|
At this juncture a hero
appeared. His name was Scot Moore. Moore was the contractor then
furnishing wood and hay to the post. Coming in from one of his camps and
learning of the dilemma, himself a friend of Loving, he instantly went to
Goodnight.
"Charlie," he said, "why
in the world did you not send for me before? Oliver shall not die here
like a dog if I can save him. I've got a young Kentucky saddle mare here
that's the fastest thing on the Pecos. I'll be in Vegas by sun-up
to-morrow morning, and I'll be back here sometime to-morrow night with a
doctor, if the Navajos don't get us. Pay? Pay be damned. I'm doin' it for
old Oliver; he'd go for me in a minute. If I'm not back by nine o'clock
to-morrow night, Charlie, send another messenger and just tell old Oliver
that Scot did his best."
"It's mighty good of you,
Scot," replied Goodnight, "I never
will forget it, nor will Oliver. You know I'd go myself if I could."
"That's all right,
pardner," said Scot. "Just come over to my camp a spell and look over some
papers I want you to attend to if I don't show up."
And they strolled away.
Officers and other bystanders shook their heads sadly.
"Devilish pity old Scot
had to come in."
"Might 'a known nobody
could hold him from goin'."
"He'll make Vegas all
right in a night run if the mare don't give out, but God help him when he
starts back with a doctor in a wagon; ain't one chance in a thousand he'll
got through."
"Well, if any man on
earth can make it, bet your alce Scot will."
These were some of the
comments. Scot Moore was known and loved from Chihuahua to Fort Lyon. One
of the biggest-hearted, most amiable and generous of men, ha was known as
the coolest and most utterly fearless in a country where few men were
cowards.
At nightfall, the mare
well fed and groomed and lightly saddled, Scot
mounted, bearing no
arms but his two pistols, called a careless "Hasta
luego, amigos" to his friends, and trotted off
up the road. For two hours he jogged along easily over the sandy stretches
beyond the Bosque Redondo. Then getting out on firmer ground, the mare
well warmed, he gave her the rein and let her out into a long, low, easy
lope that scored the miles off
famously. And so he swept on throughout the night, with only brief halts
to cool the mare and give her a mouthful of water, through Puerta de Luna,
past the Cañon Pintado, up the Rio Gallinas, past sleeping freighters'
camps and Mexican placitas. Twice he was fired upon by alarmed
campers who mistook him for a savage marauder, but luckily the shots flew
wild.
The last ten miles the
noble mare nearly gave out, but, a friend's life the stake he was riding
for, Scot's quirt and spurs lifted her through.
Half an hour after
sunrise, before many in the town were out of bed, Scot rode into the plaza
of
Las Vegas and
turned out the doctor, whom he knew.
Dr. D---- was no coward
by any means, but it took all Scot's eloquence and persuasiveness to
induce him to consent to hazard a daylight journey through to Sumner, for
he well knew its dangers. Scarcely a week passed without news of some
fearful massacre or desperate defense. But, stirred by Scot's own heroism
or perhaps tempted by the heavy fee to be earned, he consented.
Having breakfasted and
gotten the best team in town hitched to a light buckboard, Scot and the
doctor were rolling away into the south on the Sumner trail before seven
o'clock, over long stretches of level grassy mesa and past tall black
volcanic buttes.
Driving on without
interruption or incident, shortly after noon they approached the head of
the Arroyo de los Enteros, down which the trail descended to the lower
levels of the great Pecos Valley. Enteros Cañon is about three miles long,
rarely more than two hundred yards wide, its sides rocky, precipitous, and
heavily timbered, through which wound the wagon trail, exposed at every
point to a perfect ambuscade. It was the most dreaded stretch of the
Vegas-Sumner road, but Scot and the doctor drew near it without a
misgiving, for no sign of the savage enemy had they seen.
Just before reaching the
head of the cañon, the road wound round a high butte. Bowling rapidly
along, Scot half dozing with fatigue, the doctor, unused to the plains,
alert and watchful, they suddenly turned the hill and came out upon the
immediate head of the cañon, when suddenly the doctor cried, seizing
Scot's arm:
"Good God, Scott, look!
For God's sake, look!"
And it was time. There on
either hand, to their right and to their left, tied by their lariats to
drooping piñon bough, stood fifty or sixty Navajo ponies. The
ponies were bridled and saddled. Upon some were tied lances and on others
arms. All were dripping with sweat and heaving of flank, their
knife-marked ears drooping with fatigue; not more than five minutes could
have elapsed since their murderous riders had left them. Apparently it was
an ambush laid for them, and they were already surrounded. Even the cool
Scot shook himself in surprise to find that he was still alive.
Overcome with terror, the
doctor cried: "Turn, Scot! Turn, for Heaven's sake! It's our only chance
to pull for Vegas."
But Scot had been
reflecting. With wits sharpened by a thousand perils and trained in scores
of desperate encounters, he answered: "Doc, you're wrong; dead wrong.
We're safe as if we were in Fort Union. If they were laying for us we'd be
dead now. No, they are after bigger game. They have sighted a big freight
outfit coming up from the Pecos, and are laying for that in the cañon. We
can slide through without seeing a buck or hearing a shot. We'll go right
on down Entoros, old boy."
"Scot, you're crazy,"
said the doctor. "I will not go a step. Let's run for Vegas. Any instant
we may be attacked. Why, damn your fool soul, they've no doubt got a bead
on us this minute."
With a sharp stroke of
his whip, Scot started the team into a smart trot down into the cañon.
Then he turned to the doctor and quietly answered: "Doc, you seem to
forget that Oliver Loving is dying, and
that I promised to fetch you. Reckon you'll have to go!" And down
they went into what seemed the very jaws of death.
But Scot was right. It
was a triumph of logic. The Navajos were indeed lying for bigger game.
And so it happened that,
come safely through the cañon, out two miles on the plain they met a train
off eight freight teams traveling toward Vegas. They stopped and gave the
freighters warning, told what they had seen, begged them to halt and
corral their wagons. But it was no use. The freighters thought themselves
strong enough to repel any attack, and drove on into the cañon.
None of them came out.
And to this day the
traveler through Enteros may see pathetic evidence of their foolhardiness
in a scattered lot of weather-worn and rusted wheel tires and hub bands.
Before midnight Scot and
the doctor reached Sumner, having changed teams twice at Mexican
placitas. Covering two hundred and sixty miles in less than thirty
hours, Scot Moore had kept his word! Unhappily, however,
Oliver Loving had become so weak that
he died under the shock of the operation.
Now Scot Moore himself is
dead and gone, but the memory of his heroic ride should live as long as
noble deeds are sung.
|
Please report
broken links, missing pictures, or other problems online by clicking
Before noon
