Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1897-08-10
FELIX NARCHANH.

fELlA MAkUnANl.
By CLARENCE PULLEH.
Copyright. 1871. BY the Author.i
CHAPTER /.
"It's . pity our horses should each
cast shoe today. 1t looks US II we
should have q night ride Of it ON the
plain
As Felix Marchant said this he gave
his cartridge belt hitch and glanced
eastward, where the wagon trail lead.
tug from the glorieta was lost to view
In the windings Of the pass.
IF the blacksmith had something
less than cavalcade Of troop horses to
Dhoe ahead Of ours, we might get away
In time to make the stage station before
camping, he continued discontentedly.
"But things being as they are we've
got to wait and start when we can
Well have to get along as far as were
able today. go into dry camp and strike
the Peloncillos tomorrow. It's an inter.
esting tract of country to cross-the San
Simon plain Indians, rustlers, reptiles
and alkali, they're all on the pro-
gramme. But we can't afford TO lose
any more time than we have to here.
We must push through and take things
a. we find them.
The scene was southern Arizona and
the time bright September day in the
seventies. In the hot Sunshine OF early
afternoon but little life was astir about
the adobe houses and dusty parade
ground of Camp Bowie. a sentinel pac.
ing his beat and the officer Of the day
were in sight. half dozen Mexicans
lounged listlessly in front Of the post
traders store, and mt the officers quar-
tiers three or four garrison ladies. enter
tanned by young lieutenant, sat in the
shade ON cottage veranda. The ham
mer Of the post blacksmith, on whose
motions Felix and I were waiting. rang
in slow time through stiffness unbroken
by other sound than the random bray
from some tethoWd mule or straying
burro. On the slopiny plateau below the
military post Mexican wagon train
was drawn up to one side, and the
swarthy teamsters lay asleep under the
wagons, while the oxen, watched by a
hertier, grazcd down the pass. Every
feature of the landscape was sharply de-
fined in light and shade, and through
the thin, transparent, upland air the
most distant peak looked near. The
scene was full Of the repose. the genial
warmth, the illumination, Of early au-
tumn in Arizona
While our horses stood before the
blacksmith shcp Felix and strolled in
the military burial ground, idly read
ing the names aud dates on the wooden
slabs set thickly about amid dusty grass
and wild flowers and the fresh earth OF
new mounds. Beneath the name on ev-
cry whitewashed headboard, in long
rows, there faced Us with awful uni
formity the inscription i'll black letters,
KILLED BY Indiana" and il brought to
our minds more forcibly than anything
else perhaps could have done that We
were in the focus Of ambuscade and
massacre. the rcck walled route Of saw
age foray through long centuries, the
picturesque and dangerous Apache pass.
We had ridden into Camp Bowie early
that morning, coming from the San Pc
dro valley through the southwesterly
opening Of the pass Within the canyon
our way had lain amid graves, some
marked with headboards or crosses,
some showing only as mounds OF earth
or stone, and what mortal record could
tell how many bodies Of dead men we
rode over, buried in times OF Indian
troubles obscuIcly under the trail to
hide them from savage desecrat'on!
Trail and graves and grassy bottoms,
shut in by scanned ard fssured walls
of red rock grown thinly about with
gnarled pines and clumps Of scrub oak
the brightness in sunlight, the gloom in
shadow-told mutcly their story OF the
Apache. of ambuscade and treacherous
attack, Of murder and torture which
through untold generations have made
this mountain pass Of ominous name
veritable valley Of death.
The wheels Of the massive family car
rage Of Senor Don Ramon Velasquez
Bustamante had imprinted the trail in
advance Of us that morning, coming
from the southwest and he had halted
at Camp Bowie. Now, after his noon
day meal, the stout don was lying at
full length on u cowskin baceta spread
on the ground in the shade Of the car
riage, peacefully enjoying his siesta.
His mules, little distance away,
grazed OH the hillside in the care OF q
servant, Manuel, who reclined near
them beneath tree and caught cat maps
between their excursions.
While Don Ramon slept his daughter,
Carmen, attended by her little Indian
maid, Dolores, wandering about within
hight of the carriage, came near the
burial ground. She was charming pic
ture Of Mexican beauty, this senorita
from the Santa Cruz valley, saunterine
in the sunlight amid the grim surround.
ings of the lonely pass. Spanish blood
stepped in southern sunshine flowed
pure in her veins and the traits OF hel
birth aud station were manifest in the
unstudied grace, the mingled pride and
gentleness of her bearing Influences Of
race and climate had nodded this young
girl into thosc contours which in colder