GENERAL CROOK AND THE
                           FIGHTING APACHES


                           FIFTH IMPRESSION




_The American Trail Blazers_

“THE STORY GRIPS AND THE HISTORY STICKS”


These books present in the form of vivid and fascinating fiction, the
early and adventurous phases of American history. Each volume deals
with the life and adventures of one of the great men who made that
history, or with some one great event in which, perhaps, several heroic
characters were involved. The stories, though based upon accurate
historical fact, are rich in color, full of dramatic action, and appeal
to the imagination of the red-blooded man or boy.

Each volume illustrated in color and black and white.

  INTO MEXICO WITH GENERAL SCOTT
  LOST WITH LIEUTENANT PIKE
  GENERAL CROOK AND THE FIGHTING APACHES
  OPENING THE WEST WITH LEWIS AND CLARK
  WITH CARSON AND FRÉMONT
  DANIEL BOONE: BACKWOODSMAN
  BUFFALO BILL AND THE OVERLAND TRAIL
  CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH
  DAVID CROCKETT: SCOUT
  ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER
  GOLD SEEKERS OF ’49
  WITH SAM HOUSTON IN TEXAS
  WITH GEORGE WASHINGTON INTO THE WILDERNESS
  IN THE RANKS OF OLD HICKORY




[Illustration: “GET DOWN, GET DOWN!” THEY ORDERED, FURIOUSLY, IN
APACHE]




                             GENERAL CROOK
                                AND THE
                           FIGHTING APACHES

         TREATING ALSO OF THE PART BORNE BY JIMMIE DUNN IN THE
        DAYS, 1871–1886, WHEN WITH SOLDIERS AND PACK-TRAINS AND
         INDIAN SCOUTS, BUT EMPLOYING THE STRONGER WEAPONS OF
          KINDNESS, FIRMNESS AND HONESTY, THE GRAY FOX WORKED
         HARD TO THE END THAT THE WHITE MEN AND THE RED MEN IN
       THE SOUTHWEST AS IN THE NORTHWEST MIGHT BETTER UNDERSTAND
                              ONE ANOTHER

                                  BY

                            EDWIN L. SABIN

          AUTHOR OF “OPENING THE WEST WITH LEWIS AND CLARK,”
              “BUFFALO BILL AND THE OVERLAND TRAIL,” ETC.


              _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES H. STEPHENS
                          PORTRAIT AND A MAP_


                            [Illustration]


                         PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
                       J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY




             COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY


                  PRINTED IN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




                                TO THE

                       TYPICAL AMERICAN SOLDIER

            WHOSE MOTTO, LIKE GENERAL CROOK’S, IS BRAVERY,
                   EFFICIENCY, AND “JUSTICE TO ALL”




            “Then General Crook came; he, at least, had
             never lied to us. His words gave the people
             hope. He died. Their hope died again. Despair
             came again.”

                            _Chief Red Cloud of the Sioux_




FOREWORD


“It should not be expected that an Indian who has lived as a
barbarian all his life will become an angel the moment he comes on
a reservation and promises to behave himself, or that he has that
strict sense of honor which a person should have who has had the
advantage of civilization all his life, and the benefit of a moral
training and character which has been transmitted to him through a
long line of ancestors. It requires constant watching and knowledge
of their character to keep them from going wrong. They are children
in ignorance, not in innocence. I do not wish to be understood as in
the least palliating their crimes, but I wish to say a word to stem
the torrent of invective and abuse which has almost universally been
indulged in against the whole Apache race.... Greed and avarice on the
part of the whites――in other words, the almighty dollar――is at the
bottom of nine-tenths of all our Indian trouble.”

                                                GENERAL GEORGE CROOK




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                         PAGE
      I. JIMMIE DUNN IS BADLY FOOLED               21
     II. JIMMIE LEARNS TO BE APACHE                34
    III. THE RED-HEAD TURNS UP                     43
     IV. THE CANVAS SUIT MAN                       53
      V. JIMMIE REPORTS FOR DUTY                   65
     VI. THE PEACE COMMISSION TRIES                77
    VII. JIMMIE TAKES A LESSON                     85
   VIII. THE ONE-ARMED GENERAL TRIES               98
     IX. THE HORRID DEED OF CHUNTZ                113
      X. ON THE TRAIL WITH THE PACK-TRAIN         119
     XI. IN THE STRONGHOLD OF COCHISE             129
    XII. GENERAL CROOK RIDES AGAIN                140
   XIII. HUNTING THE YAVAPAI                      152
    XIV. THE BATTLE OF THE CAVE                   165
     XV. JIMMIE IS A VETERAN                      178
    XVI. THE GENERAL PLANS WELL                   185
   XVII. BAD WORK AFOOT                           194
  XVIII. “CLUKE” GOES AWAY                        203
    XIX. JIMMIE SENDS THE ALARM                   211
     XX. THE GRAY FOX RETURNS                     221
    XXI. TO THE STRONGHOLD OF GERONIMO            228
   XXII. WAR OR PEACE?                            237
  XXIII. GERONIMO PLAYS SMART                     246
   XXIV. PACK-MASTER JIMMIE MEETS A SURPRISE      254
    XXV. ON THE JOB WITH CAPTAIN CRAWFORD         262
   XXVI. FOES OR FRIENDS?                         273
  XXVII. THE WORST ENEMY OF ALL                   286
 XXVIII. THE END OF THE TRAIL                     298




