However, we found a well, a house, and some log fences. So, with water from the first, wood from the last, and hay from the barn, we camped with all the comforts of the season. Finding no one at home, we excused the host and helped ourselves. “Home” was a log cabin by the side of a hill, but in the choice language of Lincoln County (we had then reached New Mexico), it became a “chosy,” from the Spanish casa, a house. When its owner, Mr. Shorthorns, a typical cowboy, appeared, we took him in to supper, and gained his good will and permission to help ourselves to everything in sight. If soldiers ever neglect such an invitation, they must be quite unworthy of their calling. I think Sacramento fences will average less in height than was once fashionable, and that potatoes and turnips will be scarce for a season. But I can testify that no “slow deer” (calves, sheep and goats), were killed by our party.
Shorthorns assured us that in the Piñon country turkeys grew on the trees, deer ranged with cattle, and elk were lassoed for sport and released. We dreamed of game all night, and imagined ourselves climbing the ladder of fame over the backs of monster bucks and sailing through life on turkey wings and elk antlers.
Next morning we chose an objective in the Piñons and entered the theatre of war.
At daylight Mr. X. and I, followed by the light wagon, with a teamster and cook, our blankets, mess-chest and a keg of water, led the attack. “Grover Cleveland” was scout, and his black and white hair was ever seen where snow-birds and robins, lizards and rabbits, were thickest. We on foot as the vanguard preceded the light wagon up a cañon toward Piñon Tanks, while our heavy troops—that is, the heavy wagon—remained at the “chosy.”
At noon we had walked eight good country miles, and established our first foothold in the enemy’s territory. Not satisfied, we left the cook in command of the garrison (four mules and the dog), and selecting divergent lines of operations, reconnoitred the hostile country. In military parlance, this country was close—close in all possible constructions of the expression. The stunted piñons were close to the ground and to themselves, ravines and draws were quite numerous, thorns, cactus and sharp rocks were uncomfortably close to one’s feet and shins, and after walking on a seemingly straight, though really circuitous course, one would turn up close to camp. Each column of troops—or troop—carried a rifle, shot-gun, two ammunition belts, and enough implements to care for the dead and wounded of the enemy. Each column advanced and retreated, marched and countermarched, deployed and rallied, charged and halted, and when at dark all assembled at the base of operations for rations and rest, the enemy seen consisted of one jack rabbit, at which I had almost fired, and one “sign.” This word is here inserted to indicate the professional training of our troops. Always used in the singular, it means the mark of anything sought—in this instance, a deer’s footprint. Had Longfellow been versed in mountaineer dialect, his great men might leave sign, rather than footprints in the sands of time.
But if we could not hunt, we could certainly eat. As we rallied about our Chief Commissary, and toasted bacon on long switches, drinking coffee right from the coals, we agreed that dining was our favorite occupation. Our fire would have filled a fair house, and was replenished at intervals by entire cedar trees, shooting flames up high into the stars, apparently, and defying the deer and elk. We had heard that game would approach a bright fire by night, so we rather hoped to see pairs of anxious eyes peering through the trees. If they did, it must have been after we retired. To retire meant literally to bivouac.
It was grand to sleep, wrapped in blankets and tent-flies, with one’s feet to a roaring fire, gazing at the same stars which shone down upon countless deer, elk, lions, wolves, and so on. It was a little less grand to wake in the night with a chill, and to renew the fire with a piñon tree. And it was far from grand to wake at daylight and find the fire quite out and frost all over our blankets.
Sunrise found our expedition of the day before on the march. Game has never been hunted with closer adherence to all the rules and superstitions, yet two-thirds of our force failed to establish even a speaking acquaintance with the animals which we had been led to believe existed in such abundance. The other third, Mr. X., saw two deer, but as he had been accustomed to shooting game in the same county only, he did not hit either. So we changed base to the river within striking distance of Shorthorns’ fence-rails and hay.
In the evening, at the chosy, we heard just why we had missed the game, which was attending a political convention up at the summit. So the cowboys all said, and cited numerous “sign” pointing in that direction as their authority. Resolved to attend this convention and exert a little “influence” upon its members, we started next day with both wagons and all our troops and camp followers for the summit, twenty-five miles northwest of Shorthorns’ place.
This was an operation unexcelled in the military annals of Dona Ana County, and occupied two days. The road, whenever we found it, followed the river—either a bank, a bluff, or the bed of the river—losing itself in water a few feet deep occasionally, and reappearing on a hillside a mile or two farther. We crossed the eccentric little stream, which is sometimes ten, sometimes thirty miles long, and always greater as one approaches its source. The two-thirds of a crossing was made when our heavy wagon slipped off a hillside into the water, and Mr. X. and the men had to dig and swear it out. Being ahead as advance guard, and a novice in profanity as well, I escaped this duty. The experience gained was something remarkable. We cut down trees frequently, took down log fences, and (were anyone in sight) put them up again, broke and mended each wagon daily, and lost a mule. We tried to lose the way, but the cañon’s sides were so steep that it was impossible.