# Specs

Specs, as he was promptly christened, became at once a feature of the place. He was so extraordinarily bashful, we were told, that he hardly dared speak, even in answer to a question. And then anything would frighten him. A quick word, an unexpected sound, such as a pistol-shot fired behind his back—or before his face, for that matter—would throw him into a "fit of scare" so extravagant that it seemed to parody itself.
Specs
By Wolcott LeClear Beard
SPECS'S advent did not create a favorable impression.
It was a frightfully hot day, even for Arizona. The sun seemed fairly to have burned out all the life in the air. The remolinos, as the Mexicans call the baby whirlwinds which almost always are dancing about over the desert, had stopped to rest. I had been to Sentinel for the mail, and was return- ing to our construction camp on the Gila, fifteen miles away.
It was a dismal place enough that I left behind me; just a little collection of stores and saloons, their adobe walls toning in with the desert from which they had sprung, the red-painted railway station and water-tank alone made spots of color to relieve the gray of the desert, now turned to silver by the glaring sun.
I had just started, when the sound of hurrying hoofs made me look around. It was Barton, the sheriff, and he was waving his hand in signal. I pulled up. "’Fraid you'll have to come back an' help us out," he said, as he stopped his horse alongside mine. "That Industri'l Ahmy—detachment of it—has rushed the East-bound freight, an' it's comin' by through heah. Got a wiah jus' now from Aztec. They'll run ovah the burg like a swahm o' Kansas grahsshoppahs if we don't watch out, an' we've got to roun' up all han's to keep 'em on the train. I deputize you. Come back." Now to argue with an Arizona sheriff is unwise. Besides, any change from the monotonous camp life was welcome, so, turning, we cantered back in company. Sentinel had twice been visited by these gangs of men, who, making excuse of a monster labor demonstration taking place in the East, would capture freight trains and ride to and fro across the continent, levying contributions of food and drink from the inhabitants of the small towns through which they passed.
The "burg" was excited. The saloons and stores were empty. Their proprietors had closed them, and were preparing to barricade the doors against the much-feared rush before joining their customers, who were standing on the track gazing westward along its perspective of glittering rails at a black speck, trembling in the heat-waves which rose from between them. The speck grew larger and more defined. As he arranged his men the sheriff dashed about the place, turning and sprinting on his quick-footed cow-pony, shouting orders and directions in a voice which not even his excitement could rob of its habitual drawl.
Then the rails began to snap, and, shrieking against its brakes, the great train reluctantly came to a stand. It was covered with men. They were lying head to feet on the roofs of the box-cars; they rode clinging to the ladders, astride the brake-beams, along the truss-rods. No available inch of space was left vacant. They had entire possession of the train; the brake-wheels had been turned by men who rose from them for that purpose, and having accomplished it had resumed their seats, while from their caboose in the rear the train's crew looked helplessly on. All told, there were sixteen of us pressed into the sheriff's service—five mounted, the rest on foot. These last patrolled the length of the train, while we on horseback obeyed our leader's order to "herd 'em like you would a bunch er cattle at night," by riding around the train, two in one direction and three in the other. They were a curious lot, those Industrials. The Southwestern hobo predominated, but his was not the only type. One man wore rusty black clothes of a clerical cut; several had the gambler's unmistakable air; some looked like the rustlers they doubtless were, while others were probably what they all claimed to be—working-men. Working-men some were, I know, for they had been employed on the plant of which I had charge, and as I passed them hailed me by name, begging for permission to return to their work, or at least to get water to drink—a privilege I had no power to grant.
The train stopped much longer than was usual, for the local cars could not, under the circumstances, be switched on to the siding. Neither party would have permitted this, even had it otherwise been possible, and the freight had to be unloaded from the cars as they stood. This took time. Also it required men, which lessened the number of guards, so that there were uneasy movements among the packed masses on the tops of the cars, which looked as though an attempt to descend might follow. Of course anything like a concerted rush on their part would have swept us all aside in an instant, but that required a leader, who would probably be shot, so no one cared to assume the position, and we were allowed to ride or walk our rounds assailed by nothing worse than opprobrious epithets.
On the car next to the last a pair of legs attracted my attention, not so much on account of their extraordinary length, as by the fact that they seemed to have no body belonging to them. The only one in a proper position was utterly unsuited in appearance for association with these lengthy extremities, for it was round, and topped by a broad, plump face, fringed by a scrubby growth of sandy beard. The eyes—large, light, and circular—glared wildly through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, lacking a bow, which was replaced by a bit of string looped over one of the wearer's prominent ears.
