Jeff Dason of Cajon

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue XIX, 9 November 1895, Page 572

Jeff Dason of Cajon

BY.

John Vance Cheney

In Cajon, the grazing-ground, in Arizona land, Were the horses and Jeff, Jeff Dason, the’wrangler of the band. B| He had climbed the canon wall—the herd busy feeding ‘*7 below — When his drifting eye caught a sight such as only Border Boys know. Up there, keeping cool in the cedars, the thoughts took fire in his brain, Broke ablaze at a breath of ‘ Hell-patch, ’ the endless alkali plain ; Two miles out into the desert, a little to west of south, Five mounted Apaches were steering straight for the canon’s mouth. Jeff’s legs, well bowed by the saddle, had not quite the turn for a leap, But he made it, he got to the bottom, and slipt in under the steep, Just where he had tied the great gelding, the pride of his wrangler’s heart, His rangy, raw-boned glory, game old Bonaparte.

Roan Duke in the van of the broncos—a sniff, a snort, and he wheels : See ! he’ll be off in a twinkle, the herd, too, hard at his heels. The wrangler has stript ; an extra strap on old Bony, not one ; A spring, and the two are ready. Roan Duke—the stampede is begun. Thro’ sage and mesquite and seepage, the roan leads dead to south. Swish ! the herd, like a whirlwind, whisk from the canon’s mouth ; The red wolves jump from their hiding, rush with a yell towards the prey, Ha ! Bony has been with the devils of ‘ Hell-patch ’ before to-day.

Spur, Jeff, and hold him steady ! he’ll do it, he’ll turn the tide! Head ’em off, set ’em once toward the rancho, swing to th’ other side ! Dig him, and ply the shooter ! —Bony, it’s Jeff and you. They are tangled—they waver—they turn ; a lunge—they have broken through. Safe ? Apaches have arrows ; hark ! there’s death in that yell. Old Bony, lay flat your ears ; every nose, now, straight for * cross L. ’ — The biting dust of the desert, it rolls up white and high, Jeff, did he stop two arrows ? Well, there’s no time to die. The white dust rolls and rolls ; the wolves, the red wolves—are they gone ? The white clouds roll and roll, and the herd goes flying on. The minutes were never so long, and never so long the mile : ‘ The damned * Apache arrows !’ ’tis muttered with a smile.

Way for the caballada ? once more for old ‘ Cross L, ! ’ ' A little farther ’ —still muttering—‘ perhaps ’ —he cannot tell. Roan Duke will make it, and Bugle, and Pink, and Silver-heels But Bony, too, stopt an arrow. Is’t he, or his rider, reels ?’

Ay, which ? for, with head well up, he has got to the gate—and through I Bony, the cheering ! it’s little red-headed Jeff and you.— Roan Duke and the herd may hear, but old Bony—not a sound ; Deaf he lies as the wrangler, dead ere he struck the ground.

* The Apaches are a branch of the Athabasca family which has wandered far from the parent region, and now range over large parts of New Mexico and Arizona. It is a powerful, warlike tribe, at war with the whites almost continually since the latter entered the country. A large part of the tribe is on the Fort Stanton reservation in eastern New Mexico, while another portion, under the chief Victoria, has for a long time been devastating the border settlements of New Mexico. The Tonlo-Apaches, collected in large numbers on the San Carlos reservation in Arizona, where they are doing something at farming, are of Vuina stock. Besides these, there are several bands of Apaches scattered about on other reservations, or roaming without a fixed habitat, swelling the total to about 10,600 souls.