling vermin, and soon went to sleep. I awokeonly once, late in the afternoon; the station-keeper was sayingsomething in a loud voice that I could not understand, and, directly, Isaw two pair of dusky feet passing by the space that the blanket, hungup in the doorway, left near the ground. After awhile I raised theblanket, and saw the Indians trudging along through the sandy plain, thewoman following the tall, athletic form of the man, the yellow sunburning fiercely down on their bare heads, scorching the broad, pricklyleaves of the cactus, and withering its delicate, straw-colored, anddeep-crimson flowers. I dropped the curtain, panting for breath: it wastoo hot to live while looking out into that glaring sunshine.
Later, when I could sleep no more, and had made my desert toilet, Istood in the doorway, and saw the two Indians coming back as in themorning: the woman with a bundle of fire-wood on her shoulders, the manwalking empty-handed and burdenless before her. I turned to thestation-keeper, and pointing to the bundle she had brought in themorning, and which lay untouched by the wall, I said, indignantly:
"It seems to me you need not have sent the poor woman out in the blazingsun to gather fire-wood, when you had not even used this. You might havewaited till now."
"She--she would have been somewhere else in the blazing sun; she wasjust going--" And he stopped--as he had spoken--in haste, yet with someconfusion.
I cast a pitying look on the woman, which, however, she heeded no morethan the rose-pink and pale-gold sunset-clouds floating above her, andthen wandered slowly forth toward the hill, which I meant to climbwhile the day was going down.
When I reached the top, the light, flying clouds had grown heavy andsad, and their rose hue had turned into a dark, sullen red, with tonguesof burning gold shooting through it--the history of Arizona, picturedfittingly in pools of blood and garbs of fire. But the fire died out,and a dim gray crept over the angry clouds; and then, slowly, slowly,the clouds weaved and worked together till they formed a single heavybank--black, dark, and impenetrable.
Just as I turned to retrace my steps, my eyes fell on a group of lowbushes, which would have taken the palm in any collection of thosehorribly dead-looking things that ladies call phantom-flowers. Sopitilessly had the sun bleached and whitened the tiny branches, that nota drop of life or substance seemed left; yet they were perfect, andphantom-bushes, if ever I saw any. How well they would look on thosegraves below, I thought, as I approached to break a twig in remembranceof the strange sight. But how came the red berries on this one? Istooped, and picked up--a rosary; the beads of red-stained wood, thelinks and crucifix of some white metal, and inscribed on the cross thewords, "_Souvenir de la Mission_." How had it come there? Had ever thefoot of devout Catholic pressed this rocky, thorny ground? Of whatmission was it a gift of love and remembrance? Surely it had not lainhere a hundred years--the gift of love from one of the Spanish _padres_of the Arizona Missions to an Indian child of the church! Or had it comefrom one of those California Missions, where the priests to this dayread masses to the descendants of the Mission Indians? Yonder, in thewest, with the purplish mists deepening into darkness in its cleftsides, was the mountain which to-morrow would show us "Montezuma'sface," and here lay the emblem of peace, of devotion to the one livingGod. Perhaps the station-keeper could solve the mystery; so I hastenedback through the gloom that was settling on the earth, unbroken by anysound save the distant yelping of a _coyote_, who had spied me out, andfollowed me, as though to see if I were the only one of my kind who hadcome to invade his dominion.
"See what I have found!" I cried exultingly, when barely within speakingdistance of the station-keeper, who stood within the doorway.
In a moment he was beside me, calling out something in hisIndian-Spanish, which seemed to electrify the woman, who still sat bythe _adobe_ wall. Springing up with the agility of a panther, she was bymy side, pointing eagerly to my hand holding the rosary.
"What does she want?" I asked, in utter consternation.
"The rosary; give her the rosary"--the barefooted man was speakingalmost imperiously--"it's hers; she has the best right to it."
"Gladly," I said; but she had already clutched it, and turned totteringback to the mud-wall, against which she crouched, as though afraid ofbeing robbed of her new-found treasure.
The man turned to me in evident excitement: "And you found it! Where?She has been hunting for it these years--day after day--in the blazingsun and streaming rain; and _you_ found it. Well, old Screetah's eyesare getting blind--she's old--old."
"But her son might have found it, if he had looked; for I found it justup on the hill there," I suggested.
"He's not her son; only an Indian I kept to look after her, kinder; forshe's been brooding and moping till she don't seem to notice nothing nomore. But now she's found it, maybe she'll come round again, or go on toSonora, where, she says, her people are."
"How came she to lose it, then, if it was so precious?"
"She didn't lose it--but, I forget everything; supper's been waitingon; if you'll eat hearty, I'll tell you about those beads after a while.The moon won't rise till after ten, and you've good three hours yet."
I was so anxious to hear about the beads, that I would not give the mantime to wash dishes; though he insisted on putting away the china cupand plate, which he kept for State occasions, when he saw my dispositionto let Bose make free with what was on the table--table being acomplimentary term for one of the ambulance-seats.