The whole expression was one of abject fear. It communicated itself even to the legs before mentioned, and in this way I became conscious of their relationship. There was no visible reason for this terror. Each time a sentry turned in his walk, or one of the horse-men loped past, this object would shrink back, only to wriggle to the edge of the car as soon as the eyes were turned away. I couldn't make him out.
I had just rounded the engine as the mounted man ahead of me disappeared behind the caboose, when the queer figure launched itself into the air. For an instant it was outlined against the sky; then I heard the loud slap of the big feet on a tie of the siding. The long legs stretched themselves into a run, shambling and awkward, but very fast, toward the northwest.
It really was surprising what time they made, but as a shot rang out from Barton's pistol, and a little spirt of dust flew up from the desert, this record was nowhere. It was wonderful. I was starting in pursuit, but the sheriffs quick order stopped me, for there was a heave through the prostrate ranks on the train.
Men rose to their feet. One or two jumped to the ground, and several came out from under the cars. The guards faced around, and at the points of their weapons or by blows from the barrels, they forced the Industrials back. One man drew a pistol, and resting it across a brake-wheel, fired at—and missed—one of our party, whose "gun" echoed the shot. With a cry, and grasping his arm with his left hand, the assailant sat down; his six-shooter falling on the sand between the cars. By that time the freight had all been transferred; the engine coughed, the cars jerked, each the other, and the train began to gather way, its passengers settling themselves into their places as they went. A Mexican standing near picked up the fallen pistol, and shoving it inside his shirt, scuttled away in fear that some one might claim it.
"I reckon that's all," said the sheriff, riding alongside me. "If youah goin' home, now, I'll ride along er you;" so we turned and jogged together down the dusty trail. "Don't seem hahdly faiah to keep them hobos on th' cyahs without no watah, but we couldn't do nothin' else, as I kin see. They'd rushed us, suah, if we'd let 'em off. They'll feed an' watah em at Tucson, like as not. Wondah what that cuss broke away foh, in a country like this. Say, ain't that him? Mus' be. They ain't no moah than one man roun' heah built tongs-fashion like that."
The road curved about the base of a knoll, and as we rounded it the figure spoken of had come into view. It was the deserter from the Industrials; there could be no mistaking those legs, or the gait they took, even at that distance.
"Let's ask him and find out," I suggested, and calling on his horse, Barton moved toward the fugitive, and I followed. The ponies' hoofs fell noiselessly on the sand; we were close upon him before he heard us and turned. His face grew gray, his mouth twitched, and he trembled. He made a movement as though to run; then thought better of it and threw up his hands. Barton pulled up and stared at him with a look of blank amazement.
"What you holdin' youah hands thataway foh?" he asked.
He let his arms fall.
"Wheah you goin' to?"
No answer.
"What you scaihed at?"
Still not a word.
"What did you cut away from your crowd for, and in such a place as this?" I asked him. His goggle eyes turned from the sheriff's face to mine, and for the first time he spoke.
"Jus' recken 'twas becus I wanted ter so mighty bad," he said, in a voice that was almost a whisper; then, turning, he slouched quickly away.
The sheriff rode on in silence for a long time. "That chromo was scaihed stiff," he said at last. "Nevah saw no one moah frightened, but he broke through them guns jus' 'cause he 'wanted to so mighty bad.' Quee'es' loco I evah ran agains'." He paused, thought for awhile and added, "Unless he's fakin' it all. I'll look out foh him."
I saw the creature again the next morning, as I was on the way to my work. He was leaning against the Cottonwood slip-rails of our corral, surrounded by a group of men, attracted, I suppose, by his peculiar appearance. As I rode by I could hear that they were plying him with questions of a personal nature, the answers to which must have afforded them much diversion, for the crowd was increasing, and, from time to time a roar of harsh laughter came over the desert, following me, faint and more faintly, until I passed out of hearing down the trail.
On my return the camp was ringing with his doings.
Anything which broke the dead level of our dull life was welcome, so Specs, as he was promptly christened, became at once a feature of the place, his fame reaching even to the engineer's quarters, perched on the edge of the mesa. He was so extraordinarily bashful, we were told, that he hardly dared speak, even in answer to a question. And then anything would frighten him. A quick word, an unexpected sound, such as a pistol-shot fired behind his back—or before his face, for that matter—would throw him into a "fit of scare" so extravagant that it seemed to parody itself.
