Argosy, Volume XXIII — Index Page, 1897 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A CAMPAIGN OF STRATEGY. 579 ‘“Some folks would call this warm weather,’’ he remarked to himself, as if the day were a balmy one in spring ; ‘‘and I suppose it does deserve that name. I haven’t a thermometer with me, but I have no doubt it would mark a hundred and twenty five or thirty. The pony doesn’t seem to feel very lively, but I don’t understand why the people that have lived nearly all their lives in this part of the world should be eternally complaining about the weather.’’ Atwood had learned one important fact, since coming to Southwestern Arizona. He was in the land of the unspeakable Apache, the most terrible red men that ever spread death and desolation among the settlements. He knew that Geronimo and his band had broken away from ‘their reservation more than once, and were likely todo so again. The people at Bozeman’s had told him strange, horrible stories of their outrages. Gannet himself had related an experience that sounded incredible. He warned Atwood ever to be on the alert, for when the fierce bucks descended it would be like a cyclone. It was because he could not forget this counsel that Atwood, as his horse plodded over the flaming plain, cast frequent glances at his surroundings. ‘“T suspect that even an Apache would find this temperature uncomfort- able,’’ he remarked, after one of these surveys, ‘‘and so far as I can see there are-no signs of them.’’ To the westward, behind him and in front, the yellow sand lay in rolls and ridges, and with no other sign of life than himself and pony. ‘To the east- ward, rose the mountainous spur, gloomy, desolate, and forbidding, but so far as the eye showed, equally devoid of life. A few miles further and he would arrive in sight of the low, squat building, where Austin Gannet and his hired man, known as Bumble Bee Beebe, made their home. ‘‘ This is too good a view to be lost,’’ suddenly exclaimed Atwood, check- ing his pony with a gentle word ; ‘‘ it must go into my collection.’’ What there was ‘‘ good’’ in such a prospect would have puzzled the most ardent photographer to explain. Perhaps it was its very desolation that made it attractive. Be that as it may, Atwood could not have been more in earnest had he been contemplating the wonders of Yellowstone Park or the magnificence of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. He quickly unstrapped his box-like arrangement, and dismounting, adjusted it on the triangle of supports, hardly thicker than pipestems. His ‘horse was too worn to take any interest in the proceedings, and his master gave no attention to him. The ridge, which ran nearly parallel with the course he was following, was some two miles distant, affording an abrupt break in the monotony of the windrows of sand. With the abundance of sunlight, despite its palpita- tion, he ought to have secured a fine picture, and he was confident “he had succeeded. Certain it is that he never took greater pains. When the work was finished, he carefully folded up the apparatus, fastened it to his saddle, and mounted. As he took the reins in hand, he cast another sweeping glance around the horizon and toward the ridge. ‘It would be a great improvement to the picture if an Indian or animal showed in the field of vision, and-yet it would take away the most impres- sive touch of nature, for truly it is the home of loneliness and desolation. GCOmMIicdooks.co a2)