In the days when this had been a military post, garrisoned by but onecompany of the ---- Infantry, the station-keeper had been an enlistedman, and the servant of Captain Castleton, commanding the camp andcompany. Young, handsome, and generous, the men were devoted to theircaptain, though as strict a disciplinarian as ever left the militaryschool. The little settlement springing up around the camp was chieflypeopled by Indians and Mexicans, and only two or three Americans. WhenCaptain Castleton had been here just long enough to get desperatelytired of the wearisome solitude and monotony of camp, and had put inmotion whatever influence his friends had with the authorities athead-quarters to relieve him of the command of the post and the inactivelife he was leading, an Indian woman and her daughter came into thesettlement one evening, and found ready shelter with the hospitableMexicans. That she was an Indian was readily believed; but that the girlwith her belonged to the same people, was not received with any degreeof faith by those who saw her. She was on her way back to Sonora, shesaid, to her own people, from whence she had come with her husband,years ago, along with a pack-train of merchandise, for some point inLower California. From there she had gradually drifted, by way of SanDiego, into California, up to Los Angeles, and on to some Mission nearthere, where she had lived among the Mission Indians, after herhusband's death, and where Juanita had been taught to read, write, andsing by the Mission priests.
At last Screetah had concluded to go back to Sonora, and had drifteddownward again from Los Angeles, to Temescal, to Temacula, to Fort Yuma,and through the desert, till, finally, some compassionate Mexicans hadcarried her and the girl with them through the last waterless stretch tothis place. The girl, with her velvety eyes and delicately turned limbs,soon became the favorite and the adored of every one in camp andsettlement; and, though that branch of her education to which her motherpointed with the greatest pride--reading and writing--h
ad never takenvery deep root in the girl's mind, she sang like an angel, and looked"like one of them pictures where a woman's kneeling down, with a crownaround her head," while she was singing. Indeed, the religious teachingsof the good priests seemed to have sunk deeply into the gentle heart ofJuanita, and her greatest treasure--an object itself almost ofdevotion--was a rosary the priest had given her on leaving the Mission.It had been impressed on her, that "so long as these beads glidedthrough her fingers, while her lips murmured _Aves_ and _Pater-nosters_,night and morning, so long were the angels with her. Did the angels takethe rosary from her--which would happen if Juanita forgot the teachingsof the priests, and no longer laid her heart's inmost thoughts beforethe Blessed Mother--then would she lose her soul's peace and her hopesof heaven; and she must guard the sacred beads as she would her ownlife."
There was no point of resemblance between Juanita and the old Indianwoman; and the girl, though warmly attached to her, declared that shewas not her mother, only her nurse or servant. Her mother, she said, hadbeen a Spanish Dona, and her father a mighty chief of his tribe, whosehead had been displayed on the gate of some Mexican fortress for weeksafter it had been delivered to the Government by some treacherous Indianof his band. Juanita's personal appearance, the fluency with which shespoke Spanish, her very name even, seemed to confirm her accounts, dimand confused as the recollections of her earliest childhood were;nevertheless, she had "Indian in her," as the man said, for she provedit before she died.
But to return to the time of their arrival in camp. Screetah seemed inno hurry to resume her journey through the burning desert; and, asCaptain Castleton said, he would no doubt have retained her by forcerather than let her drag the poor child through the waterless wastesinto sure destruction. He had given them an old tent after they had beenwith their Mexican friends for nearly a week; and when these sameMexicans left the camp, the two women were given possession of theirhouse. Here it became a source of never-ending delight to the old Indianthat all the choice things by which she set such store, and which amongher "civilized" Indian friends had been so scarce, as coffee, sugar, andbacon, were served out to her as though they rained down from the sky.But to do Screetah justice, the sweetest side of bacon and the biggestbagful of sugar never gave her half the pleasure that she felt when oneof the soldiers gave to Juanita a lank, ragged pony, which, on a scout,he had bought, borrowed, or stolen from an Indian at the Maricopa Wells.Her time was now pretty equally divided between the rosary and the pony,which, in time, lost its ragged, starved appearance, under hertreatment, and retained only its untamable wildness, and theunconquerable disposition to throw up its hindlegs when running at fulltilt, as though under apprehension that the simple act of running didnot give an adequate idea of its abilities. At first, Captain Castleton,highly amused, would call for his horse when he saw Juanita battlingwith her vicious steed on the plain near camp, in order to witness thestruggles of "the wild little Indian" near by. But, after awhile, theywould ride forth together, and dash over the level ground or climb up tothe highest point of the hill--Juanita's voice ringing back to the campalmost as long as she was in sight, chanting some wild anthem, in whichseemed blended the joyous strains of the heavenly band and the wild songof the savage when he flies like an arrow through his native plains.
