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                               CAMPMATES

                        _A Story of the Plains_

                             By KIRK MUNROE

          _Author of_ "THE FLAMINGO FEATHER," "WAKULLA," "DORYMATES,"
                         "DERRICK STERLING" ETC.


_Illustrated_

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON




[Illustration: "IT WAS A LIVE BABY."]




CONTENTS.


       I. A WEARY RIDE

      II. A RUDE BAPTISM

     III. A BOY WITHOUT A BIRTHDAY

      IV. "I JUST HATE TO STUDY"

       V. SWIMMING INTO A FRIENDSHIP

      VI. RECEIVING AN OFFER AND ACCEPTING IT

     VII. ACROSS THE MISSISSIPPI

    VIII. GLEN RUNS A LOCOMOTIVE

      IX. KANSAS CITY IN EARLY DAYS

       X. AT WORK WITH THE ENGINEER CORPS

      XI. ALMOST TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

     XII. STARTING ACROSS THE PLAINS

    XIII. BINNEY GIBBS AND HIS MULE

     XIV. ON GUARD AT NIGHT

      XV. THE SUSPICIOUS MOVEMENTS OF CERTAIN COYOTES

     XVI. IN THE HANDS OF THE CHEYENNES

    XVII. ATTACKING A STAGE RANCH

   XVIII. BUFFALO AND THEIR USES

     XIX. GLEN'S ESCAPE FROM THE INDIANS

      XX. A PRESENT THAT WOULD PLEASE ANY BOY

     XXI. LAME WOLF, THE YOUNG CHEYENNE

    XXII. GLEN AND BINNEY GET INTO TROUBLE

   XXIII. FIGHTING THE FINEST HORSEMEN IN THE WORLD

    XXIV. CROSSING THE QUICKSANDS

     XXV. SWEPT AWAY BY A FRESHET

    XXVI. RUNNING THE LINE

   XXVII. "COVERED WITH MUD AND GLORY"

  XXVIII. LOST IN A MOUNTAIN SNOW-STORM

    XXIX. PLUNGING INTO A LAKE OF ICE-WATER

     XXX. DOWN THE LONELY CANON

    XXXI. KIT CARSON'S GOLD MINE

   XXXII. A NEW MEXICAN WEDDING

  XXXIII. IN THE VALLEY OF THE RIO GRANDE

   XXXIV. BAITING A WOLF-TRAP

    XXXV. EL MORO

   XXXVI. ZUNI, THE HOME OF THE AZTECS

  XXXVII. A PRACTICAL USE OF TRIGONOMETRY

 XXXVIII. DYING OF THIRST IN THE DESERT

   XXXIX. CROSSING THE SIERRA NEVADA

      XL. A HOME AND TWO FATHERS





ILLUSTRATIONS.


"IT WAS A LIVE BABY"

"TWO STALWART WARRIORS SEIZED HIM BY THE ARMS AND RAISED HIM BETWEEN
THEM AS THEY SWEPT PAST"

"THE STRANGE CRAFT WAS BORNE SLOWLY DOWN STREAM"

"'HEAD FOR THAT DARK SPACE, IT MARKS A VALLEY.... IF YOU FIND WATER,
FIRE YOUR PISTOL'"




_CAMP MATES._

_A Story of the Plains._




Chapter I.

A WEARY RIDE.


Slowly and heavily the train rumbled on through the night. It was called
an express; but the year was long ago, in the early days of railroading,
and what was then an express would now be considered a very slow and
poky sort of a train. On this particular night too, it ran more slowly
than usual, because of the condition of the track. The season was such a
wet one, that even the oldest traveller on the train declared he could
not remember another like it. Rain, rain, rain, day after day, for
weeks, had been the rule of that spring, until the earth was soaked like
a great sponge. All the rivers had overflowed their banks, and all the
smaller streams were raging torrents, red, yellow, brown, and sometimes
milky white, according to the color of the clays through which they cut
their riotous way. The lowlands and meadows were flooded, so that the
last year's hay-stacks, rising from them here and there, were veritable
islands of refuge for innumerable rabbits, rats, mice, and other small
animals, driven by the waters from their homes.

And all this water had not helped the railroad one bit. In the cuts the
clay or gravel banks were continually sliding down on the track; while
on the fills they were as continually sliding out from under it. The
section gangs were doubled, and along the whole line they were hard at
work, by night as well as by day, only eating and sleeping by snatches,
trying to keep the track in repair, and the road open for traffic. In
spite of their vigilance and unceasing labor, however, the rains found
plenty of chances to work their mischief undetected.

Many a time only the keen watchfulness of an engine-driver, or his
assistant, the fireman, saved a train from dashing into some gravel
heap, beneath which the rails were buried, or from plunging into some
yawning opening from which a culvert or small bridge had been washed
out. Nor with all this watchfulness did the trains always get through in
safety. Sometimes a bit of track, that looked all right, would suddenly
sink beneath the weight of a passing train into a quagmire that had been
formed beneath it, and then would follow the pitiful scenes of a
railroad wreck.

