parade. Round and round the promenad-
ers go, dignified men, matronly women,
young girls and children, laughing, chat-
ting, singing, till the evening is far
spent. The evening at the plaza is the
daily recreation of Mazatlan in general,
and the mild climate, with scarcely ever
cloud or shower, makes it possible for the
promenade to continue each night, almost
the year around.
As yet, although promising wonders in
the future, and developing and progressing
to a great extent in the present, Mazatlan
cannot be said to be exactly up to date.
For instance, the nearest trolley car is in
Tucson, Arizona, about fifteen hundred
miles away, and the best substitute in this
Mexican city is small street cars, drawn
up and down at a leisurely jog by mules,
while, in place of express wagons, one sees
ox carts delivering packages from door to
door. The inhabitants, however, seeming-
ly get along with these facilities just as
well as if supplied with others more
modern, and waste no energy in pining
for the change.
The bull-fight is still a popular sport,
and many an afternoon in Mazatlan is
spent in excited appreciation of these ex-
hibitions of combined bravery and cruelty.
Strange to say, the visitor from lands of
"The fortifications do not inspire confidence/' The harbor and fort of Mazatlan.
One of the wharves of Mazatlan.
milder tastes and customs attends the
bull-fights almost as generally as do the
citizens of the town, and, however the
former's superior scruples are outraged,
he does not allow them to shut him away
from the pastime which, at home, he might
brand and be inclined to consider as a
barbaric custom.
One does not remember the bull fight,
however, when, some balmy day in mid-
winter, one sits down upon a rock, high
on a ledge, and looks out at the splendid
harbor and mountains that so fondly en-
close the town, as if drawn near to love it
for its beauty. And when one laughs, for
a time, at the antics of monkeys in the
cocoanut palms above him ; or catches fre-
quent sight of bright-winged paroquet or
cockatoo, flitting through green leaves; or
listens to the splash of fountains and the
song of mocking-birds in cool court yards,
or drinks his fill of heliotrope and jessa-
mine scent beneath a tropical moon; he
forgets, not only the bull-fight, but every
other cruelty and barbarism, and can al-
most believe that the world is all beauty
and kindness, with the heart of that
beauty and kindness at Mazatlan, amid
music and flowers and fragrance, beside
the shimmering waves.
J) t'n itis Driscoll, a frontier hero.
A FRONTIER HERO
BY F. H. B ARROW
THEEE WAS NOT a braver
deed done in those old frontier
days than Dennis DriscolPs,"
said Brigadier General Andrew
S. Burt, retired, in officially reporting
how Driscoll had saved the members of
two companies of infantry from certain
massacre by Indians. There were many
heroes in those stirring frontier days,
most of whom received no laurels save the
grateful thanks of those for whom they
risked life and liberty. Such a hero was
Dennis Driscoll.
But to see him in his unpretentious lit-
tle home in -a Northern Wyoming coal
mining camp, still hale and hearty, one
would never suspect that this white-
haired, mild-mannered and modestly un-
obtrusive man had furnished the world
with an example of true heroism seldom
equaled in the annals of American his-
tory. It was during the strenuous days
of the Indian campaigns the days when
Fetterman, Carrington, Crook and Miles
were making their last great struggle to
subdue the proud spirits of Eed Cloud
and his ihost of subordinate chieftains
from the Sioux tribe. Driscoll was then
a member of Company K, Twenty-seventh
Infantry formerly Company K, Second
Battallion, Eighteenth Infantry. The
company was at that time June, 1867
engaged in taking supplies, under com-
mand of Captain E. F. Thompson, from
Fort Smith to Fort Kearney, Wyoming,
both forts being two of the early posts
established for the protection of the old
"Bozeman Trail," the first route through
the Northwest to the Columbia Kiver.
That particular section of country was
then a perfect hotbed of Indian rebellion,
teeming with hostile redmen under the
direct command of old Eed Cloud himself.
The latter post Kearney was located
near the site of the memorable Custer
massacre.
