The Red-Blooded Heroes of the Frontier | Page 8

to a thousand dollars for any one
who would make the trip. It was a great prize, but the danger was
greater than the prize. No one responded. To go himself was impossible;
their contract must be fulfilled.
At this juncture a hero appeared. His name was Scot Moore. Moore
was the contractor then furnishing wood and hay to the post. Coming in
from one of his camps and learning of the dilemma, himself a friend of
Loving, he instantly went to Goodnight.
"Charlie," he said, "why in the world did you not send for me before?
Joe shall not die here like a dog if I can save him. I've got a young
Kentucky saddle mare here that's the fastest thing on the Pecos. I'll be
in Vegas by sun-up to-morrow morning, and I'll be back here sometime
to-morrow night with a doctor, if the Navajos don't get us. Pay? Pay be
damned. I'm doin' it for old Joe; he'd go for me in a minute. If I'm not
back by nine o'clock to-morrow night, Charlie, send another messenger
and just tell old Joe that Scot did his best."
"It's mighty good of you, Scot," replied Goodnight, "I never will forget
it, nor will Joe. You know I'd go myself if I could."
"That's all right, pardner," said Scot. "Just come over to my camp a
spell and look over some papers I want you to attend to if I don't show
up."
And they strolled away. Officers and other bystanders shook their
heads sadly.
"Devilish pity old Scot had to come in."
"Might 'a known nobody could hold him from goin'."

"He'll make Vegas all right in a night run if the mare don't give out, but
God help him when he starts back with a doctor in a wagon; ain't one
chance in a thousand he'll got through."
"Well, if any man on earth can make it, bet your alce Scot will."
These were some of the comments. Scot Moore was known and loved
from Chihuahua to Fort Lyon. One of the biggest-hearted, most
amiable and generous of men, ha was known as the coolest and most
utterly fearless in a country where few men were cowards.
At nightfall, the mare well fed and groomed and lightly saddled, Scot
mounted, bearing no arms but his two pistols, called a careless "Hasta
luego, amigos" to his friends, and trotted off up the road. For two hours
he jogged along easily over the sandy stretches beyond the Bosque
Redondo. Then getting out on firmer ground, the mare well warmed, he
gave her the rein and let her out into a long, low, easy lope that scored
the miles off famously. And so he swept on throughout the night, with
only brief halts to cool the mare and give her a mouthful of water,
through Puerta de Luna, past the Cañon Pintado, up the Rio Gallinas,
past sleeping freighters' camps and Mexican placitas. Twice he was
fired upon by alarmed campers who mistook him for a savage marauder,
but luckily the shots flew wild.
The last ten miles the noble mare nearly gave out, but, a friend's life the
stake he was riding for, Scot's quirt and spurs lifted her through.
Half an hour after sunrise, before many in the town were out of bed,
Scot rode into the plaza of Las Vegas and turned out the doctor, whom
he knew.
Dr. D---- was no coward by any means, but it took all Scot's eloquence
and persuasiveness to induce him to consent to hazard a daylight
journey through to Sumner, for he well knew its dangers. Scarcely a
week passed without news of some fearful massacre or desperate
defence. But, stirred by Scot's own heroism or perhaps tempted by the
heavy fee to be earned, he consented.

Having breakfasted and gotten the best team in town hitched to a light
buckboard, Scot and the doctor were rolling away into the south on the
Sumner trail before seven o'clock, over long stretches of level grassy
mesa and past tall black volcanic buttes.
Driving on without interruption or incident, shortly after noon they
approached the head of the Arroyo de los Enteros, down which the trail
descended to the lower levels of the great Pecos Valley. Enteros Cañon
is about three miles long, rarely more than two hundred yards wide, its
sides rocky, precipitous, and heavily timbered, through which wound
the wagon trail, exposed at every point to a perfect ambuscade. It was
the most dreaded stretch of the Vegas-Sumner road, but Scot and the
doctor drew near it without a misgiving, for no sign of the savage
enemy had they seen.
Just before reaching the head of the cañon, the road wound round a
high butte. Bowling rapidly along, Scot half dozing with