So nobody travelled except those who were compelled to do so, and the
passenger business of this particular road was lighter than it had been
since the opening. It was so light that on this night there were not
more than half a dozen persons in the single passenger coach of the
express, and only one of these was a woman. Another was her baby, a
sturdy, wholesome-looking little fellow, who, though he was but a year
old, appeared large enough to be nearly, if not quite, two. He had great
brown eyes, exactly like those of his mother. She was young and pretty,
but just now she looked utterly worn out, and no wonder. The train was
twelve hours late; and, instead of being comfortably established in a
hotel, at the end of her journey by rail, as she had expected to be
before dark that evening, she was wearily trying to sleep in the same
stuffy, jolting car she had occupied all day and had no hope of leaving
before morning.

There were no sleeping-cars in those days, nor vestibuled trains, nor
even cars with stuffed easy-chairs in which one could lie back and make
himself comfortable. No, indeed; there were no such luxuries as these
for those who travelled by rail at that time. The passenger coaches were
just long boxes, with low, almost flat roofs, like those of freight
cars. Their windows were small, and generally stuck fast in their
frames, so that they could not be opened. There was no other means of
ventilation, except as one of the end doors was flung open, when there
came such a rush of smoke and cinders and cold air that everybody was
impatient to have it closed again.

At night the only light was given by three candles that burned inside of
globes to protect them from being extinguished every time a door was
opened. There were no electric lights, nor gas, nor even oil-lamps, for
the cars of those days, only these feeble candles, placed one at each
end, and one in the middle of the coach. But worst of all were the
seats, which must have been invented by somebody who wished to
discourage railroad riding. They were narrow, hard, straight-backed, and
covered with shiny leather.

In a car of this description the young mother, with her baby, had
travelled a whole day, and nearly a whole night. It is no wonder then
that she looked worn out, or that the baby, who had been so jolly and
happy as to be voted a remarkably fine child by all the passengers,
should have sunk into an exhausted sleep, after a prolonged fit of
screaming and crying, that caused the few remaining inmates of the car
to look daggers at it, and say many unkind things, some of which even
reached the ears of the mother.

During the day there had been other women in the car, travelling for
shorter or longer distances. To one of these, a lady-like girl who
occupied an adjoining seat for some hours, and who was greatly
interested in the baby, the young mother had confided the fact that this
was his birthday, and also part of her own history. From this it
appeared that she was the wife of an army officer, who was stationed
with his regiment in the far West. She had not seen him for nearly a
year, or just after the baby was born; but at last he had been ordered
to a fort on the upper Mississippi River, where he hoped to remain for
some time. Now his young wife, who had only been waiting until he could
give her any sort of a home with him, had bravely set forth with her
baby to join him. He had written her that, on a certain date in the
spring, a detachment of troops was to start from St. Louis by steamboat
for the fort at which he was stationed. As one of the officers of this
detachment was to take his wife with him, he thought it would be a fine
opportunity for her to come at the same time. She wrote back that she
could not possibly get ready by the date named, but would come by a
later boat. After she had sent the letter, she found that she could get
ready; and, as the aunt with whom she was living was about to break up
her home and go abroad, she decided to start at once for St. Louis.
There she would join her husband's friends, travel with them to the
far-away fort, and give the lonely soldier a joyful surprise. There was
no time to send another letter telling him of her change of plan, and
she was glad of it, for a surprise would be so much nicer.

The early part of her journey had been accomplished quite easily. There
had been no rains in the East, such as were deluging the whole Ohio
valley. If there had been, it is not likely the soldier's wife would
have undertaken to travel at that time, and expose her precious baby to
such terrible risks, even to carry out the surprise she anticipated so
joyfully. From her aunt's house, in New York city, she had travelled by
steamer up the Hudson to Albany. From there she took cars to Buffalo,
and a lake boat to Cleveland. Now she was travelling by rail again,
across the flooded state of Ohio towards Cincinnati. There she intended
taking a steamboat down the Ohio River, and up the Mississippi to St.
Louis, where she expected to join her husband's friends, on the boat
that would carry them all to their journey's end.

The details of this plan were fully discussed by the occupants of the
adjoining seats in the car, and when it came time for the one who was
not going through to leave the train, and take another at a small
junction, she had become so greatly interested in her new acquaintance
that she begged the latter to write to her, and tell her how she got
along. She wrote her own name and address on a bit of paper, just before
leaving the car, and gave it to the soldier's wife; but, in her hurry,
neglected to make a note of the name given her in return, and
afterwards, when she tried to recall it, was unable to do so.

The tediousness of the weary day had been so much lessened by the making
of this pleasant acquaintance, that for some time after her departure
the young mother remained light-hearted and cheerful. The baby, too, was
bright and happy, and a source of constant amusement, not only to her,
but to all those about him.

