his speed. His shoes were gone, his stockings hung in shreds from his
ankles, and his feet were a mass of raw and bleeding flesh, pierced by
hundreds of cactus thorns. He had hurried away on an Eastern-bound
freight train to Deming, the next station, to rouse the citizens and
help to raise a militia company, whose coming was expected in a few
hours. And telegrams had been sent to Fort Bayard giving news of the
outbreak and asking for a troop of cavalry.

Every soul in Separ--men, women, and children--with all the arms and
ammunition in the town, had huddled into the station house, where they
hoped they would be able to make a successful resistance, and, as one
man said, "make as many good Injuns as the Lord would let them." For
in those days the hearts of the bravest in the Southwest knew terror,
and with good reason, when the Apache went on the war path.

The train sped on into the radiant white night, but the car steps and
platforms were deserted. The passengers all sought their berths as
soon as possible, there to lie below the level of the windows and pile
all the pillows they could get between themselves and the side of the
car. When we reached Deming we found the place in an uproar. Every
bell in town, from the gong of the railroad restaurant to the church
bell, was ringing its loudest and wildest. Men in varied degrees of
undress were running up and down the streets calling loudly upon all
citizens to come out at once. The people were assembling at the depot,
where two or three of the cooler-headed had taken the place of leaders
and had begun to organize the excited mass into an armed and officered
company and get it ready to go quickly to the assistance of beleaguered
little Separ.

Then our train sped on again through the wondrous night, and I knew no