This was most amusing, but in the opinion of the majority he had one drawback—he would not drink. Gambling was his one vice. Always ready to do anyone a good turn, he was fed, in a desultory sort of a way, by those whom he obliged, but what little money he earned always found its way to the coffers of the Cactus Cottage, by way of the tables topped with green cloth to be found therein. One day he had worked continuously, gaining three dollars thereby. As the whistle sounded for the end of the day's labor, Specs dropped his pick, and hurrying to his foreman, near whom I happened to be standing, he stopped, writhed, and at last managed to ejaculate, "Time check."
"Don't be a clam, Specs," replied his chief, good-humoredly, "You jus' want this so's you kin steer yourself 'gains' them tin-horns (gamblers) again. You'll only go broke, an' then be out of a job. Let it go till pay-day." Specs at once began to tremble, opening and closing his mouth like a landed fish.
"Time check," he gasped, "now." The printed form, vouching to the fact that "Specs" was entitled to three dollars in payment for a day's work, was filled out and handed to him. He took it and fled.
"Goin' to get it discounted by that thief at the commissary," said the foreman. "Then he'll blow it in on faro down to the Cactus Cottage, damn fool."
I watched Specs enter the little adobe commissary store, then strolled to the grove of giant sujuarro cactus, from which the saloon took its name, and in the midst of which it stood. Through its canvas walls came the rattle of chips, and the droning voice of the dealer. Barton, the sheriff, stood in the shade of the thatched veranda. He was generally to be found there. Through the open door, the rough bar could be seen. I nodded toward it, and we went in, the sheriff toddling by my side on his three-inch heels. "Does he play heah? Specs? That tongs-built galoot? No, not often, foh he don't have the stuff to blow," he said, in reply to a question of mine, as he filled a glass brimful of the malignant whiskey prevalent in that region. "But soon's he gets a couple er nickels he'll float aroun' heah to pike 'em off." He took the contents of his glass at a gulp. "Heah he comes, now," Barton went on. "Got a system, some says, but I don't see what it can be, only to back the losin' cyahd. Nevah struck the joint yet 'thout he made a losin'." As he spoke Specs came in. He was walking erect, now, and rapidly, his round face flushed with excitement. His three dollars, minus twenty per cent. discount, could purchase but a small supply of the celluloid chips, but he clutched them eagerly, and going to the faro-table began to play. I watched him with great interest; the sheriff looked on listlessly. He had seen it all before.
Under the excitement Specs's whole manner changed. He straightened himself, his mouth closed firmly, and the weak, china-blue eyes behind the spectacles were fixed on the board with a concentration which I would not have believed possible. But in a very short time it was all over. I doubt if he won a single stake; and even when playing low, two dollars and forty cents will not last long.
As soon as the last chip was swept into the bank his excitement vanished, and with his usual look of apathy Specs rose and started to leave.
"Hol' on," Barton called after him, "have a drink?" Specs only went the faster, and would have passed on, but the other barred the way, asking, "What do you want to be such a blame fool foh, as to run 'gains' a game like that?" Specs fumbled at his glasses, unhooking them first and then the string that took the place of the missing bow, and wiped them on the elbow of his flannel shirt. He made his invariable reply. "Reckon t'was becus I wanted to so mighty bad," he said, and shuffled away. "He might want a hawse so bad one er these times that he's 'blaiged to roun' up some man's bunch," said the sheriff to me. "Wheels in his haid? Maybe. But he's always doin' some fool thing that scaiahs him stiff jus' 'cause he wants ter so bad that even the scaiah cyant hold him out, see?"
That, indeed, seemed the keynote of Specs's character.
His desires never led him to take a horse, to be sure, but they made him do many other things. This rather reached a limit when, one day, he was found in a pitiable state of fright, with a stick of No. 1 dynamite, which he had laid on a bowlder, and was just about to pound it with a rock held in his hand.
He was stopped before he could proceed further with his experiment, and on being questioned as to the cause of his amusing himself in so singular a manner, he could give no better reason than his extreme anxiety to ascertain what would happen.
"Why didn't you fools let 'im faind out, if he wanted to?" Barton asked the men who had found Specs at his dangerous game "He was all by his lonesome, an' nothin' couldn't have been huht."
But with the exception of the sheriff the men rather liked Specs, in a contemptuous kind of a way. He was so amusing—obliging, too, and harmless, we had all supposed, but now we were harassed with doubts as to that.
