--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Fred McLaughlin collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 24 number: 6 published: 1921-04 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Fred McLaughlin, "The Arm of the Rio," *Improvement Era* 24, no. 6 (April 1921): 548–553.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2406unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2406unse start_page: 548 end_page: 553 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1921-04) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2406unse publication_year: 1921 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1921, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Arm of the Rio — The Arm of the Rio By Fred McLaughlin, U. S. Geological Survey, Washington, D. C. We had left the Cerro Altos that morning; and they now stood, bold and brown, against a darkening East. North of us rose the spires and 'battlements of the Organ Mountains, while southward the thin knife edge of the Franklin Range cut the coppery sky. Far to the West the sun had just dropped behind the dim blue screen of the Floridas; and the deeply purpling slopes came down to a broad dark band of timber that stretched — — north and south across our path. "There she is," said Harris; "the well known Rio Grande!" Harris wrote feature stuff for divers newspapers. Sunsets didn't interest him; the sun had to set. — "Pretty," said Ames; and then "wonderful. Did you ever see such shades of purple?" Ames is a painter. He was on his way to the Mogollons, where the cliff dwellings are. "Less than an hour and we camp." Thus spoke Mitchell Bob Mitchell, prospector, scout, hunter and guide; wise in the ways of the wild; well known over all the wide spaces of the West; lean, lithe, erect, lantern- jawed, who carried his threescore years like a feather. From the cantinas of Tehuantepec to the gold camps of the Klondyke men will tell you tales of this remarkable man. The Pony Express knew him, and — the "Mormons" that strange, hardy people who builded a — great empire they knew him, and liked him. He knew a dozen Indian tongues; he was familiar with the moods of the desert; he knew the best passes through the mountains, the nearest water holes, the fine points of a horse and the weak points of a man. He had been with Lawton, and Shafter, and Miles; he had lived a thousand absorbing stories; and when he told one he always drove it home with a bit of philosophy that fit him as appropriately as the twilight's purple mantle fits these southwestern hills. May his wit ever shine and his keen gray eyes never dim! An hour later, beside the bank of the Big River, we made our camp. The horses, free from galling saddles, nibbled at the scant grass among the sage; the coffee pot began its evening song, and the savory perfume of cooking meat and the rapidly browning pone in the "dutch oven" took nothing away from our appetites. " THE ARM OF THE RIO 549 Supper over and minds active, we gat around the fire and talked, as we had sat and talked each night since leaving the Pecos. The fact that a railroad paralleled our course one day's ride to the South troubled us not at all. The railroad would never have given us these wonderful nights; it would not have afforded us this close companionship; it would not have given us Bob Mitchell; it would not have put some- — thing clean and fine into our lives a something that will stay with us as long as we may live. Harris had told us stories about the Big City, for Harris' life was the warp and woof of the crowd. Ames, always under compulsion, had pictured strange scenes and peoples in out-ofthe-way places of the earth. I remember having seen a series of Afghanistan paintings in brilliant blues, with Ames' name at the bottom; and I remember once when Harris, always inquisitive, had asked him how he lost that finger from his left — hand, Ames had replied, "A monkey bit it off on the Congo." So we conjured up imaginations and studied the fire; seeing, each, in the flickering flames, the pictures in his own brain; while the river whispered almost at our feet, and a couple of birds in the dark foliage of an overhanging tree quarreled because we had broken their rest. "How about the river, Mitchell?" said Harris, with a bit of banter in his tone. Mitchell made a characteristic move; the fire threw his strong face into sharp relief. "There's a good deal about the river, son," said he. "This was the Great River to the old Anahuac, a thousand years before your Dutch forebears began to trade worthless beads to the gullible red man for valuable furs." Harris joined in the laugh that followed. "What does it say to you, Mitchell?" said Ames "The — river?" The grizzled hunter turned to Ames. "You feel it, sir; don't you?" Always it was "sir" to Ames and "son" to Harris. True, Ames was much the older. "Spill it," said Harris. In some ways the young dissenter was more guileful than we, for he drew forth many a story that we would never have reached. "The desert kinder