Companies A and K were returning
from a trip to Fort Smith, when they
were suddenly surrounded at Trout Creek
by a large body of hostile Indians. The
first move of the savages was to stampede
the soldiers' stock, the which was accom-
plished in such a successful manner as to
leave the two companies in possession of
only one blind white mule which came
straggling back into camp after dark. The
little handful of white men fought des-
perately to withstand the attack of the
Indian forces many times their number,
and the soldiers were just able to keep the
reds at bay. With the obstinate persis-
tency of their race, the Indians, however,
surrounded the little band of whites so
as to completely hem them in and cut off
all possible chance of escape. The for-
tunes of the soldiers were rapidly ap-
proaching a crisis, and unless help could
be secured within a very short time, death
seemed inevitable. Whether it would
come from starvation or the Indians' tom-
ahawks they were as yet undecided. The
only chance for them was to get help from
Fort Smith, about forty miles away by
wagon road. But how could help be se-
cured unless the fort could be apprised of
their plight?
Some one must carry the message!
Captain Thompson called for volunteers.
There was a moment of hesitancy, silent
and intense with feeling, for not one of
those brave fellows but realized to the full
the frightful danger which such a trip
entailed. Then Dennis Driscoll offered
himself for the relief of his comrades. His
services were accepted amid the cheers of
his fellow-soldiers, and the thanks of his
superior officers.
"Do you think you can make it without
getting scared and turning back?" asked
Captain Thompson.
"I'll get through or die on the way. No
man could do more," replied the un-
270
OVERLAND MONTHLY.
daunted Dennis, who at once set about
preparing for his hazardous undertaking.
Although Fort Smith was but forty
miles away by wagon road, there was no
chance of reaching it by that well-known
trail, the trip must be made in a round-
about way, dodging over rocky hills and
mountains and through heavy underbrush,
that the attention of the Indians might not
be attracted. Taking the precious des-
patches from Captain Thompson, Driscoll
put them carefully in an inside pocket of
his coat, and mounting the blind white
mule the sole steed of the company,
started forth on his perilous mission. Be-
fore he left, Jack Reshaw, a half-breed
French-Canadian Indian, presented Den-
nis with his field glasses and a brace of
Colt's revolvers. Driscoll took no food
with him, believing he would reach his
destination if at all before the pangs of
hunger began to be too manifest. So
much for his courageous and optimistic
anticipation.
Reshaw advised Driscoll to follow the
creek under cover of darkness until the
Big Horn mountains were reached. "For,"
said he, "the Indians will be surely watch-
ing every known trail, knowing that our
only chance of escape is to secure assist-
ance from either Smith or Kearney. It
will be longer, but it's the only safe way."
It was about 3 o'clock on the afternoon
of June 3d that Dennis started out. Tak-
ing a southerly course along Trout Creek,
he traveled all night without being molest-
ed. This, however, was due to the fact
that a rain had started in shortly after he
left camp, which afterwards developed in-
to a terrific downpour. Despite the cold-
ness and discomfort induced by the storm,
Driscoll was devoutly grateful, for it en-
abled him to cover a fair amount of his
journey before the redskins became aware
of his departure.
Early the following morning, after a
night of hardship and fatigue, Driscoll,
upon reaching the base of the mountains,
dismounted and went to the top of a small
hill to reconnoiter. Away off in the dis-
tance he discerned several small black
specks. Thinking these to be nothing more
than buffalo, Driscoll lay down for a rest
before resuming his journey. But a vague
presentiment of impending evil seemed to
possess him, and arising he mounted a
higher hill for better observation. Ad-
justing his field glasses, he gazed long and
earnestly at the small black spots. What
he saw then sent a sickening thrill of fear
through his whole being. The supposed
buffaloes were Indians.
"There were about fifteen in the party,"
said Driscoll in telling the story, "and
they had evidently discovered me and were
making for my vicinity as fast as their
ponies could carry them."
There was no time for reflection with
death approaching at so fast a gait, and
the lonely white man knew that there was
no use in trying to get away on the poor
old mule or on foot. Either way would
only hasten the impending danger. With
a courage born of desperation, however,
he rode the mule as high up the rocky hill
as he could : then dismounted and sought
the shelter of the rocks. Knowing that
his chances of escape hung by a mere
thread, Dennis nevertheless determined
that he would not be taken without a des-
perate struggle. But his experience was
a frightful one.
"I believe if I should live to be a hun-
dred years old," said Driscoll, "I shall
never forget the sensations of that mo-
ment, as one by one the red devils ap-
proached my hiding place and began cir-
cling around, as is their custom, like so
many demons."
