Don Miguel Garcia was a gallant figure with a touch of the hidalgo as he rode at the head of the long mule train winding down through Skeleton Canyon toward the San Simon Valley. His steeple sombrero was ornamented with silver bangles, his bell-shaped buckskin pantaloons were set with pearl buttons down the seams, and his striped resplendent sarape was swung with loose grace across his shoulders. Except for the six-shooter in a scabbard at his side and the rifle that rested across the pommel of his saddle, he looked just the fellow to stand in some dim, moonlit patio and strum a guitar beneath a lady’s balcony. Doubtless Don Miguel was dreaming of some dusky beauty who had taken his fancy in the last village in which his caravan had stopped among the mountains of old Mexico, for these smugglers were jolly fellows and, like sailors, had a sweetheart in every port.
Behind, in single file, came the mules, small, lithe, clean-limbed, of ancient Andalusian stock, each with a jingling bell at its throat and each half-hidden beneath great rawhide aparejos—pack sacks called by cowboys kyacks, that did not stand out from the animal squarely like panniers, but fitted snugly around the curving sides and were strapped securely beneath the belly. Along the flanks of the train trailed heavily armed outriders, swarthy, hard-faced men, alertly vigilant, their sharp black eyes searching rocks and coverts for sign of lurking danger.
Many a smuggling expedition had Don Miguel led over the international line to trade at Tucson for merchandise upon which customs authorities never levied duty and on which he made fat profits. If the saints to whom he prayed blessed him now with a prosperous journey, Don Miguel, after leaving Skeleton Canyon, would turn north through the San Simon, round the northern end of the Chiricahuas, and passing through Dragoon Gap and across the San Pedro, arrive in Santa Cruz Valley where at trail’s end he would pitch his camp among the desert cholla thickets in the environs of Tucson. Here the merchants, who grew rich on this trade in contraband, would gather to meet him, and Don Miguel’s aparejos would soon be empty of their wealth of silver dobe dollars and packed to bulging fullness with goods and commodities of many kinds. Then at last, the trading over, Don Miguel and his men, before setting out on the long return journey to Mexico, would revel for a while in the Mexican dance halls of the old pueblo and refresh their weary souls with much wine and tequila.
While the smuggler train moved slowly through the canyon, up and down over the rough trail, in and out among trees and giant boulders, around many a corner of towering precipices, a solitary horseman lounged easily in his saddle in the sequestered coolness of the tall cathedral rocks that form the Devil’s Kitchen. He was a burly figure, with bull neck, round swarthy face, and a shock of curly black hair, and from his appearance might have been a wandering cowboy resting for a while in the shade of the deep recess. His hat was pushed back from his brow, and he had a look of carefree good-nature as he gazed with calm indifference across the level grassy floor of the canyon and heard the gurgle of the creek on the far side rippling over sand bars under the green shadows of willow trees. Though one might have wondered at his purpose in this lonely place, one who had ever seen him before would have been in no doubt as to his identity. This was Curly Bill.
From far up the canyon through the golden, sunny stillness came the faint tinkle of a bell.
There was seeming magic in the dim, silvery shiver of sound. Curly Bill was instantly transformed from listlessness into electric animation. He straightened tensely in his saddle. His dark face froze in the rigidity of sculpture. His black eyes gleamed like those of an ambushed panther that suddenly on a slant of wind scents prey. He drew his six-shooters from their holsters and gave them close scrutiny. He carefully adjusted the magazine rifle that hung in its sheath at his side. Then, with a satisfied air of preparedness, he touched his pony lightly with his heel and moved off up the canyon at a walk.
He had gone only a few steps from the Devil’s Kitchen when he shot a swift furtive look from beneath the brim of his sombrero to the broken rocks and tangled chaparral along the rim of the canyon wall. In the fraction of a second occupied by that rapid glance, a man’s hand that seemed as if detached from its body was thrust from a thicket, opened, and closed in a lightning-quick signal, and disappeared. That was all. Except for this strange, sudden apparition, the canyon’s rim seemed as peaceful as the blue sky against which it was outlined.
The jingle of bells was growing rapidly more distinct. It became a loud, confused tintinnabulation. From round a bend the long mule train swung into view. When
