CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE "JOURNEY OF DEATH."
In two hours we reached the crossing at Fra Cristobal. Here the roadparts from the river, and strikes into the waterless desert. We plungethrough the shallow ford, coming out on the eastern bank. We fill our"xuages" with care, and give our animals as much as they will drink.After a short halt to refresh ourselves, we ride onward.
We have not travelled far before we recognise the appropriate name ofthis terrible journey. Scattered along the path we see the bones ofmany animals. There are human bones too! That white spheroidal mass,with its grinning rows and serrated sutures, that is a human skull. Itlies beside the skeleton of a horse. Horse and rider have fallentogether. The wolves have stripped them at the same time. They havedropped down on their thirsty track, and perished in despair, althoughwater, had they known it, was within reach of another effort!
We see the skeleton of a mule, with the alpareja still buckled aroundit, and an old blanket, flapped and tossed by many a whistling wind.
Other objects, that have been brought there by human aid, strike the eyeas we proceed. A bruised canteen, the fragments of a glass bottle, anold hat, a piece of saddle-cloth, a stirrup red with rust, a brokenstrap, with many like symbols, are strewn along our path, speaking amelancholy language.
We are still only on the border of the desert. We are fresh. How whenwe have travelled over and neared the opposite side? Shall we leavesuch souvenirs?
We are filled with painful forebodings, as we look across the arid wastethat stretches indefinitely before us. We do not dread the Apache.Nature herself is the enemy we fear.
Taking the waggon-tracks for our guide, we creep on. We grow silent, asif we were dumb. The mountains of Cristobal sink behind us, and we arealmost "out of sight of land." We can see the ridges of the SierraBlanca away to the eastward; but before us, to the south, the eyeencounters no mark or limit.
We push forward without guide or any object to indicate our course. Weare soon in the midst of bewilderment. A scene of seeming enchantmentsprings up around us. Vast towers of sand, borne up by the whirlblast,rise vertically to the sky. They move to and fro over the plain. Theyare yellow and luminous. The sun glistens among their floatingcrystals. They move slowly, but they are approaching us.
I behold them with feelings of awe. I have heard of travellers liftedin their whirling vortex, and dashed back again from fearful heights.
The pack-mule, frightened at the phenomenon, breaks the lasso andscampers away among the ridges. Gode has galloped in pursuit. I amalone.
Nine or ten gigantic columns now appear, stalking over the plain andcircling gradually around me. There is something unearthly in thesight. They resemble creatures of a phantom world. They seem endowedwith demon life.
Two of them approach each other. There is a short, ghastly strugglethat ends in their mutual destruction. The sand is precipitated to theearth, and the dust floats off in dun, shapeless masses.
Several have shut me within a space, and are slowly closing upon me. Mydog howls and barks. The horse cowers with affright, and shiversbetween my thighs, uttering terrified expressions.
My brain reels. Strange objects appear. The fever is upon me! Theladen currents clash in their wild torsion. I am twisted around andtorn from my saddle. My eyes, mouth, and ears are filled with dust.Sand, stones, and branches strike me spitefully in the face; and I amflung with violence to the earth!
I lay for a moment where I had fallen, half-buried and blind. I wasneither stunned nor hurt; and I began to grope around me, for as yet Icould see nothing. My eyes were full of sand, and pained meexceedingly. Throwing out my arms, I felt for my horse; I called him byname. A low whimper answered me. I staggered towards the spot, andlaid my hands upon him; he was down upon his flank. I seized thebridle, and he sprang up; but I could feel that he was shivering like anaspen.
I stood by his head for nearly half an hour, rubbing the dust from myeyes; and waiting until the simoom might settle away. At length theatmosphere grew clearer, and I could see the sky; but the sand stilldrifted along the ridges, and I could not distinguish the surface of theplain. There were no signs of Gode.
I mounted and commenced riding over the plain in search of my comrade.I had no idea of what direction he had taken.
I made a circuit of a mile or so, still calling his name as I went. Ireceived no reply, and could see no traces upon the ground. I rode foran hour, galloping from ridge to ridge, but still without meeting anysigns of my comrade or the mules. I pulled up in despair. I hadshouted until I was faint and hoarse. I could search no longer.
I was thirsty, and would drink. O God! my "xuages" are broken! Thepack-mule has carried off the water-skin.