Ambushed at the foot of a protecting
rock and armed with a new Springfield
rifle, the white man opened fire on his
pursuers, resting the gun across the back
of the mule. The Indians were all the
while yelling like crazy men and waving
their hatchets and rifles to further terror-
ize their victim. But their lone adversary
was game to the core, and made up his
mind to make every shot tell, realizing
that if they once thought him a poor
marksman they would become bolder, make
a rush upon him, and complete their fiend-
ish work.
There was a shot from Driscoll's rifle
and one of the Indians' horses went down.
A second shot at the Indian nearest him,
and another Red Man was gathered to his
fathers, his head-feathers nearly reaching
the ground as he tumbled from his horse.
Hardly had the two Indians fallen before
a well-directed shot from the enemy laid
low the poor old white mule. While the
A FRONTIER HERO.
animal's legs were still twitching in the
death agony, Driscoll laid his rifle across
its body and opened fire once more.
"And right then is when they might
have gotten me had they been better
marksmen/' said Driscoll ; "the jerking of
the dying mule's legs spoiled my aim, and
I had to stand up several times to shoot.
But for some reason or other they missed
me every time."
This skirmishing continued for several
hours, until Driscoll decided that if he
were to get away at all, he must make a
break before any more Indians came on
the scene. With this idea in mind, he
retreated cautiously to a small grove of
quaking-asp nearby. The Indians soon
perceived his move, and again surrounded
him. Driscoll's situation at this time
may be better imagined than described.
Through it all, and supplementing his sin-
gular courage and daring, he seems to have
been surro'unded by a particularly kind
fate, for upon several occasions he missed
death by the merest chance. Once as he
turned quickly he beheld a big buck In-
dian not more than six feet from him.
Speaking of the incident, Dennis said,
dryly :
"My 45-Colt soon finished him, and I
had an insane desire to take his scalp, too.
But as neither he nor I had a knife, I
was obliged to forego that pleasure/'
By this time the man had lost all sem-
blance of fear, and entertained only a
savage desire to kill every Indian he saw.
His courage seemed to impress even his
blood-thirsty foes, and they resorted to a
last method to bring him forth into the
open. Accordingly they set fire to the
brush to burn him out, but again a kind
fate intervened, for the green brush re-
fused to burn well, and while it made a
great deal of smoke, it did not blaze. The
smoke really proved a blessing in disguise,
for by its density, Driscoll was enabled
to make his escape from the trap crawl-
ing away on his stomach, unperceived by
the Indians.
In this snake-like manner he followed
the brush and small trees, and dropped
down the side of the ridge, holding to one
pine tree and another until he reached the
bank of a small, swiftly-running stream.
Here he paused to draw breath, and found
that he had eluded the Indians at last. He
followed the stream for several miles,,
staying under cover until dark. All night
he traveled, going, as he supposed, in the
right direction, and making several miles-
through the rough country.
In the morning he again sighted In-
dians, but this party seemed to be a much
larger one. Their camp came unexpected-
ly into view as he rounded th6 top of a lit-
tle hill, and so near were they that he al-
most ran into their campfires. It wa&
now another case of getting into an ad-
vantageous position. The Indians opened
fire at once, and this time succeeded in-
giving Driscoll a slight wound in the
right foot. With this new impediment,
and more than half of his 200 rounds of
ammunition exhausted, affairs were be-
coming very precarious. With indomitable
courage, however, Driscoll stuck firmly to
his entrenchment, and suddenly the In-
dians withdrew, unable to force their vic-
tim from his point of vantage without too
great a sacrifice.
Hardly had they disappeared when
Driscoll emerged from his position and
struck out for what is known as "Back-
bone mountain," from jwhich place he
knew he could see Fort Smith. Much to
his consternation, however, he found that
the flag was lowered, and as he had never
before approached the post from that
direction, he could not even be sure of
its identity. Bewildered by this new dan-
ger, he started circling it, and to his joy
soon came on to a well-beaten trail he
knew to be a wood road to the fort.
But the discovery that help was so near
proved too much for the sorely-tried body,
and it was at this juncture that the brave
man fainted away from exhaustion and
loss of blood.
The remainder of Driscoll's exploit is
a matter of the cherished history of the
Indian war of 1866-8 in Northern Wyom-
ing and Southern Montana. The essen-
tial features of it are that shortly after-
wards, a wood train from Fort Smith, re-
turning from the pineries, came upon the
apparently lifeless body of Driscoll lying
in the road. The officer in charge asked
if any of his men knew him, and one of
them identified the fallen man as Corporal
Driscoll of Company K. Driscoll's body
was searched, the despatches were found,
and the wounded man was taken at once
272
OVEKLAISTD MONTHLY.
to the hospital. The despatches were open-
ed by Major A. S. Burt, now a retired
brigadier-general, who was then in com-
mand of the post. Eeinforcements were
sent immediately to the relief of Captain
Thompson's party, and arrived on the
scene in time to save the distressed com-
panies from annihilation.
