The Red-Blooded Heroes of the Frontier | Page 7

draw off. The afternoon passed without
alarm. As a matter of fact, the remaining Comanches had given up the
siege as too dear a bargain, and had struck off southwest toward
Guadalupe Peak.
When night came, Loving grew alarmed over his situation. Jim might
be taken and killed. Then no chance would remain for him where he lay.
He must escape through the Indians and try to reach the trail at the
crossing in the big bend four miles north. Here his own outfits might
reach him in time. Therefore, he started early in the night, dragged
himself painfully up the bluff, and reached the plain. He might have
lain down by the trail near by; but supposing the Comanches still about,
he set himself the task of reaching the big bend.
Starving, weak from loss of blood, his shattered thigh compelling him
to crawl, words cannot describe the horror of this journey. But he
succeeded. Love of life carried him through. And so, late the next
afternoon, the afternoon of the day Goodnight started to his relief,
Loving reached the crossing, lay down beneath a mesquite bush near
the trail, and fell into a swoon. Ever since, this spot has been known as
Loving's Bend. It is half a mile below the present town of Carlsbad.
At dusk of the evening on which Loving reached the ford, a large party
of Mexican freighters, travelling south from Fort Sumner to Fort
Stockton, arrived and pitched their camp near where he lay But Loving
did not hear them. He was far into the dark valley and within the very
shadow of Death. Help must come to him; he could not go to it.
Luckily it came.
While some were unharnessing the teams, others wert out to fetch
firewood. In the darkness one Mexican, thinking he saw a big mesquite
root, seized it and gave a tug. It was Loving's leg. Startled and
frightened, the Mexican yelled to his mates:
"Que vienen, hombres! Que vienen por el amor de Dios! Aqui esta un

muerto."
Others came quickly, but it was not a dead man they found, as their
mate had called. Dragged from under the mesquite and carried to the
fire, Loving was found still breathing. The spark of life was very low,
however, and the mescal given him as a stimulant did not serve to rouse
him from his stupor. But the next morning, rested somewhat from his
terrible hardships and strengthened by more mescal, he was able to take
some food and tell his story. The Mexicans bathed and dressed his
wound as well as they could, and promised to remain in camp until his
friends should come up.
Before noon Goodnight and his six men galloped in. They had reached
his entrenchment that morning, guided by the Indian sign around about
it, and had discovered and followed his trail. Goodnight hired a party of
the Mexicans to take one of their carretas and convey Loving through
to Fort Sumner. With the Fort still more than two hundred miles away,
there was small hope he could survive the journey, but it must be tried.
A rude hammock was improvised and slung beneath the canvas cover
of the carreta, and, placed within it, Loving was made as comfortable as
possible. After a nine days' forced march, made chiefly by night, the
Mexicans brought their crazy old carreta safely into the post.
While with rest and food Loving had been gaining in strength, the heat
and the lack of proper care were telling badly on his wound. Goodnight
had returned to the outfits, and, after staying with them a week, he had
brought them through as far as the Rio Penasco without further mishap.
Then placing the two herds in charge of the Scott brothers, he himself
made a forced ride that brought him into Sumner only one day behind
Loving.
Goodnight found his partner's condition critical. Gangrene had attacked
the wound. It was apparent that nothing but amputation of the wounded
leg could save him. The medical officer of the post was out with a
scouting cavalry detail, and only a hospital steward was available for
the operation. To trust the case to this man's inexperience seemed
murder. Therefore, Goodnight decided to send a rider through to Las
Vegas, the nearest point where a surgeon could be obtained.

Here arose what seemed insuperable difficulties. From Fort Sumner to
Las Vegas the distance is one hundred and thirty miles. Much travelled
by freight teams carrying government supplies, the road was infested
throughout with hostile Navajos, for whom the freight trains were the
richest spoils they could have. Offer what he would, Goodnight could
find no one at the Fort bold enough to ride through alone and fetch a
surgeon. He finally raised his offer