Overland Tales

An officer alone would have thought it unnecessary to take so large an escort as ours, but the commanding officer had stipulated that the lieutenant must not undertake these rides with me unless he took twelve men. The Indians would risk any number of their braves, he said, to get an officer's wife into their possession; and then he would have to turn out his whole command to rescue me. So, to save him this trouble, we promised to obey orders.

There was one curious hill, that I never passed without counting from six to twelve rattlesnakes wriggling up the side of it. This rattlesnake hill was about half-way between camp and Pinos Altos; and a mile or two beyond, I saw the first tall pines, from which this region takes its name. They were giants, in fact; it made me dizzy to look up to the tallest point I could see, as the tree swayed gently to and fro against the deep-blue sky.

Our horses were walking now; the hills grew into mountains, and came closer around us; the road was hardly a road any more – I doubt that anything but Indian ponies or pack-trains had ever gone over it, till the "boys in blue" came here – and the inconsiderate thorns caught and tore my "best" riding-habit at every step. We could now see the red earth the miners in this section liked so well to find; they had been prospecting all along Whiskey Creek, but had gone higher and higher, till settling in Pinos Altos proper, at last. Up, up, we went, till I thought we must be nearing the clouds. The air felt sharp and cool, even in the midday sun, but we had not yet reached the summit.

At last the advance-guard halted, and one of the men, turning, uttered an exclamation of wonder and surprise. The Pinos Altos people had cut down the tall pines as much as possible on this side, because the Indians had always approached under cover of them when they had made their attacks on the place; and now, without hindrance or obstruction, we had a view, such as I have never enjoyed since. All the mountains I had thought so immensely high lay at our feet, and away beyond them I could see far into the country – for hundreds of miles, it seemed to me. To the right of us, we could peer into Old Mexico; the Three Brothers – three peaks very similar in appearance and close together – were pointed out to me; and over that way was Janos, they said – the first town after crossing the border – the place our deserters and fugitives from justice always tried to reach. Five minutes' ride now brought us in sight of Pinos Altos – a few straggling shanties, built of logs, brush, or adobe, just as it happened to suit the builder. Beyond Pinos Altos the world seemed literally shut in, or shut out, by mountains; there was snow on the highest peaks nine months of the year; no one had felt inclined to explore them as yet – indeed, it was all people could do to draw their breath comfortably here, I thought. The streets in this city had not yet been thoroughly regulated, as some of the inhabitants had found it convenient to commence mining operations in, or immediately outside, their houses; and, following a good lead they had struck, had sometimes continued these operations till some other miner, with six-shooter in hand, had declared no man had a right to dig "round his shanty." Some other miner had coaxed the waters of Whiskey Creek on to his "claim," situated on the other side of town, having dug for this purpose a ditch some five or six feet deep. Still another had sunk a shaft twenty feet deep, at his front door, so as to "hold that mine" for two years. But mining was not confined to the streets of the city, by any means; companies of five, six, or twenty men had ventured out as far as their number would permit. It would not have been a very safe occupation at the best; for even our men, when sent to cut hay within sight of the fort, had to work with their revolvers buckled on, and their carbines within reach. How much more, then, did these men risk, in lonely, out-of-the-way places, where no succor could reach them – where only the serene sky overhead, and the red demon inflicting the torture, could hear the last agonized cry that escaped the blanched lips of his writhing, helpless victim.

