Arizona Nights | Page 8

the
buttes. The cave ran steep, in the manner of an inclined tunnel, far up
into the dimness. We had to dig our toes in and scramble to make way
up it at all, but we found it dry, and after a little search discovered a
foot-ledge of earth sufficiently broad for a seat.
"That's all right," quoth Jed Parker. "Now, for sleeping places."
We scattered. Uncle Jim and Charley promptly annexed the slight
overhang of the cliff whence the deer had jumped. It was dry at the
moment, but we uttered pessimistic predictions if the wind should
change. Tom Rich and Jim Lester had a little tent, and insisted on
descending to the canon-bed.
"Got to cook there, anyways," said they, and departed with the two
pack mules and their bed horse.
That left the Cattleman, Windy Bill, Jed Parker, and me. In a moment
Windy Bill came up to us whispering and mysterious.
"Get your cavallos and follow me," said he.
We did so. He led us two hundred yards to another cave, twenty feet
high, fifteen feet in diameter, level as a floor.

"How's that?" he cried in triumph. "Found her just now while I was
rustling nigger-heads for a fire."
We unpacked our beds with chuckles of joy, and spread them carefully
within the shelter of the cave. Except for the very edges, which did not
much matter, our blankets and "so-guns," protected by the canvas
"tarp," were reasonably dry. Every once in a while a spasm of
conscience would seize one or the other of us.
"It seems sort of mean on the other fellows," ruminated Jed Parker.
"They had their first choice," cried we all.
"Uncle Jim's an old man," the Cattleman pointed out.
But Windy Bill had thought of that. "I told him of this yere cave first.
But he allowed he was plumb satisfied."
We finished laying out our blankets. The result looked good to us. We
all burst out laughing.
"Well, I'm sorry for those fellows," cried the Cattleman. We hobbled
our horses and descended to the gleam of the fire, like guilty
conspirators. There we ate hastily of meat, bread and coffee, merely for
the sake of sustenance. It certainly amounted to little in the way of
pleasure. The water from the direct rain, the shivering trees, and our hat
brims accumulated in our plates faster than we could bail it out. The
dishes were thrust under a canvas. Rich and Lester decided to remain
with their tent, and so we saw them no more until morning.
We broke off back-loads of mesquite and toiled up the hill, tasting
thickly the high altitude in the severe labour. At the big cave we
dumped down our burdens, transported our fuel piecemeal to the
vicinity of the narrow ledge, built a good fire, sat in a row, and lit our
pipes. In a few moments, the blaze was burning high, and our bodies
had ceased shivering. Fantastically the firelight revealed the knobs and
crevices, the ledges and the arching walls. Their shadows leaped,
following the flames, receding and advancing like playful beasts. Far

above us was a single tiny opening through which the smoke was
sucked as through a chimney. The glow ruddied the men's features.
Outside was thick darkness, and the swish and rush and roar of rising
waters. Listening, Windy Bill was reminded of a story. We leaned back
comfortably against the sloping walls of the cave, thrust our feet toward
the blaze, smoked, and hearkened to the tale of Windy Bill.
There's a tur'ble lot of water running loose here, but I've seen the time
and place where even what is in that drip would be worth a gold mine.
That was in the emigrant days. They used to come over south of here,
through what they called Emigrant Pass, on their way to Californy. I
was a kid then, about eighteen year old, and what I didn't know about
Injins and Agency cattle wasn't a patch of alkali. I had a kid outfit of
h'ar bridle, lots of silver and such, and I used to ride over and be the
handsome boy before such outfits as happened along.
They were queer people, most of 'em from Missoury and such-like
southern seaports, and they were tur'ble sick of travel by the time they
come in sight of Emigrant Pass. Up to Santa Fe they mostly hiked
along any old way, but once there they herded up together in bunches
of twenty wagons or so, 'count of our old friends, Geronimo and Loco.
A good many of 'em had horned cattle to their wagons, and they
crawled along about two miles an hour, hotter'n hell with the blower on,
nothin' to look at but a mountain a week way, chuck full of