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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 173 pages of information about Emerson's Wife and Other Western Stories.

The train was moving faster, the Indians, with shouts and yells and curses, were grasping at his bridle, and Wemple felt his horse giving way beneath him.  With a last encouraging call to the poor beast he urged it to one more leap, and as it brought him again even with the end of the car he threw his leg over its neck and jumped.  The horse staggered and fell as he left the saddle and caused him to lose his balance.  He went down upon the car-steps, his wounded left arm beside him and his right doubled beneath his body.  In another instant he would have rolled back to the ground beneath the hoofs of the Indian ponies, but Barbara seized him by the shoulders, and held him until he recovered his footing.

The Indians, seeing his predicament, whipped up their horses and galloped beside the platform, reviling and jeering at him.  Wemple scrambled to his feet and put his arm about Barbara, as though fearful they might yet try to take her from him.  She leaned over the rail, laughed in their faces, and called out, in the Indian tongue: 

“Good-bye!  Good-bye, forever!  Now I shall be a white woman!”

THE KID OF APACHE TEJU

      Baby, my babe,
  What waits you yonder,
      Out in the world? 
      Dear little feet,
  There must they wander,
      Out in the world? 
      Soft little hands,
  What shall they do there,
      Out in the world? 
      Baby, my babe,
  What fate must you dare,
      Out in the world?

All around Apache Teju for miles and miles lies the gray, cactus-dotted, heat-devoured plain, weird and fascinating, with its placid, tree-fringed lakes, that are not; its barren, jagged, turquoise-tinted mountain-peaks, born here and there of the horizon and the desert; its whirling, dancing columns of sand, which mount to mid-sky; its lying distances and deceiving levels; its silence and its fierce, white, unclouded sunshine.

And when you draw rein under the cottonwoods at Apache Teju, uncurl the wrinkles of your eyelids in the welcome shade, and cool your eyes in the vivid green of the alfalfa field, it suddenly comes to you that never before did you understand what blessedness there is in a bit of shadow and a patch of green things growing.

From the spring at the top of the slope behind the house a line of noble old cottonwoods files along the acequia halfway down the hill, and there, where the ditch divides, forks into a spreading double row, which incloses the house and stables and comes together again in a little grove beyond the road, where the two ditches empty into a pond.  The house lies there in this circlet of trees, a low, whitewashed, flat-roofed adobe, rambling along in apparent aimlessness from cosey rooms through sheds and stables, until the whole connecting structure incloses a large corral.

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