Dreams and Days | Page 9

knew his name
Or the place from whereabouts he
came--
On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him.
Killed the old
folks! But this cus'--they brought him
Safe away from fire an' knife
an' arrows.
So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows:

They was merciful;--treated him real good;
Brought him up to man's
age well's they could.
Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad,

For all they used him so, went to the bad:
Leastways left the red men,
that he knew,
'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;--

Goldarned white folks that he never saw.
Queerest thing was--though
he loved a squaw,
'T was on her account he planned escape;
Shook
the Apaches, an' took up red tape
With the U. S. gov'ment arter a
while;
Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile,
Mean an' treacherous
an' deceivin'. Well,
_I_ ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell.

Bocanegra--Spanish term--I've heard
Stands for "Blackmouth." Now
this curious bird,
Known as Bocanegra, gave his life
Most for
others. First, he saved his wife;
Her I spoke of;--nothin' but a squaw.

You might wonder by what sort of law
He, a white man born,
should come to love her.
But 't was somehow so: he did discover

Beauty in her, of the holding kind.
Some men love the light, an' some
the shade.
Round that little Indian girl there played
Soft an'
shadowy tremblings, like the dark
Under trees; yet now an' then a
spark,
Quick 's a firefly, flashing from her eyes,
Made you think of
summer-midnight skies.
She was faithful, too, like midnight stars.

As for Blackmouth, if you'd seen the scars
Made by wounds he
suffered for her sake,
You'd have called him true, and no mistake.
Growin' up a man, he scarcely met
Other white folks; an' his heart
was set
On this red girl. Yet he said: "We'll wait.
You must never
be my wedded mate
Till we reach the white man's country. There,

Everything that's done is fair and square."
Patiently they stayed, thro'
trust or doubt,
Till tow'rds Colorado he could scout
Some safe track.
He told her: "You go first.
All my joy goes with you:--that's the worst!

But _I_ wait, to guard or hide the trail."
Indians caught him; an' they gave him--hail;
Cut an' tortured him, till
he was bleeding;
Yet they found that still they weren't succeeding.

"Where's that squaw?" they asked. "We'll have her blood!
Either that,
or grind you into mud;
Pick your eyes out, too, if you can't see

Where she's gone to. Which, now, shall it be?
Tell us where she's
hid."
"I'll show the way,"
Blackmouth says; an' leads toward dawn of day,

Till they come straight out beside the brink
Of a precipice that
seems to sink

Into everlasting gulfs below.
"Loose me!"
Blackmouth tells 'em. "But go slow."
Then they loosed him; and,
with one swift leap,
Blackmouth swooped right down into the deep;--

Jumped out into space beyond the edge,
While the Apaches

cowered along the ledge.
Seven hundred feet, they say. That's guff!

Seventy foot, I tell you, 's 'bout enough.
Indians called him a dead
antelope;
But they couldn't touch the bramble-slope
Where he,
bruised and stabbed, crawled under brush.
Their_ hand was beat
hollow: _he held a flush.
Day and night he limped or crawled along:
Winds blew hot, yet sang
to him a song
(So he told me, once) that gave him hope.
Every time
he saw a shadow grope
Down the hillsides, from a flying cloud,

Something touched his heart that made him proud:
Seemed to him he
saw her dusky face
Watching over him, from place to place.
Every
time the dry leaves rustled near,
Seemed to him she whispered, "Have
no fear!"
So at last he found her:--they were married.
But, from those days on,
he always carried
Marks of madness; actually--yes!--
Trusted the
good faith of these U. S.
Indian hate an' deviltry he braved;
'N' scores an' scores of white men's
lives he saved.
Just for that, his name should be engraved.
But it
won't be! U. S. gov'ment dreads
Men who're taller 'n politicians'
heads.
All the while, his wife--tho' half despised
By the frontier folks that
civilized
An' converted her--served by his side,
Helping faithfully,
until she died.
Left alone, he lay awake o' nights,
Thinkin' what
they'd both done for the whites.
Then he thought of her, and Indian
people;
Tryin' to measure, by the church's steeple,
Just how
Christian our great nation's been
Toward those native tribes so full of
sin.
When he counted all the wrongs we've done
To the wild men of
the setting sun,
Seem'd to him the gov'ment wa'n't quite fair.
When
its notes came due, it wa'n't right there.
U. S. gov'ment promised
Indians lots,

But at last it closed accounts with shots.
Mouth was
black, perhaps;--but he was white.
Calling gov'ment black don't seem

polite:
Yet I'll swear, its actions wouldn't show
'Longside
Blackmouth's better 'n soot with snow.
Yes, sir! Blackmouth took the other side:
Honestly for years an' years
he tried
Getting justice for the Indians. He,
Risking life an' limb for
you an' me;--
He, the man who proved his good intent
By his deeds,
an' plainly showed he meant
He would die for us,--turned round an'
said:
"White men have been saved. Now, save the red!"
But it didn't
pan out. No one would hark.
"Let the prairie-dogs an' Blackmouth