Still he was allowed to wander about the works, and his life, for a time, was less troubled by his fellows, for his fear-induced antics had lost the attraction of novelty. Someone had given him the vicious skeleton of a mule, Balaam by name, whose gaits, the donor thought, resembled those of Specs, and insecurely perched on the rickety saddle, he would roam over the country, far away from his tormentors. But this peace of mind was too good to last. I had noticed, one day, as I was approaching the Cactus Cottage, that the attenuated mule was standing dejectedly before its door. Specs came hurrying out of the saloon as I pulled up in front of it, followed by a crowd of grinning men, headed by Hughes, the proprietor. "She's a daughter of ould Brainard's up to Section Fifteen, Specs, me boy," Hughes was saying. "Annie, her nem is, an' a mighty fine gurrul. I do not wonder that you're interested. Will you give us an invite to the weddin', now, when it comes off?"
A shout of laughter interrupted him. Specs had started to unfasten his mule, which was tied to the hitching-rail, but Hughes's hand was on the knot. Probably, by way of relieving his embarrassment, Specs stooped and pulled out a cactus-thorn which was sticking in the mule's hock. Balaam lashed out viciously. "Always look a gift mule in the mouth, Specs, me son. 'Tis safer so, fer it's a poor mule what won't wurrk both ways," Hughes went on. "Now, as I was sayin' about Annie——"
Specs tore the reins loose, bundled on to the back of his steed, and the brute bucked himself away, disappearing down the trail.
I had seen the girl several times—the red-cheeked, buxom daughter of a settler on one of the up-river ranches. Though she had been in the place but a short time, she was already the acknowledged belle in that region of few women, and something of a coquette in her way. Specs had seen her in one of his equestrian wanderings, and had at last managed to gather sufficient courage to inquire of Hughes as to her identity. Hence his flight.
It was difficult to imagine Specs in the character of a love-sick swain, and no one really thought so, until, at last, his conduct showed that this was indeed the case. He never spoke to the girl, so far as was known; only haunted her with the persistence of her shadow. Wherever she went, there he was.
A long way behind always—out of sight if he could manage it—but there, nevertheless. Each morning as she lifted the tent-flap that served as the front-door of the family dwelling, she would find evidence of his devotion. This would take the form of some service done; or oftener, a little offering of game, or the red-pulped fruit of the sujuarro, which are esteemed luxuries on account of their inaccessibility. How Specs obtained them, guarded as they are by a dozen yards, perhaps, of sharpest cactus spines, no one could tell. But he managed it somehow, and after placing his gift where she could not help seeing it as she left the shack, he would hide, coyote-like, in the chapparal, surrounding the house enclosure, in order that he might see her as she appeared. Sometimes she would take no notice of his offerings, but would leave them to shrivel in the torrid sun, knowing that some time during the next night the dried remnant would be replaced by another, and, if possible, a larger or a varied gift, left in the hope that she might, at last, relent. When, finally, her appetite would triumph over her desire to torture him, he would accept the concession, in all faith, as an evidence of singular favor toward himself, and would become almost bold, for the time, in his intercourse with his fellow-men.
No one, of course, took the affair seriously. Even Sam Hitchcock, the most favored of Annie's many admirers, refused to be jealous of Specs. But the chaff was unlimited, some of it falling on Annie, so that she became much ashamed of her adorer, and strove, by utter disregard of his existence, to discourage him. Then his life was not a joy to him, and he kept away from all his kind as much as he could, but his offerings at the shrine of his divinity, though always rejected, never failed in their regularity.
But another and graver affair was forcing itself on the popular mind. The Apaches were up. They had already left their reservations and were coming down the river. At first there were only rumors of a murder here and there, in isolated cases and far away; but coming nearer and becoming more frequent as the savages gathered courage from success and force from their more cautious brethren who had hitherto held back. Men hesitated before going out alone. The smoke of burning stacks or ranch-houses had been seen, and finally the word came that a war-party, mounted on good ponies and seventy strong, probably a detachment from a still larger force, had been sighted by cowboys rounding up their brand on the upper ranges.
A few of the ranchers who had adobe houses barricaded and prepared to hold them, but for the most part, leaving their flimsy shacks to the mercy of whoever should come, they sent their families to our camp as the strongest available place. No rush could carry this position—indeed there was little danger of any attempt being made—for we were nearly three hundred strong.
All regular work had stopped. A breastwork of sand-bags surrounded a little plateau in the centre of our camp, and to strengthen the defence still further, mechanics were connecting some dynamite cartridges, buried in the sand of the plain outside, with the blasting batteries which were to fire them. A confused mass of household goods littered the enclosed space, where most of the men stood in groups, discussing the outlook. A child was crying, to an accompaniment of women's voices, raised and made querulous by the anxiety of their owners. Over all, through the broiling heat, floated the choking dust and the smell of horses. Barton rode slowly around the camp, telling off each family as he came to it, in order to make sure that all were present; and I found time to notice, in a vague sort of way, that Specs was shuffling rapidly up and down, muttering to himself, his arms twitching nervously. Each time he met any one at all in authority he would stop and seem about to speak, but no one helped him begin, so he would pass on, twitching and muttering as before.