As we approached, the miners laid down their picks, and stared at us. Here and there a Mexican woman, who had followed the fortunes of her lord and master into the wilderness, appeared at the door of some shanty, her head covered with the inevitable rebozo; and, taking a quick survey of our party, would vanish the next moment to communicate the news of our arrival to her amigos and compadres. "Taking" the ditches, but carefully avoiding the shafts, we came to a house rather larger and better-appearing than the rest, and were invited by a mannerly Spaniard to alight and rest in his "house." His wife waited on us in the pleasantest manner; but the building we had entered consisted of only one room, which was store, sitting-room, kitchen, and all. The news of our arrival spread like wild-fire; miners from far and near hurried to Rodriguez' store; and the place being small, the circle around us was soon as close as good manners would allow of – and good manners they all had, Mexicans and Americans. Those who could not find room inside, were out by the door, patting Toby, examining my side-saddle, and asking questions of the escort. Señor Rodriguez was in the habit of weighing the gold the miners found in the course of the day, and buying it for greenbacks, or exchanging for it such provisions as he had on hand. A huge, bearded Mexican stepped up to the little counter now, and emptying his leather bag of its shining contents, selected the largest piece – the size of a hazel-nut – and presented it to me, with an air of such genuine honesty, such chivalric grace, that I felt I could not refuse the gift without wounding the man's feelings. I could only say, "Thank you," in English; but having accepted this first offering, I could not refuse to accept from the rest the largest piece of gold each miner had found that day. The first piece had been the largest found.

Taking our departure when the sun was almost hidden behind the mountains, we could not shake off a nervous feeling as we picked our way through the labyrinth of rocks, trees, and shrubs, for this was the favorite hour for Indian attacks. They hardly ever attack a train or camp after night; their chosen time is just before dark, or early in the morning, before sunrise; of course, they are not particular as to what hour of the day they can appropriate your scalp, but they have seldom or never been known to attack the whites at night.

We could already see the camp-fires in the distance, when a number of stealthily moving objects in the road attracted my attention. Toby snorted as though an Indian were already clutching at the bridle; but a most discordant yelping, barking, and howling struck my ear just then like the sweetest of music: a pack of coyotes only had gathered around us. They followed us all the way to camp, and, surrounding our quarters, kept up their serenade till broad daylight. A band of equally musical wild-cats had chosen the infantry camp as the theatre for their performances; and an occasional roar from one of those long-built, panther-like animals called California lions taught me that there was life and animation in Nature here at night, if not in the daytime.

Old Cecilio having returned during our absence, we started out, the next morning, after guard-mount, on another exploring expedition. When the hills, shutting in the valley with the fort, had closed behind us, we halted for a moment to look down the road by which we had first approached Fort Bayard. There, before us to the left, lay the San José Mountain Range, grand and stately, partly covered with cedars, pines, and firs. Winding along the foot of the range, the eye could follow the course of the beautiful, silver-clear White Water, bordered by willows, ash, and poplars. The most fantastic rocks rose abruptly out of the water, here and there, covered with moss and vines; an aloe plant or cactus generally adorning the highest point – growing where not a handful of earth could be seen, from which they might draw life and sustenance. To the right of us – ah! there was New Mexico, its barren hills, its monotonous plains, "the trail of the serpent" lying over all; for the Indians had only lately set fire to the grass, and it had consumed the scant vegetation.

An hour's ride brought us in sight of the ruins of the San José copper mines, on the side of the mountain. It was rather steep climbing to reach it; but the plateau, on which the works lay, must have been a quarter of a mile across. Placing sentinels, we inspected the old mill. Everything was rude and primitive, but huge in dimensions; and the different jacals that surrounded the adobe building corroborated the guide's statement that some fifty men had been employed here, "and they had fought bravely and sold their lives dearly," he said, "the day they were attacked by the Indians, three or four years ago."

"A white man," Cecilio continued, "a rebel, had led this band of Indians, and, adding his knowledge of the habits of the white man to the cunning of the savages, but few Americans or Mexicans could escape these fiends. This wretch never erred in the aim he took – a ball through the neck always sending his victim to his last account – but here, on this spot, he had found his match. Some American, whose name the guide had forgotten, had sent a bullet through his traitor's heart, at last; and the Indians, never resting until the brave man had been laid in the dust, then left this region, because, possibly, there was nothing more to destroy." Clearing away the brush and rubbish at our feet, the guide held up his hand – "And here, señora," he said, – pointing to two sunken graves marked by pieces of smoothed plank, – "here they are buried side by side: the rebel who led the Indians, and the white man who killed him." It was nothing uncommon to meet with nameless graves in this country; but a thrill passed through my heart, as I looked at these two mounds, where friend and foe slumbered so peacefully, "side by side."