The crushed calabash still hung upon its thong; but the last drops ithad contained were trickling down the flanks of my horse. I knew that Imight be fifty miles from water!
You cannot understand the fearfulness of this situation. You live in anorthern zone, in a land of pools and streams and limpid springs. Howunlike the denizen of the desert, the voyageur of the prairie sea!Water is his chief care, his ever-present solicitude; water the divinityhe worships. Without water, even in the midst of plenty, plenty offood, he must die. In the wild western desert it is the thirst thatkills. No wonder I was filled with despair. I believed myself to beabout the middle of the Jornada. I knew that I could never reach theother side without water. The yearning had already begun. My throatand tongue felt shrivelled and parched.
I had lost all knowledge of the course I should take. The mountains,hitherto my guide, seemed to trend in every direction. Their numerousspurs puzzled me.
I remembered hearing of a spring, the Ojo del Muerto, that was said tolie westward of the trail. Sometimes there was water in the spring. Onother occasions travellers had reached it only to find the fountaindried up, and leave their bones upon its banks. So ran the tales inSocorro.
I headed my horse westward. I would seek the spring, and, should I failto find it, push on to the river. This was turning out of my course;but I must reach the water and save my life.
I sat in my saddle, faint and choking, leaving my animal to go at will.I had lost the energy to guide him.
He went many miles westward, for the sun told me the course. I wassuddenly roused from my stupor. A glad sight was before me. A lake!--alake shining like crystal. Was I certain I saw it? Could it be themirage? No. Its outlines were too sharply defined. It had not thatfilmy, whitish appearance which distinguishes the latter phenomenon.No. It was not the mirage. It was water!
I involuntarily pressed the spur against the side of my horse; but heneeded not that. He had already eyed the water, and sprang forward,inspirited with new energy. The next moment he was in it up to hisflanks.
I flung myself from the saddle with a plunge. I was about to lift thewater in my concave palms, when the actions of my horse attracted me.Instead of drinking greedily, he stood tossing his head with snorts ofdisappointment. My dog, too, refused to lap, and ran along the shorewhining and howling.
I knew what this meant; but, with that common obstinacy which refusesall testimony but the evidence of the senses, I lifted some drops in myhand, and applied them to my lips. They were briny and burning. Imight have known this before reaching the lake, for I had ridden througha salt incrustation that surrounded it like a belt of snow. But mybrain was fevered; my reason had left me.
It was of no use remaining where I was. I climbed back into my saddle,and rode along the shore, over fields of snow-white salt. Here andthere my horse's hoof rang against bleaching bones of animals, theremains of many a victim. Well was this lake named the Laguna delMuerto--the "Lake of Death!"
Reaching its southern point, I again headed westward, in hopes ofstriking the river.
From this time until a later period, when I found myself in a fardifferent scene, I have no distinct memories.
I remember dismounting on a high b
ank. I must have travelledunconsciously for hours before, for the sun was low down on the horizonas I alighted. It was a very high bank--a precipice--and below me I sawa beautiful river sweeping onward through groves of emerald greenness.I thought there were many birds fluttering in the groves, and theirvoices rang in delicious melody. There was fragrance on the air, andthe scene below me seemed an Elysium. I thought that around where Istood all was bleak, and barren, and parched with intolerable heat. Iwas tortured with a slakeless thirst that grew fiercer as I gazed on theflowing water. These were real incidents. All this was true.
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I must drink. I must to the river. It is cool, sweet water. Oh! Imust drink. What! A horrid cliff! No; I will not go down there. Ican descend more easily here. Who are these forms? Who are you, sir?Ah! it is you, my brave Moro; and you, Alp. Come! come! Follow me!Down; down to the river! Ah! again that accursed cliff! Look at thebeautiful water! It smiles. It ripples on, on, on! Let us drink. No,not yet; we cannot yet. We must go farther. Ugh! Such a height toleap from! But we must drink, one and all. Come, Gode! Come, Moro,old friend! Alp, come on! We shall reach it; we shall drink. Who isTantalus? Ha! ha! Not I; not I! Stand back, fiends! Do not push meover! Back! Back, I say! Oh!
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Part of all this was a reality; part was a dream, a dream that bore someresemblance to the horrors of a first intoxication.