When Driscoll regained consciousness,
his first inquiry was as to whether Major
Burt had received the despatches. On be-
ing reassured, he asked:
"Where am I? Has the relief party
gone?"
Being told that the party was already
en route, Driscoll said feebly:
"Then I wasn't too late, thank God!"
and again relapsed into unconsciousness,
remaining so for many hours. At the end
of six weeks he left the hospital and re-
turned to Fort Phil Kearney. Almost the
entire command came out to welcome him,
and he was carried into the fort on the
shoulders of his comrades. For his valiant
service, he was presented with a gold medal
the personal gift of Captain Thompson
but the honor was as nothing compared
to the gratitude forever enshrining him in
the hearts of those whom his bravery had
saved from death.
THE WITCH OF THE AUTUMN
BY AL.OYSITJS COLL
Little brown witch of the autumn
Listen ! her feet in the leaves,
Here, where the ghost of the summer
Sits in her shadow and grieves !
Brown is the wealth of her tresses ;
Scarlet and golden her feet
Little brown witch of the autumn,
Wistful and airy and sweet !
Every leaf is a-tingle,
Every berry a-blush,
Kissed with the fire of her fingers,
Eapt by her voice in the hush;
Warmed by the breath of her whisper,
Thrilled at the touch of her feet
Little brown witch of the autumn,
Winsome and careless and sweet !
Yellow as gold in the burning
The path of her mad desire ;
Eed as a polished ruby,
Shot with a glance of fire,
Crimson and gold and scarlet
Follow the dance of her feet
Little brown witch of the Autumn,
Eeckless and cruel and sweet !
Dead of her anger the flowers ;
Hidden away in the grass,
Berry and leaf of the bramble
Wait for her anger to pass;
Mad with the dance of her feet,
But glad with the breath of her whisper,
Cometh a maid and her lover,
Into her golden retreat.
L'JSiwoi
we have guessed your magic,
Little witch brown and sweet
You are the call and the answer,
When a maid and her lover meet !
MR. PONDICHERRY AND THE SMUGGLERS
BY JOHN H. WALSH
ME. PONDICHERRY, amongst
other things, gave long John
Foote and me about as thor-
ough-going and hair-raising a
fright as either one of us can stand. Also
we read a moral in what we learned of
his life. These things happened over in
Mr. Pondicherry's cabin on Vashon, which
is an island that lies northeast of Seattle
in Puget Sound.
Big John was probably not so much
frightened as I was, but his hand trem-
bled a good deal nevertheless, and he
dropped a match before he intended to, al-
though not before he had taken time to
grow as white as new snow. It is queer
how white a man's face can become and
how quickly the whiteness arrives. Big
John's white face as a phenomenon was
only slightly less interesting and less hor-
rible to me that the head, arms and shoul-
ders of Mr. Pondicherry, which lay on the
table quite still, with a dried, reddish black
stain on the table there at his elbow.
Big John and I had been lost in the
woods during the earlier hours of a cold,
drizzling night in November. We had
hunted for shelter in a not very well con-
sidered way. In the end we found it by
running into it pretty hard with John's
face, he being ahead. Thus you see, it
was a very dark night.
The day had started out with probably
an inch of wet snow. We had early in
the morning, as we prowled about with
our guns, found the fresh tracks of a mule
deer. We had followed them all day long,
disregarding the vicissitudes of brush
travel and feeding our hunger on hope. We
must often have walked very close to that
deer without ever seeing it, for at times
when it back-tracked us, it lay within ten
feet of us, and rested. Twice we found
the ground still warm and smoking. About
four o'clock the snow finished melting, and
after that, tracks were invisible to us. We
stopped for a smoke, and having time for
reflection, we soon saw that we were lost
in the woods, with night coming on.
When this realization came to us, it
was already half dark in those melancholy
woods, and it was still drizzling rain. It
looked very much that we must hungrily
tramp about or shiver by a fire of wet wood
for all of that night. We decided, how-
ever, to first have a try at reaching the
beach, for near the beach we might by
food luck stumble into a cabin. We tried,
leading off on a guess at the direction.
