Columbus and Other Heroes of American Discovery

by N. D'Anvers

The account given of the first trip is little more than a résumé of all that had been done by the early travelers whose work we have already recorded; but the second contains many a thrilling anecdote of intercourse with the Navajoes, who so long harassed the white settlers in the newly-annexed American territories.

Accompanied by a man named Jim Davis—“a small, wiry, hatchet-faced, red-haired Yankee, known as the Emigrant’s Friend,” on account of the welcome he gave to all new-comers to what he considered his own special domain—Cozens crossed the Rio Grande near its entrance into New Mexico, and, after visits to the pueblos or towns of Acoma and Laguna, commenced the ascent of the Sierra Madre, from the summit of which a magnificent view, stretching far away to the Pacific, was obtained.

Thus far all went well, and the descent of the western slope was all but accomplished, when it became necessary to encamp for the night. Cozens had fallen asleep, and was dreaming of the lovely scenes he was about to visit, when he was suddenly awakened by a hand laid on his shoulder. He started up, revolver ready, but no one except “Jimmy,” the Irish servant, was near, who whispered, “She is calling me!” Thinking his servant had gone mad, or had woke up in terror from a nightmare, the master was about to order him off to bed again, when a low wail, like that of a child in trouble, fell upon his ear.

“Jimmy” was right. She was calling him, and she was one of the mules, at that moment in an agonized struggle with a panther, whose low, almost plaintive yell was one of triumph. Rushing forward, accompanied by two gentlemen of his party, Cozens came up just as the mule’s sufferings were over, and shared with them the triumph of shooting the panther, who turned out to be one of the finest creatures of the kind ever brought down in the neighborhood.

On the following day a slight détour was made to visit the ruins of El Moro, one of the most stately of the old Spanish cities, bearing traces on its walls of the engraved names of many of the old heroes of the days when the power of the Roman Catholic Church was at its zenith. From El Moro a ride of a few hours brought the cavalcade to the Valley of Zuni, inhabited by a few survivors of a race of blue-eyed and fair-skinned Indians, who are said to have been descended from the Welsh miners who accompanied Prince Madoc on that visit to Cibola, concerning which so hot a war has been waged among archæologists.

Entering the town of Zuni, a ruin differing but little in general character from that of El Moro, the travelers were courteously received by the cacique, or chief—a fine-looking old man, with large, intelligent, dark-blue eyes—wearing a Spanish shawl and trowsers. He conducted them over his city, pointing out to them, among its special features, a sacred spring, from which neither man nor beast was ever allowed to drink, the genius of the place avenging any such desecration by instant death.

After a careful examination of the wonders of Zuni, the ascent of the mountain plateau on the west was commenced, and, after many a pause to examine the strange monuments of a departed race with which its sides and summit were strewn, the land of the blue-eyed Indians was left behind, and that of the fierce Navajoes entered.

Again, as in the Apache country, Cozens had encamped for the night with a sense of false security, when he awoke suddenly, a presentiment of danger, which he could not explain, causing him to start up and look around him. As he listened intently, the sharp crack of a rifle-shot struck upon his ear, succeeded by another and yet another. Springing to his feet, he saw a gentleman of the party advancing with stealthy steps, who laid his finger on his lips and whispered, “Hist! Navajoes.”

Another moment and the Navajo war-whoop rang out, and about a dozen dusky forms, mounted on splendid horses, were seen advancing toward the camp. “We’d better go behind the wagon,” suggested one of the white men. From behind the friendly shelter of the wagon, therefore, the heroes watched the approach of their enemies, who, however, to their great surprise, suddenly disappeared.

“It’s the pits! the pits!” cried one of the party, rejoicing at the thought that the Indians had fallen into a hollow unperceived by them until it was too late to check their horses; but again the wild war-whoop rang out, and as the white men fired, a shower of arrows cleft the air. Cozens received one of these missiles in his arm, but, drawing it out, he continued to fire at intervals, and by their judicious mode of aiming, the handful of white men managed to keep off nearly three times their number of savages, who finally rode off, leaving many of their warriors and horses dead upon the field of action.