It was dangerous to tarry long in one spot, the guide reminded us. The orderly brought Copp and Toby, and we pursued our way through the laughing, blooming valley. Nuts, grapes, and hops grew wild here; and peaches, Cecilio said, grew near the Santa Rita mines, but they had been planted there by the former inhabitants and employés of the mines. The mines originally belonged to a Spanish lady, to whose ancestors seven leagues of the country surrounding them had been granted by the Spanish Government, long before the territory belonged to Uncle Sam. Her representatives had worked the mines with a force of some two hundred men, till the Indians had overpowered them, and destroyed the works. The immense piles of copper-ore, on either side of the road, told us that we were nearing Santa Rita, at last; and there, just at the point of the San José Range, lay a large, strongly-built adobe fort. Buildings of different sizes and kinds lay clustered around this, which appeared to be furnace and fastness at once. Placing sentinels, we commenced exploring above ground; under-ground I refused to venture, in my cowardice. We found works of considerable magnitude; I counted twelve bellows, in a kind of hall, that must have been sixty feet high, but the rafters and beams overhead had rotted, and the weight of the mud, with which all roofs are covered in this country, had borne down the roof, and half covered an enormous wheel, some forty feet in diameter. Everything about this wheel that was not wood, was copper; not a vestige of iron, steel, or stone, was to be seen around here: it was copper, wood, and adobe. But copper was everywhere – copper-ore, so rich that the veins running through it could be scraped out with a penknife; copper just smelted; copper beaten into fantastic shapes, as though the workmen, in their despair, had meant to use these as weapons against the Indians, when attacked here, years ago. For the same band, with the white leader, had attacked these works; and Cecilio showed us the dents the Indian arrows had made in the little wooden door the men had succeeded in closing, when first attacked. But the families of these men had lived in the buildings outside the fort; and to rescue wife and children from death, and worse than death, they had abandoned their place of safety in the fort, and, with the superintendent leading them, they had fought the savages bravely, but had been defeated and slaughtered, at last. Leaving nine men with me, the lieutenant, guide, and three men descended into the shaft, went some five hundred yards, and, on their return, reported that everything looked as though deserted only yesterday.

Having confidence in old Cecilio, we now took the trail we had missed the other day, as this would enable us to visit the San José gold mine on our way back to camp. We could ride only "Indian file," but soon came to a mountain composed entirely of white flint. Sand and earth, carried here by the wind, and bearing grass and flowers, could be scraped aside anywhere, discovering underneath the same semi-transparent rock. Again we took the narrow trail, which brought us to what appeared to be the entrance to a cave, in the side of a hill; a wooden cross was fastened over it, and a road, built entirely by hand, led to the half-consumed remains of a number of buildings, on the banks of a creek. The guide and lieutenant entered the mine alone, leaving the men for my protection, but soon returned, as fallen earth blocked up the passage near the entrance.

"But oh, señora, the gold taken from this mine was something wonderful," the guide said, enthusiastically; "and there is still a whole 'cow-skin' full of it, buried in one of these holes" – pointing to different shafts we were passing on our way to the burnt cottages. "When the Indians came here the white men tried to take it with them, but were so closely pursued that they threw it into one of these places, intending to come back for it; but all they could do, later, was to bury their people decently, and the gold is still there – left for some stranger to find."

The eyes of the soldiers – gathered around the graves we had dismounted to see – glittered at the old guide's tale; but the sight of these lonely, forgotten graves could awaken but one thought in my breast: How long would it be before another group might bend over our graves and say, "I wonder who lies buried here!"