The sheriff had finished his round, and pulling up his horse, he sat, with a troubled look, facing the group of men near which I was standing. "Brainard's outfit ain't heah," he said. "I don't see wheah they can be at. They stahted to come in, I know. Got to find 'em—can't leave 'em theah. Which er you boys 'll go?"
He was looking at me as he spoke. I nodded. I didn't want to go, but I hadn't backbone enough to refuse then. Specs heaved a sigh of relief and disappeared. Sam stood close beside me. "I'll go, of course," he said, quietly, and turning, walked toward his horses. Many volunteered, most of them young men and unmarried, but some had wives. Barton may or may not have been right in attributing to this fact their willingness to risk their scalps, but he refused them, for the twelve men selected were all single.
The horses were soon ready, and we were mounted when Specs, on his mule, rode up and joined us. The sheriff started to remonstrate, but for the first time in my knowledge of him Specs interrupted. "I'm goin'," he said, "I wanter, and I'm goin'. If you won't let me go alonger you, I'll go myself, but I'll go." There was no time to argue. He was unarmed, but someone thrust a Wells-Fargo into his hand and gave him a derisive cheer as his mount, more diagram-like than ever, fell in behind us, as we settled into a lope along the trail leading to the upper ford. Mile after mile of the road stretched away behind us. The thick dust hung like a curtain at our backs, save when a breath of air would, for an instant, lift it aside, revealing Balaam and his rider, both dust-colored, pounding resolutely along, in our wake, farther and farther behind.
"The trail takes a tuhn ovah beyond the fah bank," said Barton, as we splashed through the ford, "an' I reckon we'll cut across the loop it makes. It's shawteh, an' if any In'ians is follerin' maybe we kin take em from behin' that way." We had stopped to water our horses; Specs had had time to come up, and was now riding with us, the nose of his mule looking very new and fresh where it had been washed in the process of drinking. But it soon became gray again, like the rest of him.
We left the road and struck across the prairie.
The country became rough; cactus hedges and gnarled mesquit and sage-brush, then arroyos and knolls of volcanic slag to be jumped or scrambled over; and finally the level plain once more, with the trail, like a white ribbon, in the distance. Barton reached it first. He gave a warning cry, and turning, rode furiously up the road.
A glance at the ground showed his reason, for there were wagon tracks in the wind-blown sand, and, almost obliterating them, the footprints of unshod ponies. We all streamed along behind him, some of us, perhaps, feeling as uncomfortable as I did. The footprints indicated only a small party, which would surely give before us, but one could never tell where the rest of the band might be. Furthermore, it is not pleasant to be potted at long range, and this might happen at any time now.
No one spoke. The thick dust muffled the hoof-beats, and the click of long spur-chains against wooden stirrups, and the undertone of faint, silvery ringing, made by the linked ends of the bridle-reins, only served to underline the great silence.
We were nearing the river again, where it runs through its deep cañon of black rock.
Across the low rise that separated us from it, a little breeze, scarcely felt against the hot air rushing by our faces, brought with it the faint sound of a few dropping rifle-shots. We pushed on still faster. The whine of a bullet, which made some of us duck, was followed by another report, much closer, and a puff of smoke curled up from behind a bowlder on our right.
The sheriff reached to the rifle-bucket under his left knee, and we topped the rise.
A low wall, the relic of some long-forgotten Indian fight, protected the upper end of a broad gully, which, cutting the cliff, led from the mesa-land to the river; and over the top of this wall peeped the white canvas tilt of a prairie schooner.
This, and the sight of five Indian ponies, rapidly getting their owners out of rifle-range, told everything.
From behind the wall Brainard's gray head appeared. He rested a Winchester on the rock in front of him, and taking careful aim at the retreating savages, fired.