talks to you," said Mitchell slowly; "and the mountains; and at night, the stars — "I've heard of the language of the stars." This from "son." "Shut up," said Ames pleasantly. "And the river, Bob; what does it say to you?" "You know I've lived with the Indians a good deal; and the — 550 IMPROVEMENT ERA Mexicans, which is only good Indian with bad Spanish blood in 'em. I learned a lot from them. They're mostly superstitious. To them this old river is something more than a lot of water wanderin' along to the Gulf; it's got a kind of a soul. Every fifth of May they bring old San Isidro down and duck him; and they do a lot of things that seem plumb foolish to a man who don't understand. The river tells some wonderful stories: it whispers strange things to you; it talks." "Esperanto, I guess," jeered Harris. Mitchell turned a quizzical face. "What language is a frown, son? Hindoo? English? French? It tells the same thing in any language. You don't need words to talk. You know as well as I do that them two birds up there are cussin' us because they can't go to sleep. I don't have to talk to my horse; he knows. Don't music talk to you? Sure it does. What language does it use?" "Search me," said Harris; "I'm over my head." "Don't music talk love to you; and hate? Can't you hear — marching men; can't you see 'em fightin' and dying? Once 1 heard one of them piano sharks in Leadville play 'The Butterfly.' A Swede wrote it. I could see that bug floppin', and divin' down, and floatin' off kinder graceful. Once I went as far East as Chicago with Mr. Remington. You know him, sir?" "Yes," said Ames; "very well." — "We went to a show All music, Son, that orchestra didn't — say a word, but it talked to us. And the river the 'Danube' remember?" "Blue Danube." I never saw the Danube River; it don't "Yes sir; that's it. have a name like a western stream, but if I ever see it I'll know it from that tune. I can see it tumbling — and then sweepin' along quiet in the wide places. There will be a kind of a whisper in the eddies— and old time rock forts and castles on the banks." "It does tumble," put in Ames the painter; and sweep along in the wide places. And there are castles on the banks." Harris the impetuous moved uneasily. "What I'm trying to get at," continued the old man, "is this: A human might live so close to nature and so far away from the mean little things of his own kind that he would sort of get in touch with the music of the hills and the rivers and the deserts. Then maybe nature would talk to him. Somehow, son, I feel that this old earth lives!" "But the river," urged the painter gently; "were you going to tell us something about the river, Bob?" THE ARM OF THE RIO 551 Mitchell laughed. "Sure." "Go to it," said Harris. "Give us a lot of action; you can't put philosophy in a newspaper." "The river has a keen sense of humor— and of justice." "I'm so nervous!" said Harris. The old man reflected: "Remember Sheriff Greenway, of Brewster county?" He turned to me. I nodded. Then for the benefit of the others: "Old Greenway had a shack in the valley below El Paso. River's the boundary from El Paso down. Season by season it swings back and forth across the valley. It was Greenway's boast that his shack had been in Mexico and in Texas eight times. Once it was right on the line." The old fellow shook with silent laughter. "That's the only time it ever moved. Greenway swam out. The river plays strange tricks; I'll tell you: "Good many years ago a small bunch of 'Mormons' hired me to go with them from Austin to the Gila. We hit the Rio Grande at Del Rio, but moved north again, because Garcia, with a band of bad Mexicans, was out on a rampage. There was women and children in our crowd, so we couldn't count on much of a fight. At Ft. Davis we heard of him again. He's across the line and the few people in the Big Bend are on the run. For safety we went north of the Cerro Altos. Comin' down the West bench from the hills we could see two or three columns of smoke, which I took to be burning ranch houses near Ysleta, twenty miles south; and I knew the wily Mexican wasn't far off. "We hurried across the valley. Middle of the afternoon, when we stopped at the abandoned Stateline Ranch for water, we could see, far to the South, the dust cloud of a body of horsemen. It couldn't be none but Garcia. I told the whiskered old patriarch who seemed to be bossin' the gang that we had a hard run and a harder fight ahead of us. He said we'd try the run first, and then if we had to fight we'd fight. There was half a dozen sturdy, clear-eyed young fellows who didn't take to runnin' much, but I explained to them that we could make a better fight from the far bank where we could pick 'em off as they came out of the river. "So we ran; right over yonder divide and down here to the Chamborino Crossing. The stream was then on the West side of the valley, about three miles from here. Except in flood time Chamborino is a ford crossing; but flood time can happen any minute in the Rio Grande. A heavy dew on