Hell Paso

HELL IN TEXAS

The devil, we’re told, in hell was chained,

And a thousand years he there remained;

He never complained nor did he groan,

But determined to start a hell of his own,

Where he could torment the souls of men

Without being chained in a prison pen.

So he asked the Lord if he had on hand

Anything left when he made the land.

The Lord said, ‘Yes, I had plenty on hand,

But I left it down on the Rio Grande;

The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor

I don’t think you could use it in hell anymore.’

But the devil went down to look at the truck,

And said if it came as a gift he was stuck;

For after examining it carefully and well

He concluded the place was too dry for hell.

So, in order to get it off his hands,

The Lord promised the devil to water the lands;

For he had some water, or rather some dregs,

A regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs.

Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given

And the Lord went back to his home in heaven.

And the devil then said, ‘I have all that is needed

To make a good hell,’ and hence he succeeded.

He began to put thorns in all of the trees,

And mixed up the sand with millions of fleas;

And scattered tarantulas along all the roads;

Put thorns on the cactus and horns on the toads.

He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers,

And put an addition on the rabbit’s ears;

He put a little devil in the broncho steed,

And poisoned the feet of the centipede.

The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings,

The mosquito delights you with buzzing wings;

The sand-burrs prevail and so do the ants,

And those who sit down need half soles on their pants.

The devil then said that throughout the land

He’d managed to keep up the devil’s own brand,

And all would be mavericks unless they bore

The marks of scratches and bites and thorns by the score.

The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten,

Too hot for the devil and too hot for men.

The wild boar roams through the black chaparral, —

It’s a hell of a place he has for a hell.

The red pepper grows on the banks of the brook;

The Mexicans use it in all that they cook.

Just dine with a Greaser and then you will shout,

‘I’ve hell on the inside as well as the out!’

—Unknown

CHAPTER ONE

The drifter was riding just below the peak of the ridge, occasionally elevating his head so as to stare across the crest, shading his eyes with one hand to thus better concentrate his vision. Both horse and rider unmistakably exhibited signs of exhaustion, but every movement of the latter showed perpetual watchfulness, his glance roving the barren ridges, a brown Winchester lying cocked across the saddle pommel, his left hand taut on the rein. Thus far, the horse he bestrode barely required restraint, advancing slowly, with head hanging low, and only occasionally breaking into a brief trot under the thrust of the spur.

The rider—Morgan Latimer—was a man approaching his mid-thirties, rather lean and long of limb, but possessing broad, squared shoulders above a deep chest, sitting the saddle easily in plainsman style, yet with an erectness of carriage which suggested military training. The face under the wide brim of the weather-worn slouch hat was clean-shaven, browned by sun and wind, and powerfully marked, the chin somewhat prominent, the mouth fixed, the gray eyes full of character and daring. His dress was that of rough service, plain leather chaps showing marks of hard usage, a gray woolen shirt turned low at the neck, with a handkerchief knotted loosely about the sinewy-bronzed throat. At one hip dangled the holster of a .44, on the other hung a canvas-covered canteen. His was a figure and face to be noted anywhere, a man from whom you would expect both thought and action, and one who seemed to exactly fit into the wild surroundings in which he rode through.

Where he rode was the very western extreme of the prairie country, billowed like the sea, and from off the crest of its higher ridges, the wide level sweep of the plains was noticeable, extending like a vast brown ocean to the foothills of the far away mountains. Yet the actual beginning of that drear, barren stretch was fully ten miles distant, while all about where he rode the conformation was irregular, comprising narrow valleys and swelling mounds, with here and there a sharp ravine, river from the rock, and invisible until one drew up startled at its very brink. The general trend of depression was undoubtedly southward, leading toward the valley of the Rio Grande, yet unbalanced ridges occasionally cut across, adding to the confusion. The entire surrounding landscape presented the same aspect. There was no special object upon which the eye could rest for guidance; there was no tree, no upheaval of rock, no uniqueness of summit, no snake-like trail … all about extended the same dull, dead monotony of brown, sunbaked hills, with slightly greener depressions lying between, interspersed by patches of sand or the white gleam of alkali. It was a dreary, deserted land, parched under the hot summer sun, brightened by no vegetation, excepting sparse bunches of buffalo grass or an occasional stunted sage bush, and disclosing nowhere the slightest sign of human habitation.

The rising sun reddened the crest of the hills, and the rider, halting his willing horse, sat motionless, gazing securely into the southwest. Apparently, he observed nothing there unusual, for he slowly turned his body about in the saddle, sweeping his eyes, inch by inch, along the line of the horizon, until the entire circuit had been completed. Then his flattened lips smiled slightly, his hand unconsciously patting the horse’s neck.

‘I reckon we’re still alone, old girl,’ he said quietly. He spoke in the soft accents of the North, and yet his speech was colored with just a trace of his Northern birth—a musical drawl seldom heard far from that portion of Texas bordering the Rio Bravo del Norte. ‘We’ll try for the trail, and take it easy.’

