Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1873-01-16
9sifp Afnnsbst yournal.
From the Overland Monthly
A ROMANCE OF CHA BEND.

The day that brought us to Oatman,s
Flat was murky and gloomy-a day in full
harmony with the character of the country
through which we were travelling. We
descended into the Flat by an abrupt fall
in the road, that landed US at once among
a clump of scraggy, darklihg willows,
dropping YEARLY over sluggish little
creek. In the distance glittered the
white sand-bed of the ella; and hall
buried in it, here and there, were the
CHASTITY, water bleached limbs of the trees
that the river had uprooted in its annual
frenzy. Verde, OF grease-wood, rag.
ged and scraggy as the willows, covered
the whole Flat, excepting where, toward
the centre, dilapidated shanty stood on
sandy, cherries open space. Not tar
from it were the remains of fence, in
closing some six PAGES of uneven ground;
and on the only upper rail left of the in
closure sat dismal-looking, solitary
crow.
The Flat was repulsively dreary and
desolate; and when Sam, the driver,
pointing to it with his whip, said it was
the spot where the Oatman family had
been murdered and lay buried. it added
nothing to its attractiveness. Only one
ofthe whole family escaped 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 mutilated corpses.
After this, the place was deserted and
stunned, though there had been no more
Indian depredations committed for years.
l 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,
fitting by the black gap which had once
been the door. The place was so weird,
and the ghostly shadow chimed in so well
with the rest, that accepted it as part of
the uncanny whole. We were going along
at the usual leisurely gait. when Sam sud-
denly and excitedly whipped up the mules.
and leaned out of the ambulance to speak
to Phil, who drove the army-wagon con-
tanning our baggage. The road was good
and solid, go that l took no alarm but,
when the speed was continued, and the
baggage-wagon kept laundering close in
the rear, ventured to ask, us there dan
ger from Indians, here ?"
"There hahn no Unions been seen round
here for more'n three years was the
answer.
Travelling from Los Angeles to Tucson,
you can, ifyou choose, sleep under roof
almost every night. providing you have
good teams. There are government forage
stations along the whole route, where
travellers are taken i'm by the station
keepers-though not on government ac-
count. l do not say that it is pleasant at
all these stations-particularly for wo-
man, as she will seldom or never meet one
Of her own sex on the way. When we
lett Fort Yuma, Sam assured me that
would not see woman's face between
there and Tucson. We were happily dis
appointed. for we met not only one, but
whole family Of them, one after the other.
At Burke's Station, where we were to
pass the night, the first surprise awaited
us. The house, a squalid abode, was built
in the style common along the route an
open passage-way from front to rear, with
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 it was the kitchen. The
passage-way was dining-hall.. When the
tall young Missourian, mine host, had
ushered me into the room on the right, he
stepped to the opening leading to the
kitchen, and called out
Here, Sis; come and speak to the
lady"
Obedient to the call, bashful, half
grown girl appeared, wiping her hands on
her apron, and looking up timidly from
under long eyelashes. took her by the
hand. 'How do you do, child? How in
the world did you get here-and where is
your mother?" asked.
Sam and Phil stood in the hall-door,
nudging each other, till Sam could restrain
himself no longer.
"Why, that's his wife," pointing to
young Goliath from Missouri; land her
dad and MANS living in the old shanty
down on the Flat. I'll be derned if they
didn't give me the wust scare / had yet
thought they was Injens-shore %
"And how old are you ?" | asked the
girl.
"Almest fifteen" was the answer: and,
when the men withdrew, she told me
about the rest of her family, whom would
probably see along the road
A coarse cotton gown, made with a
yoke about an inch and a half in depth, |
was drawn up close around her neck, |
and hung loosely about her slender, mma-
ture form; her naked feet were thrust in
to coarse boots, and a large check-aporn
cOnpleteu ner costume, But there was q |
shy, daisy-like grace about her, that made |
one forget the dress, and see only the |
dove-like eyes and the half pensive smile |
on her face. Her husband treated her in |
all things like child and she obeyed
him without murmur or a question.
When we left, he told US that we would
lind Sis's aunt at kenyon's Station and
charged us to say that Sis was well. and
not the least bit homesick
We made Kenyon station early in the
day-Sam and Phil greatly enjoying the
prospect of seeing another white woman.
She appeared on the threshold, brawnv.
coarse-handed woman of about forty H.
dy looking in spite of her bare feet, and
the short pipe in her mouth. By her side
appeared a shock-headed girl OF twelve,
with eyes agog, and mouth open, at the
strange apparition OF a civilized looking
white woman. The husband stood beside
the ambuance--siN feet and half in his
c0w-hide boots--and with good-humored
smile on his leathery face. The house,
like that at Burkc's station was adobe
but there was an air of homely comfort
about il, inside and out, cheerful and inyi-