An Apache threw up his arms and fell backward on the sand, his pony galloping on, riderless. Two Indians, stooping from their horses, each caught a hand of their fallen comrade, and dragged him quickly out of sight. Brainard rose and walked toward us, slipping a fresh shell into his rifle as he came. "I'm mighty glad to see you boys," he said. "Thought you might come. Hoped you would, anyhow. Howdy, Barton?" He was speaking coolly, but with an effort, and the hand that held the rifle was trembling a little. "Have much trouble in stan'in' 'em off?" asked the sheriff. "Middlin'. That gang rounded us up here this mornin'. I knowed this place, an' we just made it. Had two rifles, and Annie or th' ol' woman'd load up one while I was pumpin' t'other. Kep' it talkin' kinder lively, so I s'pose them Apaches had a notion there was several on us. Couldn't have held out much longer, though. Mighty glad you all's come." He had led the way into the little fort as he was speaking, and stopped to close the gap in the wall through which we had passed.
Mrs. Brainard was standing inside, leaning on the spare rifle; close by sat Annie, her face hidden in her folded arms. The younger woman stole a glance at Sam, but did not speak; the elder was always a person of a few words. "Came jus' in time, boys," said she. "Reckon you mus' be 'bout ready for somethin' t' eat."
Then she set about preparing the meal.
While we were eating, there was considerable discussion as to how we should proceed. Barton was for returning at once to the big camp; but Brainard held a different opinion. We could not reach our destination, he pointed out, until long after dark, when we might easily be ambushed by our late enemies, even if we did not have a running fight with them all the way home. We could stand them off much better where we were. The debate waxed warm. We had all forgotten Specs. Our meal was nearly finished when someone noticed that he was absent, but at the same moment Balaam's head appeared above the breastwork, and his rider, with a sigh, slid out of the saddle and shuffled toward us. Annie looked at him and sneered; then casting a glance at Sam which made him look sheepishly pleased. Some of the men laughed. Specs winced, but paid no further attention to the slight, and going up to the sheriff touched his arm. Barton impatiently threw off the hand. Once more Specs grasped the sheriff's arm, this time retaining his hold and pointing with the Wells-Fargo, held in the other hand, toward the mountains, blue on the northern horizon. Everyone looked at the point indicated. A haze of smoke, almost invisible, was curling up from the desert, miles away. The arm changed its direction and pointed to another wreath; then to a third, and finally indicated a column in the west, rising straight in the motionless air, not half a mile from us. "I reckon that settles it," said the sheriff, quietly, gazing at the nearest smoke; "we mus' have struck in heah jus' at the place they was togathah, an' those foah gangs that's signalin' will try an take us in on theah way down the creek." "I guess that's right," assented Brainard, looking at his wife. She shuddered, then tried to smile. Annie sank down on the sand and cried hysterically. Sam made a motion as though he would go to her, but probably feeling the ridicule that might follow thought better of it.
"No use breakin' youah necks wuhkin'," said Barton, raising his voice a little. "It's sundown, now, an' we've got all night. Besides, theah ain't much to do." He was alluding to the fact, well known to us all, that Apaches never attack save at dusk or dawn, and it was nearly dark now. Many of the men lacked faith, I think, in this custom, or feared that the Indians might make an exception in our case, and we all worked feverishly preparing for the assault which the morning at the latest would bring. Every chink through which a bullet might be supposed to find its way was carefully stopped, and sand-banked up on the inside of the wall.
The work served for a time to occupy our minds, but was finished even before the light faded from the level edge of the desert, and the long blue night closed in.
The fire was carefully extinguished. One man after another went to rest, until all had gone save two: a sentinel sitting in the wagon and Specs, whose form I could see from where I lay, outlined against the sky. He was leaning on the wall, looking out over the plain at a waning spark which marked a camp-fire of our enemies. It was long before I slept that night, and the last thing I remembered seeing was that figure by the wall, as motionless as the wall itself.
Some one shook me by the shoulder, and the sheriff directed me to take my place by the wall; then passed softly on to rouse others. It seemed but a few minutes after I had fallen asleep, yet there was a smell of dawn in the air, and as I gained my post the east turned faintly gray.
Barton, kneeling against the wall leaned back, glancing left and right at the men on each side of him. "Theah, in that broken groun', yondeh," he whispered, resuming his position. "They'll crawl out mos' like now, to—see? " A crouching form stole out from behind a hummock, followed by many others. They appeared to spring out of the desert everywhere until, in an instant, a straggling line was formed which waited for a moment, then moved toward us. "Pass the wuhd not to shoot till I do," said our leader, softly, to the men next him. The Indians were still a hundred yards away—too far to risk a rifle-shot in that light—when Barton's order reached a man on my left. Then two flashes of a shotgun burned holes in the dim light, heavy charges of buckshot tore the sand a few yards in front of the wall, while Specs sank down at its base, in a fit of terror greater than was common even for him.
A straggling shot or two followed. "Fiah!" shouted the sheriff.