We went slashing through sal-lal, grease-
wood, huckleberry and blackberry, making
the noise of a herd of stampeding rhinocer-
oses. The trees overhead now shut out
almost every particle of light, so we
bumped our heads on low branches, we
scratched ourselves, we got soaked to the
skin, and we battered our shins till they
iched like a frozen ear. I don't know
whether we kept direction well or badly.
We came to water unexpectedly, so un-
expectedly that I fell over a bluff into the
water, and was like to have drowned for
the beach went off very abruptly. I got
out after a swim, but my rifle still rusts in
that pool. At the time, however, I con-
gratulated myself on getting out with my
life.
The whole situation was not without its
humorous points, and I think Big John
saw them, but he kept very quiet about
them, which was considerate. He sug-
gested that we stop and build us a fire,
but I had a wild fancy that we were near
to our own hunting shack, and I prom-
ised to indicate the way to it. I was mis-
taken by eight or ten- miles as to our
whereabouts, which shows that we really
were lost.
We found, mostly with our feet, a trail
which for a while followed the beach in
the direction which I believed we ought to
travel to get home. We moved pretty fast,
274
OVEELAND MONTHLY.
John leading. We had to move fast or I
should have frozen to death, for every
particle of my clothing was wet. It con-
tinued to drizzle dismally, and the dark-
ness was profound, muffling, disconcert-
ing. It seemed to clog the motions of our
arms and legs, to stick to us and to pull us
back even. We felt our way along the
trail with our feet, and it is singular what
facility we developed. After a time the
trail turned back from the beach, and
climbed a small hill, but we still followed
it we could do no better.
I remember now that, as we climbed
the hill my foot struck near the side of
the trail something soft. It shocked me
someway, and I drew back from it with an
instinctive shrinking, not guessing what
it was, only fearing it as if it were a
snake. Had I been of the female sex, I
should have been warranted in shrieking.
Had I been warmer, I should have stopped
and lighted a match. But as it was, I
pushed on, and temporarily forgot it. We
were getting into Mr. Pondicherry's place.
Big John discovered Mr. Pondicherry's
house much as I had discovered the water.
He rammed his face into the side of it,
and fell back, cursing, upon me, almost
bowling me over. I besought him to be
calm while I found the door by a process
of feeling, for we could see nothing. When
I found the door, I pounded it lustily, and
as it opened not, John put his shoulder
against it, and shoved until with a crash
of the lock, it yielded. He struck a match
and I had the pleasure for the first time
of seeing Mr. Pondicherry, lying, as I
have said, with his arms, head and shoul-
ders on the table, and with the dark stain
near his elbow.
Big John dropped the match and we
went outside to have a talk. Afterwards,
we returned, lighted a candle and exam-
ined things. I here give you Mr. Pondi-
cherry's manuscript. It lay under his
arms when we first saw him, and we pulled
it forth and read it before we even started
a fire. I see it all distinctly yet, I shiver-
ing by the candle and listening to Long
John's sombre voice, Mr. Pondicherry's
head, shoulders and arms on the table,
his body stiff as though frozen.
My Cabin, Vashon Island, Nov. 19, 1905.
I am very tired now, very, very tired.
I pause between words, so great is my
fatigue, and my pen is as heavy as a trou-
bled conscience, but I think I must write
certain things down for the clearance of
my own thoughts. In a way I am at peace
now, for I know what I shall do. I am
tired, however. I know I am tired, yet
my mind gallops along at a charge, and
my memories sweep by me in companies,
battalions, brigades, at a long, space-de-
vouring trot. All the yesterdays of life
pass in review; it is strange how sharp
the edges of those memory figures are.
Sometimes they go by me so fast that I
grow dizzy, and that is why I stop to hold
my hands over my eyes. They go slower
now : it is much better so. Just now Herr
Stutzer bid me good-morning on a small
street of Berlin that happened twenty
years ago, yet I see the gold in his teeth
shine in the sunshine. But other figures
replace him. Then there is Louisa; she
is there always; her neck is like a stem of
a flower, her hair is the color of ripe
honey, and it shimmers and undulates like
a field of ripening grain. I am
I must have been asleep for a few mo-
ments. Well, I wish to get the thing
written down before the night is gone
away, for the light of day irritates me; I
could not write in the day time. Here is