After a while, though, when it grew dark, and the feeble candles were
lighted, and most of the passengers had left the car, and the baby at
first fretted and then screamed, refusing to be quieted for more than an
hour, the exhausted young mother grew nervous and frightened. Only the
thought of the glad meeting, and the great happiness awaiting her at the
end of this tedious journey, enabled her to bear it as bravely as she
did.

At length the babe cried himself to sleep, and the tired arms that had
held him so long gladly laid him down in a nest made of shawls and his
own dainty blanket on the opposite seat. This blanket had the initials
"G. E." embroidered in one corner, though these did not stand for the
baby's name. In fact, he had no first name, nor had he yet been
christened. This ceremony having been postponed until both the father
and mother could take part in it; the question of a name had also been
left undecided until then. The young mother wanted her boy called
"Gerald," after his father, and she had even embroidered the initial
"G." on his blanket to see how it would look. Thus far, however, the
baby was only called "baby," and had no right to any other name.

As the child slept quietly in spite of the jar and jolt and rumble of
the train, the fair young head of the mother who watched so fondly and
patiently over him gradually drooped lower and lower. The brown eyes, so
like the baby's, closed for longer and longer intervals, until at length
she, too, was fast asleep, and dreaming of the joy that awaited her
journey's end.




Chapter II.

A RUDE BAPTISM.


There were others on that train equally weary with the young mother, and
even more anxious; for they knew better than she the ever-present
dangers of that water-soaked road-bed, and they bore the weight of a
fearful responsibility.

The conductor, looking grave and careworn, started nervously at every
lurch of more than ordinary violence, and kept moving uneasily from end
to end of his train. He never passed the young mother and her sleeping
babe without casting sympathetic glances at them. He had done everything
possible for their comfort, but it was little enough that he could do,
and for their sake, more than anything else, he wished the trip were
ended.

All through the long, dark hours, the brake-men stood on the platforms
of the swaying cars, ready at a moment's warning to spring to the iron
brake-wheels. This crew of train hands had only come on duty at
nightfall, and had little knowledge of the through passengers.

In the locomotive cab, gazing ahead with strained eyes, were the
engine-driver, Luke Matherson, and his fireman. Every now and then the
latter found a change of occupation in flinging open the furnace door
and tossing chunk after chunk of wood into the glowing interior. As he
closed the door he would stand for a moment and look inquiringly at his
companion, who sat motionless, with his hand on the throttle, and his
eyes fixed steadily on the lines of track gleaming in the light of the
powerful headlight. Occasionally, without turning his head, he exchanged
a few words with the fireman.

"It's a nasty night, Luke," remarked the latter.

"Yes. It wouldn't take many more such to make me give up railroading."

"What do you think of the Beasely cut?"

"I'm afraid of it, and wish we were well through it."

"Well, we'll know all about it in five minutes more, and after that
there's nothing serious but Glen Eddy creek."

The silence that followed was broken, a few minutes later, by two
piercing blasts from the whistle. The fireman had already seen the
danger, and sprung to the brake-wheel on the tender behind him. On every
car the brakes were grinding harshly, set up by nervous, lusty young
arms. The train did not come to a standstill an instant too soon; for,
as it did so, the cow-catcher was already half buried in a slide from
one of the treacherous banks of the Beasely cut.

An hour's hard work by all the train hands, and some of the passengers,
with shovels and spades, cleared the track, and once more the express
proceeded slowly on its uncertain way.

Now for the Glen Eddy bridge. Between it and the city that marked the
end of the line was the best stretch of road-bed in the state. It was a
long one, but it presented no dangers that a railroad man need fear.

The gray dawn was breaking as the train approached Glen Eddy creek. In
the summer-time it was a quiet stream, slipping dreamily along between
its heavily wooded banks. Now it was a furious torrent, swollen beyond
all recognition, and clutching spitefully at the wooden piers of heavy
crib-work that upheld the single span of the bridge.

The train was stopped and the bridge was examined. It seemed all right,
and the conductor gave the word to go ahead. It was the last order he
ever issued; for, in another minute, the undermined piers had given way,
and the train was piled up in the creek a shapeless wreck.

From that terrible plunge only two persons escaped unharmed. One was
Luke Matherson, the engine-driver, and the other was the baby. When the
former felt his engine dropping from under him, he sprang from it, with
desperate energy, far out into the muddy waters, that instantly closed
over him. On coming to the surface, the instinct of self-preservation
forced him to swim, but it was wildly and without an idea of direction
or surroundings. For nearly a minute he swam with all his strength
against the current, so that he was still near the wreck, when his
senses were again quickened into action by a smothered cry, close at
hand. At the same time a dark mass drifted towards him, and he seized
hold of it. As the cry seemed to come from this, the man's struggles
became directed by a definite purpose. Partially supporting himself by
the wreckage, he attempted to guide it to the nearest bank; but so swift
was the current that he was swept down stream more than a mile before