A rattling crash set the echoes flying down the cliffs, and a blue smoke-cloud tumbled and rolled before us, increasing in density as some of the more excitable of the men sprang to their feet and pumped their Winchesters into it. Barton stopped this, for ammunition was too precious to be wasted. It seemed as though that cloud would never lift. I caught myself signalling for it to move to one side, as I might to any one who stood in line with a transit through which I might be looking. A few bullets sung overhead or flattened with a splash against the wall.
I was somewhat surprised at this, for I had forgotten, for the moment, that the Indians could fire back.
The smoke eddied, hesitated, and drifted aside. We could see more clearly now, in the gathering light, but with the exception of two prostrate forms on the sand, no Indians were visible. There was little danger of another rush. The Apache is not given to rushing, save when every advantage is on his side, and the surprise in this case had failed. They knew, however, as well as did we, that our provisions would soon give out, and in the meantime they would watch.
When anyone exposed himself, this was made evident by the bullet which was invariably sent in search of him.
Our only chance lay in getting a message to our camp. They could send us help from there, for, as one of the men observed, as all the Indians in the Territory were besieging us, the big camp obviously must be free from them. Anyway it was our only chance, if chance it was. On three sides we were encompassed by watchful savages, on the fourth rolled the river, swollen by melted snow from the mountains, and also commanded by the Apache rifles.
In the opinion of our men the unpleasant position in which we found ourselves was clearly due to Specs's cowardice in firing prematurely, and so giving warning of what otherwise might have been a decisive blow to our enemies. As a vent to the irritation born of their suspense they told him so, in language and with threats which speedily reduced him to such a state that words had no further effect upon him.
The question as to whether or not a messenger could live to reach the other camp had been decided in the negative many times as the morning wore on. The sun blazed down with pitiless fervor, and the horses stamped uneasily in their sheltered corral; the men lay gasping with the heat, under anything standing high enough to cast the least shadow on the glaring sand.
No one had spoken for some time when Specs walked quickly to the wagon from which, after some fumbling, he extracted a large brass kettle. He examined it critically. "Say, I'm kinder sorry I spoke the poor cuss so rough awhile back," murmured a man lying near me. "He's locoed worse'n ever. Scare did it, I reckon." It certainly did seem so, for Specs fitted the pot carefully over his head, took it off and looked it over, then tried it on again. No one cared to interfere with him. We watched him with some curiosity as to what he intended doing.
The kettle evidently wouldn't do for a helmet, if that was his idea, for he put it down. Then he selected two large sticks of cotton wood from a pile of drift that had been collected for fuel, and laid them parallel to each other, a foot apart. Inverting the kettle, he placed it on top of the sticks, and bound the whole together with wire from a broken hay-bale. Lifting the contrivance on to one end, he stuck his head in the kettle, so that the logs rested one on each shoulder. Then he started in a shambling run for the river, down the gully, twenty yards away, and had reached it before anyone realized what he was trying to do. We tried to stop him, but it was too late. "Come back, you fool," some one shouted. "That kittle won't turn no rifle-ball."
The water, sheltered by the jaws of the little cañon, made at this point a pool free from current. Wading out chest-deep Specs lowered his shoulders until the logs floated, then struck out for the swirling stream beyond. At least we supposed he did, for the brass pot moved in that direction, but we could see nothing of the man underneath. The armored cruiser, which had been shaded by the rocky wall, jerked its way beyond the shadow into the blazing sunshine, which made the bright metal glow like a flame. There was a yell from above; the Indians had seen it. Two or three rifle-balls splashed in the water close by, and one went fairly through, for we could see the rough edges made by the bullet as it came out.
Another grooved the side of the pot and went singing away, as a glanced bullet will. Then the current caught the logs, sweeping them downward out of sight.
The firing still continued, and the sheriff called us back to the walls. "Them reds might go chasin' that man-o'-wah, an' then we kin get a couple of 'em, as like as not," he explained.
No Indian came in sight, however, and the firing died gradually away.
We could do nothing now but wait, whatever Specs's fate might be; but everything depended on his escape, and his chance of having succeeded was, naturally, our one topic for discussion. He had eleven miles to drift down the river, for it would have been madness for him to try and land on the opposite bank until he had got beyond the stretch where the Indians would dare follow him.
