LOST IN THE DESERT.
On the afternoon in which last chapter’s events occurred, a train of three wagons plodded slowly up to the southern bank of the Gila, about twenty miles east from the place where Pedro forded it. Here was quite a good ford, and it was somewhat in use, being on a northern trail—one of the many from Mexico to the north. The country about it was exactly similar to that around the other ford with one exception—away in the east, Vulture Mountain was barely visible in the distance. From that mountain toward the east the Gila river was constantly under the quiet supervision of a sandy-rocky range of disconnected mountains, to its extreme source. But here all was flat, sterile, and quiet.
The wagons were accompanied by several horsemen, and one horsewoman—or rather, young girl. In fact, these were almost the entire party, the only ones in the wagons being the teamster, one American, and two Canadians.
It was a small train—a “whiffit-outfit.” Three wagons were a small number beside the dozens that generally consorted. It could easily be seen it was not the property of a large stock-owner or freighter, but was evidently the property of a single man—an emigrant.
It was even so. The man yonder on the verge of the bank—that sturdy, bronzed man of fifty or thereabouts, about whom the other horsemen gather, is the owner: Joel Wheeler, a northern New Yorker.
Hearing of the rapid fortunes which were constantly being made by enterprising Americans in Mexico, he had left a comfortable home in New York to gain immense riches. After being in that “golden” land for several years he had found out what many others had done before him—that the men in Mexico were as keen and shrewd at a bargain as any one else—in fact, many times more so.
His exchequer ran low; marauding savages and violent disease thinned his flocks; his native servants plundered him; until, completely disgusted and homesick, he packed his goods and chattels and started, en route for his old State.
His daughter, the horsewoman on the sorrel pony, was a sweet, lovely girl of eighteen. Blessed with natural beauty, the several years’ sojourn in Mexico had done much to enliven and develop it—being a brunette she was rendered doubly comely by the fresh, dry air of that country.
Another of its pleasant freaks had it played upon her; it had given her that much to be desired blessing, perfect health. From a pallid, feeble invalid she had become a jovial, blooming maid—a very picture of sound health. During her residence in Mexico she had, without losing her northern modesty and chastity, contracted the universal abandon of the graceful, indolent people, which, while it detracted nothing from her purity, visibly added to her external attractions. In one respect, however, she still clung to her former breeding—her equitation. While it was, and is, customary for Mexican ladies, when so inclined, to ride astride of a horse, and while she knew it was much the easiest way, she still rode, as she termed it, “in civilized fashion.”
Christina Wheeler (Christina being curtailed to the tantalizing appellation of Kissie) was a courageous, high-spirited girl. Though being in possession of several masculine traits, she still preserved that feminine reserve and chariness of conduct which is so necessary in male eyes, and without which woman sinks to the level of a beautiful, favorite dog, or a precise, costly gem. She was a kind and beloved mistress to the few servants; and while treating them graciously and well, brooked no unseemly or obtrusive familiarity. Besides her beauty she was no nobler nor more intellectual than scores of women one may chance upon during a day’s ride through a prosperous and refined district. But her beauty was regal—more—bewitching, as many a disappointed Mexican dandy only too well remembered, who had basked in her impartial smiles only to mope and sulk afterward.