The copper country evening news. [volume] (Calumet, Mich.) 18??-1907, 1897-03-29
FELIX MARCHANT.
By CLARENCE PULLEN.
Copyright. 1887. by the AuthOr.l
CHAPTER l.

his cartridge belt hitch and glanced
eastward, where the wagon trail lead
ing from the glorieta was lost 10 view
IN the windings of the pass.
IF the blacksmith had something
less than cavalcade of troop horses to
shoe 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 we're
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
as 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 at the officers quar-
tiers three or four garrison ladies. enter
tanned by a young lieutenant sat i'll the
shade on a cottage veranda The ham.
mer of the post blacksmith on whose
motions Felix and Iwere waiting, rang
by other sound than the random bray
from some tothered mule or straying
burro. On the sloping plateau below the
military post a Mexican wagon train
was drawn up 10 one side, and the
swarthy teamsters lay asleep under The
wagons, while the oxen, watched by
herder, grazed down the pass Every
feature of the landscape was sharply DC
fined in light and shade, and through
the thin, transparent, upland air tho
most distant peak looked near The
scene was full Of the repose, the genial
warmth, the illumination, Of early au-
tumu in Arizona.
While our horses stood before the
blacksmith shop Felix and I strolled in
the military burial ground, idly read
ing the names and dates ON the wooden
slabs set thicEly about amid dusty grass
and wild flowers and the fresh earth Of
new mounds. Beneath the name on ev-
cry whitCWa7hcd hcalLoard, in long
rows, there faced Us with awful uni.
formity tlc inscription in black letters,
''Killod by Indians, and it brought TO
our minds more fOrcibly than anything
else perhaps could have done that we
were in the focus Cf ambuscade and
massacre, the rock 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 il times of Indian
troubles obscurely under the trail to
hide them from savage desecration2
Trail and graves and grassy bottoms,
of red rock grown thinly about with
gnarled pines and clumps of scrub oak
the brightness in sunlight, the gloom in
shadow-told mutely 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
riage of Senior 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 nc
full length on a cowskin baceta spread
on the ground in the shade Of the car.
riage, peacefully enjoying his siesta
His mules, little distance away.
grazcd on the hillside in the care of Il
servant, Manuel, who reclined near
them beneats 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
sight of the carriage, came near the
burial ground. She was charming pic.
ture of Mexican beauty, this senorita
from the Santa Cruz valley, sauntering
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 her
birth and station were manifest in the
nnstudied grace, the mingled pride and
gentleness Of her bearing. Influences of
race and climate had nodded this young
girl into those contours which in colder
northern regions come only with ma.
turer years. Her face, with its clear.
pale olive tint, was set OFF most becom.
ingly by the black lace mantilla worn