At least eight of these miles would probably be under fire, and then he might capsize, drown, or a hundred other things could happen. It hardly seemed possible that he could live through it. "You cyan't tell, though," said Barton. "Them Indians cyan't tell jus' wheah his haid is, undah that kettle. It'll lead 'em to fiah too high, mos'ly. Then they cyan't tell when it's theah, for Specs 'll prawb'ly keep it undah watah all he kin. They ain't no reason why he should steeah himself 'gains' nothin' else. It ain't a very gaudy show, maybe; but it's a chance."
With this we had to content ourselves. Our hope rose and fell and rose again as the sun travelled slowly across the sky, and we lay parching in the little shade which the wall could afford us.
Six hours passed by. Seven. Suddenly Mrs. Brainard rose and held up her hand. "Hear that?" she said, after a pause. We had heard nothing, and said so, but she made an impatient signal that we should be still, and we listened once more. Two or three shots, faint in the distance, came over the desert, followed by the ghost of a cheer. Then the man on guard threw up his hat and yelled; a louder cheer answered him, and in a few moments more our reinforcements emerged from the dust they made, and were with us.
The Indians were gone, they said. Not a shot had been fired except to let us know that help was at hand.
The smouldering fires, passed on the way, showed that those who had camped there had not long been gone. They would not return, probably, but it was best to take no chances, and get as soon as possible to the camp. There was no disposition to linger. In an amazingly short time the horses were harnessed or saddled, and the wagon was creaking down the sandy road with its double escort. Now, in answer to our many questions we heard the account of Specs's adventures, as known to the lower camp. There was not much to tell.
Their attention had been attracted by some distant firing, and some Indians were seen, but far out of range. Then, around a bend, the kettle had hove in sight. "We couldn't make out what 'twere, first off," said my informant.
"T'was all banged woppy-jawed by them balls. Holes like one er them tin sieves an' then three or four holes knocked into one. We was kinder uneasy 'bout you fellers up there, because we heard that the Brainard outfit had gone up Santos Niños way, an' we didn't know where you'd got to in chasin' it. When we saw that brass olla, we thought maybe there was a message in it. It come down an' grounded on a bar, in about two foot of water.
"I rode in an' roped it an' dragged it out. I was ashore, an' it was in shaller water, an' I was snakin' it out pretty swift, when somebody yelled for me to go easy.
"When I looked around, there was Specs's legs a-tailin' out behind. The bail of the kettle was hangin' down, and he'd got it under his arms. He looked as if he'd gone up for sure, but there wasn't arv scratch on him an' he hadn't taken in no water. Jus' dead rattled, I reckon. After a while he jerked them long arms and legs some, an' come to a little. He tried to speak his piece, an' after awhile we savvied. He kinder coughed it out, shakin' all over between whiles. We left some women pumpin' whiskey down him, an' lit out up the creek.
"Say, who'd a thought that galoot had so much sand? His stock's up, jus' now, you betcher boots. Boomin'."
While the story was being told to me, several of the men had brought their horses close alongside, so that they could listen, and down the line I could see that there were other knots of our people giving close attention, each to its narrator.
Public opinion had changed, concerning Specs, there could be no doubt as to that. From good-natured contempt it had, naturally enough, swung to the opposite extreme. Specs's name was one which had to be treated with respect. This was made plain when Sam crawled into the wagon to bask in the smiles of his innamorata, for by common consent he was sternly haled forth. Specs was not there, and in his absence no unfair advantage of him should be taken.
The camp was much changed since we had left it, a few hours before. There were fewer people there, and many wagon-tracks led through gaps in the sand-bag barricade. Those who remained were, for the most part, making preparations to leave, for the alarm was over.
By the side of the road taken by our party, under a thatched horse-shelter, stood Specs, tying the ends of a bandanna handkerchief, which wrapped a small bundle. Several people were speaking to him earnestly, but his back was toward them, and he returned no answer. An elderly man stepped out and hailed the wagon, which had nearly lumbered past. As it stopped, he went to where the girl was sitting, and held out his hand as though to help her to alight. "Thought maybe you'd want to thank him fer what he done," said he, as she hesitated. Every one stood gravely regarding her as, accepting the proffered aid, she bounced to the ground. Specs had turned.
Picking up his bundle, he drew a long breath and stepped quickly to where she stood. "T'want nothin'," he said. "I wanted ter do it an' I done it." He stopped for a moment, then added, "I done it fer you." He held out his hand, but before she could take it, drew it back, turned and walked rapidly away, westward, down the old Government trail. No one spoke or tried to stop him. His road led over a little rise, and as he reached the top, his awkward figure stood in black relief against the setting sun, then dropped, step by step, out of sight on the other side.
Drawing herself up, the girl turned to Sam. "He never did have no manners," she said.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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