the Spanish Peaks can start a flood in the Rio. "We beat it across the wooded valley; the wagons tippin' and bumpin'; men poundin' the leather to the tired horses; ' — 552 IMPROVEMENT ERA women sniffin' a little, and kids yellin\ I'd grown fond of the —sweet kids, and well behaved. Of an evening in the children moonlight they'd climb around on me and I'd — 'em Kinder took me back. They're gentle people 'Mormons.' tell stories. "I was some anxious. If we had time to cross, we had a — chance; but a fight in the bosque nothing to it but murder. So we hurried. I knew seven men in that bunch who could put up a fair scrap. Besides, there was four old men, seven women and a dozen kids. The six young huskies were nervous kept — lookin' back; but not the kind of nervous a man is who's afraid of a fight. Far from it. They're lookin' for Mexicans. I was proud of those boys. That's the breed that built the West, son; it's the only breed that could 'a done it. "Then we come to the river." The old man studied the fire, now down to a bed of glowing coals. "Well," questioned Harris the practical; "didn't you expect to find it?" "She was brimful, and eatin' into the bank like a steam shovel. Only a bird could 'a crossed it. And Garcia Garcia is — not more 'n five miles behind us. We unhitched and arranged the wagons in a sort of barricade. The old gentleman with the whiskers came to me. 'I guess we have to fight?' 'A good guess,' I said. 'Then we'll fight no less for a little prayer.' " 'Go as far as you like,' I told him. "So they all got down on their knees; with some of the kids still whimperin' a little, and the young men nervously fingerin' their guns. The fine old Patriarch lifted up his arms and his face and his voice. I felt kinder out of place, but I got down too. "His voice was rich and deep and easy to hear above the roar of that treacherous river. Surprised, I caught myself listenin' to him. He wasn't askin' for help. Not that old gent; though I'd 'a been. "The sun was just goin' down I remember hearin' the faint ; call of a bird. The old man's prayer rose higher and higher. He's askin' forgiveness for things he'd done and forgot about; he's askin' for strength to die like a man. He's wastin' time he already had that. Gradually his voice seemed to rise 'way — above the flood. I felt funny his prayer seemed to fill the earth. Everything else had stopped to listen. I listened in a sort of trance. "All at once a half grown girl gave a little startled cry, and — — a woman screamed shrill and terrified like she'd seen something unnatural: " 'It's gone ! My God— it's gone ! "She had seen something. I looked up. Sure as you're a — — — THE ARM OF THE RIO 553 foot high the river was gone. Nothin' was left of that yellow flood but a broad flat belt of wet sand. Then I heard the old man finish his prayer: " 'We thank thee.' The unnatural was the naturalest thing in the world to him. "One of the young fellows caught my arm; his face was one big question mark. "'The son-of-a-gun cut it above us; that's all,' I explained. 'She's goin' down the other side of the valley.' " 'Hope it caught 'em,' he said with a grin. "So we crossed the Rio Grande — in flood— and never wet a foot. "We skirted the Lanark Hills, went through the gap at Santa Rita, passed north of Silver City, and dropped down into the Gila Valley, where I left them. The kids cried a little and some of the women, too. The old man gave me a kind of a blessin', and said he hoped some day to see me in the Church. A good man went out when that old codger passed over." Mitchell reflected for a moment. "Is that all?" "Enough, ain't it?" The scout turned a face, the sharp lines of which were slightly softened by the shadows of retrospection, to Harris. "Did the river get him — Garcia?" "No; he hadn't reached the valley yet. But / got him. Many a night I pictured the scene as it would 'a been if Garcia's band had caught us in the bosque; and the more I thought of the kids, and the gentle, patient women, the surer I was I could do this world a favor by getting that Mexican out of it. Brewster County had put a price on his head. I hunted up Old Greenway at San Jacinto, and he deputized me. One moonlight night Garcia crossed the river at Lajitas to see a pretty little Mexican girl near Terlingua. He sneaked into the jecal where he expected to find her. He found me there instead. I didn't try to bring him in alive." Mitchell turned toward the dark, whispering waters. "Some- — how I got a feelin' for that old river seemed kinder like it reached out and put an arm around us." Washington, D. C. "It costs far less," said Cavorn, the great Italian statesman, "to give good direction to a hundred boys than to repair the ills of a single man not having the benefits of education and instruction." Humane Education Press Bureau. "A thousand cases of cruelty can be prevented by Human Education for every one that can be prevented by prosecution. Far better the fence at the top of the precipice than the ambulance at the bottom." Geo. T. Angell.