Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1872-12-27

- RO.u.f.,CE OF GEL.s BE.vD.

The day that brought us to Oatman's
Flat was murky and cloomy-a day in full
harmony with the character of the country
through which we were travelling. We de-
secluded into the Flat by an abrupt fall in
the road that landed us at once among a
clump of scraggy, darklng willows, droop-
ing wearily over a sluggish little creek. In
the distance glittored the white sand bed of
the Gila; and half buried in it, here and
there, were the ghastly, water bleached
limbs of the trees that the river had up
rooted in its annual frenzy. Verde, or
grease-wood, as ragged and scraggy as the
willows, covered the whole Flat, excepting
where, toward the centre, dilapidated
shanty stood on sandy, cheerless, open
space. Not far from it were the remains
of fence, inclosng some six PAGES of un-
even ground; and on the only upper rail
| lett of the incosure sat dismal looking
solitary crow.
The flat was repulsively dreary and dos-
olate and when Sam, the driver, pointing
to it with his whip, said it was the spot
where the Oatman family had been MUIR
dered, and lay buried, it added nothing to
its attractiveness. Only one of the family
escaped-a little chap, who crawled away
after he had been left for dead, and brought
the white people from the next settlement
| to the scene of The massacre. There was
nothing to be done but to bury the mutt
lated corpses. After this the place was de-
serted and summed though there had been
no more Indian deprcdations committed
for years.
watched the solitary cabin with a strange
fascination. Sam, too, had his eyes fixed
on something that might have been the
shadow OF one of the victims, nitting by
the black gap which had once been the
door. The place was so wierd, and the
ghostly shadow chimed in so well with the
rest, that accepted it as part of the un-
canny whole. We were going along at the
usual lesurely gait, when sam suddenly
and eXctedly whipped up the mules, and
leaned out Of The ambulance to speak tC
Phil who drove the army wagon contain
ing our baggage. The road was good and
solid, so that / took no alarm but, when
the speed was continued, and the baggage
wagon kept laundering close in the rear
ventured to ask as there danger from In.
dians, here?"
"There hlin't no linens been seen round
here for more than three years" was the
answer.
Travelling from Los Angeles to Tuscon
you can, If you so choose, sleep under Q
roof almost every night, providing you
have good teams. There are Government
|
travellers are taken in" by the station
keepers, though not on Government ac
count. do not say il il pleasant at al
these stations-particularly for woman
as she will seldom or never meet one of hel
own sex on the way. When We left For
| Yuma, Sam assured me that | would mo-
see white womans face between there
and Tuscon. We were happily disappoint
ed, for we met not only one, but whole
family Of them, one after the other.
At Burke's Station, where we were I,
pass the night, the first surprise awaited
us. The house, a squalid adobe, was bull
in the style common along the route; an
open passage way from front to rear, will
rooms on either side. The principal room
TO the left was bar-room and store-room
the one TO the right, sitting-room and bed
room, and behind 1t was the kitchen. Tn,
passage-way was the dining hall. Whel
the tall young Missouran, mine hest, ha,
ushered me into the room on the right, h,
stepped to the opening leading to the kitch
on, and called out:
"Here, Sis; como and speak to the la
dy."
obolont to the call, a bashful, half-growl
girl appeared, wiping her hands on her a
prom, and looking mp timidly from unde