The horse snorted in reply.

He swung stiffly out of the saddle, and with reins dangling over his shoulder, began the slower advance on foot, the exhausted horse trailing behind. His was not a situation in which one could feel certain of safety, for any ridge might conceal the wary foemen he sought to avoid, yet he proceeded now with renewed confidence. It was summer time, and the place the very heart of the Indian country, with every separate tribe ranging between the Yellowstone and the Brazos and beyond, either restless or openly on the warpath. Rumors of atrocities were being retold the length and breadth of the border, and every report drifting in to either fort or settlement only added to the alarm. For once at least the Plains Indians had discovered a common cause, tribal differences had been adjusted in war against the white invader, and the Kiowas, Comanches, Arapahoes, Cheyennes, and the Sioux had become welded together in savage brotherhood. To oppose them were the scattered and unorganized settlers lining the more eastern streams, guarded by small detachments of regular troops posted here and there amid that broad wilderness, scarcely within touch of each other.

Everywhere beyond these lines of patrol wandered roaming war parties, attacking travelers on the trails, raiding exposed settlements, and occasionally venturing to try open battle with the small squads of armed men. In this stress of sudden emergency—every available soldier on active duty—civilians had been pressed into service, and hastily dispatched to warn exposed settlers, guide wagon trains, or carry dispatches between outposts. And thus the rider, who knew every foot of the plains lying between the Mississippi and the Rio Grande Rivers, was one of those suddenly drifting, merely because he chanced to be involved in the plights of others. His good-natured being had been involved or created too much trouble.

Thus some weeks later, he was riding swiftly into the southwest, trying desperately to outrun his past and his troubles. To the drifter this had been merely another page in a life of adventure, of running, of trying to find peace; for him to take his life in his hands had long ago become an old story. He had quietly performed the special duty allotted him, watched a squadron of troopers trot forth down in too many battles, received the hasty thanks of the peppery little generals and captains. Then, having nothing better to do, traded his horse in at the government corral for a fresh mount, a beautiful strawberry roan that he immediately knew he would have for the rest of their lives.

He then started back again through Texas. For the greater portion of two nights and a day, he had been in the saddle, but he was accustomed to this, for he had driven more than one bunch of longhorns up the Texas trail. As he had slept a few hours at Fort Bliss, and as his nerves were like steel, the thought of danger gave him slight concern. He was thoroughly tired, and it rested him to get out of the saddle, while the freshness of the morning air was a tonic, the very breath of which made him forgetful of fatigue.

After all, this was indeed the very sort of experience which appealed to him, and always had—this life of peril in the open, under the stars and the sky. He had constantly experienced it for so long now, nearly eight years, as to make it seem merely natural. While he ploughed steadily forward through the shifting sand of the coulee, his thoughts drifted idly back over those years, and sometimes he smiled, and occasionally glowered, as various incidents returned to memory. It had been a turbulent life, yet one not unusual to those of his generation.

There was much not over pleasant to remember, and those strenuous years of almost ceaseless fighting, of long night marches, of swift, merciless raiding, of lonely scouting within the enemy’s lines, of severe wounds, hardship, and loves lost and of suffering, had left their marks on both body and soul.

What an utter waste it all seemed, now that he looked back upon it. Over seven years of fighting, hardship, and rough living, and what had they brought him? The reputation of a hard rider, a daring player at cards, a quick shot, a skilled horseman, a man who scorned danger, and a bad man to fool with—that was the whole of a record hardly won.

Nonetheless, he was a man who wanted peace. A man who wanted to find a place where he could avoid trouble and just rest.

The man’s eyes hardened, his lips set firmly, as this truth came crushing home. A pretty life story, surely, one to be proud of, and with probably no better ending than an Indian bullet, or the flash of a revolver in some bar room fight.

The narrow valley along which he was travelling suddenly changed its direction, compelling him to climb the rise of the ridge. Slightly below the summit, he halted. In front extended the wide expanse of the Mesa Valley, a scene of splendor under the golden rays of the sun, with vivid contrast of colors, the gray of rocks, the yellow of sand, the brown of distant hills, the green of flora, and the silver sheen of the stream half-hidden behind the border of cottonwoods lining its banks.

This was a sight Morgan Latimer had often looked upon, but not always with appreciation, and for the moment, his eyes swept across from bluff to bluff without thought except for its wild beauty. Then he perceived something, which instantly startled him into attention—yonder, close beside the river, just beyond that ragged bunch of cottonwoods, slender spirals of dark clouds were visible. That would hardly be a thunderstorm during the long summer months in Texas at this hour of the day, and besides, the trail along here ran close in against the bluff, coming down to the river at the ford two miles further west. No party of plainsmen would ever venture to build a fire in so exposed a spot, and no small company would take the chances of