Did I say impartial smiles? I was wrong—entirely so. If report said truly, the sweetest were bestowed on her father’s chief man, or foreman. He was with the party, being an adopted son of the old gentleman. Sturdy, self-reliant and brave, and withal, handsome, being brought up from infancy with Christina, no wonder her romantic spirit had endowed him with all the qualities requisite as a hero. It had; and as she gazed at him now, as he conversed with her father, she felt pleased at seeing how much he relied on young Carpenter.
The young man bestrode a light-colored steed, known from its peculiar color throughout the western and southern States as a “clay-bank.” He was well curried and rubbed down; indeed a curry-comb attached to his saddle-horn denoted this was an every-day occurrence, even in the desert.
Such a man was Samuel Carpenter. At twenty-five years of age he well understood wild life, and it showed his tidy, neat habits—every thing belonging to him being kept in perfect order.
The other two horsemen were rough-looking, wiry men of middle age. One, mounted on a gray “States horse,” was Burt Scranton—Carpenter’s assistant. The other was a man well known in southern Texas and northern Mexico—“Tim Simpson, the guide.”
The latter, for a stipulated sum, had agreed to conduct the party by the shortest and quickest way to the Leavenworth and Texas trail—being nearly four hundred miles from their present position.
Like many others of his calling he was reticent in the extreme, scarcely speaking save in monosyllables. He had several reasons for this: one was that it kept him out of trouble; another, that he was not annoyed by a cross-fire of questions, which guides detest.
The teamsters were Kit Duncan, an American, and Napoleon and Louis Robidoux, two brother Canadians, whom Joel Wheeler had brought from New York. They were now returning with glad hearts toward their northern home.
It is unnecessary to state the party was well armed—every man carried a rifle, and the regulation brace of revolvers and a “bowie.” The wagons were drawn by horses—six to a wagon.
Instead of sitting in the wagon and driving, the teamsters had adopted the southern habit, of riding the “near” wheel-horse and guiding the leaders by a single line. When wishing to “gee,” he steadily pulled the line; to “haw,” a short jerk was sufficient.
This is the party, its outfit and position, now on the southern bank of the Gila.