“Not extra pert, son. Yuh see, I’m kind o’ old. But I’ll stick as long as I can. So ‘adios,’ an’ be good to yoreself.”
This was the last time that Jimmie saw old Jack. He died on the trail, away over at the San Carlos River toward the White Mountain country, and was buried there under some beautiful trees.
The general also paid Jimmie a visit in the MacDowell hospital.
“Well, my boy, how are you getting along?” he greeted, gazing down with his peculiar grave smile.
“All right, thank you, sir,” asserted Jimmie, whose leg nevertheless pained like sixty.
“The pack-mules returned in fine shape—fine shape,” abruptly spoke the general. “Not a sore back, or a sore hoof. That’s the way mules ought to be handled, always.”
Located here thirty miles east of present Phoenix, Arizona, Camp MacDowell was not an unpleasing post at all. The Salt River, flowing west, was a few miles below; and scarce a mile east the Verde or Green River rippled down to join it. Hazy against the eastern horizon rose the Four Peaks of the Mazatzal, in whose southern face had occurred the cave battle.
The post buildings were thick adobe, with shingle or clay roofs; there were cottonwood trees, for shade; and through the post ran a wide acequia or irrigating ditch.
During all of January, February and March, in the new year 1873, the hunt for the outlaws continued. In bitter weather they were chased from hiding-place to hiding-place amidst the mountains, and given no rest. Then, on the seventh or eighth of April, Hank Hewitt and a party of the MacDowell packers appeared at the post. They were thin and weather-worn: long-haired, long-whiskered, and grimy with smoke and bacon-grease.