WAYLAID BY UNKNOWN PARTIES.

After leaving Tulerosa our route lay across a young desert, called the "White Sands," a distance of sixty miles. That night Sam and I camped at a lonely spot called "White Water," where there wasn't a stick of wood in sight. We had to make a fire out of a bush called the "oil weed" to keep warm by.

The next night we put up with an old man by the name of Shedd, who kept a ranch on the east side of Osscuro mountains, near San Augustine Pass.

On arriving in the Pass next morning, on our way to Las Cruces, we could see the whole Rio Grande valley, dotted with green fields, for at least a hundred miles up and down. And by looking over our shoulder, in the direction we had come, we could see the white looking plain or desert, which extends for two hundred miles north and south. It was indeed a beautiful sight, to one who had just come from a snowy country, and we were loath to leave the spot.

Arriving in Las Cruces, (City of the Crosses) on the Rio Grande, twenty-five miles from Shedd's where we had left that morning, I went to making inquiries about Mr. Pat Cohglin's whereabouts. I found out by the Postmaster, Cunnifee, who was an intimate friend of his that he was in El Paso, Texas, fifty miles below, and would be up to "Cruces" the next day.

That night Sam and I proceeded to take in the town, which was booming, on account of the A. T. and S. F. R. R. being only forty miles above, and on its way down the river to El Paso.

The next morning Sam bid me adieu and struck out on his journey for Willcox, Arizona, about two hundred miles distant.

That evening Mr. Cohglin, whom I found to be a large, portly looking half-breed Irishman, drove up to Mr. Cunnifee's store in a buggy drawn by a fine pair of black horses.

I introduced myself as having been sent from the Panhandle after the cattle he had purchased from the "Kid." He at first said I couldn't have them, but finally changed his tone, when I told him that I had a crowd at White Oaks, and that my instructions were to take them by force if I couldn't secure them in any other way.

He then began giving me "taffy," as I learned afterwards. He promised faithfully that, as he didn't like to have his whole herd, which was scattered through the whole White Mountain district, disturbed at that season of the year, if I would wait until the first of April, at which time the new grass would be up, he would help me round-up every hoof of Panhandle cattle on his range. I agreed to do so providing he would promise not to have any more of them butchered at "Stanton."

The old fellow was worried considerably about the three hundred head of cattle Cooper had stolen from him. He told me about having followed him with a crowd of mexicans into the Black Range, near the Arizona line, where he succeeded in getting back a few of the broken-down ones.

There being a fellow by the name of "Hurricane Bill," of Ft. Griffin, Texas notoriety, in town, direct from Tombstone, Arizona, I concluded to lay over a few days and "play in" with him and his gang of four or five, in hopes of learning something about Slaughter and his herd, the one I was on trail of.

I went under an assumed name and told them that I was on the "dodge" for a crime committed in Southern Texas.

I found out all about their future plans from one of the gang, by the name of Johnson, who seemed to be more talkative than the rest. He said they were waiting for the railroad to get to El Paso; and then they were going into the butchering business on a large scale. He wanted me to join them; and said the danger wouldn't be very great, as they intended stealing the cattle mostly from ignorant mexicans.

One morning while Johnson and I were eating breakfast at a restaurant a man sat down at the same table and, recognizing me, said: "Hello," calling me by name; "where did you come from?" He then continued; although I winked at him several times to keep still, "So you fellows succeeded in capturing Billy the Kid, did you?" etc.

Johnson gave a savage glance at me as much as to say: d——m you, you have been trying to work us, have you? I kept my hand near old colts "45" for I expected, from his nervous actions, for him to make a break of some kind. He finally got up and walked out without saying a word. This man who had so suddenly bursted our friendship was a friend of Frank Stuart's and had met me in Las Vegas, with his chum, Stuart.

I concluded it wouldn't be healthy for me to remain there till after dark, nor to undertake the trip to Tombstone, for I had manifested such an interest in the Slaughter herd, etc., that they might follow me up, on hearing that I had left town. So I wrote a letter to Mr. Moore, telling him of the whole circumstances, and asking him if I had better take my men and follow the herd to the jumping-off place or not? I then struck back to White Oaks over the same route I had come.

That night I stopped at Shedd's ranch; and so did Cohglin, he being on his way back to Tulerosa.

The next day I rode the entire sixty miles, across the "white sands," and landed in Tulerosa about a half hour behind Cohglin and his fast steppers. I was tired though, and swore off ever riding another mule on a long trip. I had figured on being in mountains all the time, where I would have lots of climbing to do, is why I rode the mule instead of a horse.

The next morning I made up my mind that I would take a new route to the "Oaks" by going around the mountains through Mr. Cohglin's range which was on Three Rivers, twenty odd miles north. So before starting I inquired of Cohglin's clerk as to the best route, etc.

I stopped at the Cohglin ranch that night and was treated like a white head by Mr. Nesbeth and wife who took care of the ranch, that is, done the cooking, gardening, milking, etc. The herders, or cowboys, were all mexicans, with the exception of Bill Gentry, the boss, who was away at the time.

While getting ready to start for White Oaks next morning one of the eight or ten, mexicans, who were sitting on the fence sunning themselves, came to me, and told me of a near cut to the "Oaks," by taking an old Indian trail over the White Mountains, and advised me to take that route as I could save at least twenty miles, it being forty around by the road.

Mr. Nesbeth spoke up and said it would be better for me to travel on the road, even if it was further, as I might experience some difficulty in finding the old Indian trail, etc.

The "Greaser" then offered me his service, saying that he would go and put me on the trail so that it would be impossible for me to miss my way. I agreed, so he mounted a pony and we rode east up a rough canyon.

A ride of about five miles brought us to the almost obliterated trail. It lead up an awful brushy and rocky canyon towards the snowy crags of the White Mountain range.

About an hour after bidding the "Greaser" adieu, I came to where the trail made a short curve to the left, but I could tell from the lay of the ground that, by keeping straight ahead, I would strike it again. So I left it, and luckily for me that I did, for there was some one laying for me not far from there.

I hadn't gone but a rod or two when bang! bang! bang! went three shots in quick succession, not over fifty yards to the left; and at the same time my mule gave a lunge forward, on the ice-covered stones, and fell broad-side, throwing me over a precipice about eight feet to the bottom. My winchester and pistol both were hanging to the saddle-horn, but I managed to grab and pull the latter out of the scabbard as I went off, and took it with me.

The first thing I done on striking bottom was to hunt a hole. I found a nice little nook between two boulders and lay there with cocked pistol, expecting every second to see three Indians or "Greasers" peep over the ledge on the hunt for a dead "Gringo"—as the mexicans call an American.

After waiting a few minutes I became impatient and crawled on top of a small knoll and, on looking in the direction the shooting had come from, I got a faint glimpse of what I took to be two half-stooped human forms retreating, through the pinyon brush, at a lively gait. Suffice it to say I found my mule standing in a grove of trees, with his front feet fastened in the bridle-reins, about two hundred yards from where he fell. And between his forelegs, on the ground was a small pool of sparkling red blood, which had dripped from a slight bullet wound in his breast.

On examination I found that one bullet had cut a groove in the hind tree of my saddle, and another had plowed through a pair of blankets tied behind the saddle. I arrived in the Oaks, on my almost broken-down mule about dark that night, after an absence of nearly two weeks.