Old Screetah's low-roofed _adobe_ had assumed quite an air of comfortthrough the exertions of some good-natured soldiers, and moreparticularly through the manifestations of Captain Castleton's favor.From a passing pack-train, laden with Sonora merchandise, he had boughtthe matting that covered the mud-floor; the sun-baked pottery-ware wasScreetah's greatest boast, as it came from the same province--herbirthplace; and the bright-colored Navajo blanket had been bought withmany a pound of bacon and of coffee--articles more precious far in thiscountry than the shining metal which men risk their lives to find here.No wonder that the captain passed more of his time in Screetah's hutthan in his white wall-tent, where the sun, he said, blinded him,beating on the fly all day long; and where the slightest breeze broughtdrifts of sand with it. That Juanita seemed to live and breathe only forhim had come to be a matter of course. Among the Mexicans it wasaccepted that at a certain phase or change of the moon there had beensome words spoken, or some rite performed, by old Screetah, which,according to their belief, constituted Indian marriage; and both seemedhappy as the day is long.
Like a thunderbolt from the clear sky it struck him one day, when themail-rider brought official letters advising him of the change that hadbeen made in his favor. He was directed to proceed at once to DrumBarracks, there to await further orders! It was, perhaps, the first timethat he experienced the curse of having his most ardent wishesgratified. For days he wandered about like the shadow of an evildeed--restless from the certainty of approaching judgment, and faintingwith the knowledge that he was powerless to ward off the coming blow. Itwas hard to make Juanita understand the situation, and the necessity ofparting; but when she had once comprehended that she was to beabandoned--a fate which, to her, meant simply to be thrust out on thedesert and left to die--the Indian blood flowed faster in her veins, androse tumultuously against the fair-faced image that her heart hadworshipped. What was life to her with the light and warmth gone out ofit? He was leaving her to die; and die she would.
When the little cavalcade, ready and equipped for the march, was aboutto leave the camp, Juanita was nowhere to be found. For hours thecaptain sought her in every nook they had explored together, and calledher by every endearing name his fancy had created for her. Juanita'spony was gone from his accustomed place, and he knew it would be uselessto await her return. Captain Castleton was not a coward; the searchingglances he sent into every _canyon_ they passed, and among the sparsetrees on their road, were directed by the burning desire to meet thedearly loved form once more; but they would not have quaked had thearrow Juanita knew so well to speed, sank into his heart instead.
Days passed ere Juanita returned; and, though Screetah grovelled at herfeet with entreaties not to leave her again, and the soldiers showedevery possible kindness and attention to the girl, she was seldom seenamong them. Sometimes, at the close of day, she was seen suddenly risingfrom some crevice in the hill, where she had clambered and climbed allday; but oftener she was discovered mounted on her pony, her long, blackhair streaming, her horse in full gallop, as though riding in pursuit ofthe setting sun. No word of complaint passed her lips; no one heard herdraw a sigh, or saw her shed a tear; and none dared to speak a word ofcomfort. But when Screetah tried to cheer her, one day, she held out herempty hands, saying, simply, "I have the rosary no more!" Then Screetahknew that all hope was lost, and she pleaded no more, but broke thebeautiful, sun-baked pottery, tore the matting from the floor, andcrouched by the threshold from noon to night, and night till morning,waiting quietly for the silent guest that she knew would some day, soon,enter there with Juanita.
One day, she came slowly down from the hill and entered the dark_adobe_, where Screetah sat silent by the door.
"A little cloud of dust is rising on the horizon," she said to the oldIndian, "and I must prepare;" and Screetah only wailed the death-song ofher race.
Though Juanita had returned on foot, she had ridden away on the pony theday before, and the soldiers started out to look for the animal,thinking it had escaped from her, or had been stolen by some maraudingIndian. But they found the carcass not far from camp--with Juanita'sdagger in the animal's heart. The next day she went to the top of thehill again, and when night came, she said, "The cloud grows bigger." Onthe third day, when Juanita lay stretched on the hard, uncomfortablebed, denuded of all its gay robes and blankets, a sudden excitementarose outside, such as the signs of anything approaching camp alwayscreate. A hundred different opinions were expressed as to what and whoit could be. Nearer and nearer came the cloud of dust, and a cry ofsurprise went up, as the horse fell from fatigue on the edge of thecamp, and the rider took his way to old Screetah's hut.
What passed within those dark, low walls--what passionat
e appeals forforgiveness, what frantic remorse and bitter self-accusations theyechoed--only Screetah and the dying girl knew. The old Indian wastouched, and tried to plead for him; but Juanita seemed to heed neitherthe man's presence nor the woman's entreaties. She died "with her faceto the wall," and the words of forgiveness, which he had staked life andhonor to hear, were never uttered by those firmly-closed lips.
With the day of Juanita's death commenced the old Indian woman's searchfor the rosary, and she tore her hair in desperation when they laid thegirl in her narrow cell before she had found it. Day after day, thesearch was continued. Was it not the peace of Juanita's soul she wasseeking to restore? After awhile the camp was broken up, by orders fromdistrict head-quarters, and a forage-station established. Our friend,whose term of service had expired, was made station-keeper, and, one byone, the people from the settlement followed the military, till, atlast, only he and old Screetah were left of all the little band thatonce had filled the dreary spot with the busy hum of life.