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                PAGE

 “Get Down, Get Down!” They Ordered, Furiously, in Apache
                                             _Frontispiece_

 General George Crook                                             13

 Had the First Volley Killed Anybody? Didn’t Look So              61

 It was the Piercing-eyed Geronimo!                              131

 Hurrah! It was Nan-ta-je                                        179

 “Why Don’t You Speak to Me and Look with a Pleasant Face?”      290


                                  MAP

 Apache Arizona                                                   21




[Illustration: GENERAL GEORGE CROOK

From “On the Border with Crook.” By Captain John G. Bourke.

By Courtesy of Charles Scribner’s Sons.]




MAJOR-GENERAL GEORGE CROOK


Called by the Indians the “Gray Fox,” because of his weather worn
canvas suit and his skillful methods. Admired by them also as “a common
man who makes war like a big chief.” He first organized the army
pack-mule trains, and employed Indians to fight Indians. He was noted
for his dislike of “show,” his strict honesty, his incessant hard work,
his great endurance, and his knowledge of Western animals and Indian
ways.

Born near Dayton, Ohio, September 8, 1828.

Graduates from West Point Military Academy, 1852, No. 38 in his class.
Assigned as second lieutenant, Fourth Infantry, and stationed in Idaho.

First lieutenant, March, 1856.

Captain, May, 1861. Meanwhile has been wounded by an arrow during
campaigns against the Indians in Oregon and Washington.

Appointed Colonel of the Thirty-sixth Ohio Volunteer Infantry,
September, 1861, and drills it so thoroughly that it is styled the
“Thirty-sixth Regulars.”

Brevetted major in the regular service, May, 1862, for gallantry at the
battle of Lewisburg, West Virginia, where he was wounded.

Brigadier general of Volunteers, September, 1862.

Brevetted lieutenant-colonel in the regular service, September, 1862,
for gallantry at the battle of Antietam, Maryland.

Brevetted colonel, October, 1863, for gallantry at the battle of
Farmington, Tennessee.

Commands the Army of West Virginia, August and September, 1864.

Major-general of Volunteers, October, 1864.

Double brevet of brigadier-general and major-general in the regular
service, March, 1865, for gallantry in the Shenandoah Valley campaign.

Commands the cavalry of the Army of the Potomac, spring of 1865.

Commands Department of West Virginia, 1865.

Assigned as major of the Third U. S. Infantry, July, 1866, and
stationed in Northern California.

Lieutenant-colonel, Twenty-third U. S. Infantry, July, 1866, to command
in the Boise district, Idaho, where he makes a reputation as an Indian
campaigner against the Warm Springs Shoshones or Snakes of Oregon.

Appointed to command the Military Department of the Columbia (the State
of Oregon and the Territories of Idaho and Washington), July, 1868.

Transferred to California, 1870.

Appointed to command of the new Department of Arizona, June, 1871.

By reason of his success with the Apaches of Arizona, is promoted from
lieutenant-colonel to brigadier-general, October, 1873.

Transferred to command the Department of the Platte, with headquarters
at Omaha, March, 1875.

Campaigns, with pack-trains and Indian scouts, against the Sioux and
Cheyennes of the plains, 1875–1878; subdues them and thereafter devotes
his available time to hunting and exploration.

In 1882 is reassigned to the Department of Arizona, where the Apaches
are unruly again.

Fails to succeed in holding Geronimo, the Apache war leader; is
relieved at his own request, April, 1886, and reassigned to the command
of the Department of the Platte.

Appointed major-general, April, 1888, and assigned to the command of
the Military Division of the Missouri, with headquarters in Chicago.

Dies March 21, 1890, in his sixty-second year, at Chicago. Interred
with high honors at Oakland, Maryland, pending the transfer of the
remains, soon thereafter, to the National Cemetery at Arlington,
Virginia.




MAJOR-GEN. OLIVER OTIS HOWARD


A man distinguished for his deep religious spirit and his benevolence,
as well for his bravery upon the field of battle and his friendship
with the Indians.

Born at Leeds, Maine, November 8, 1830.

Graduates at Bowdoin College, Maine, 1850.

Graduates at West Point Military Academy, 1854, No. 4 in his class.
Assigned as second lieutenant of ordnance at Watervliet Arsenal.

Assigned to command of the Kennebec Arsenal, 1855.

In 1856 transferred to Watervliet again.

December, 1856, ordered to the Seminole Indian campaign in Florida.

First lieutenant and chief of ordnance, Department of Florida, 1857.

Assistant professor of mathematics at West Point, 1857–1861.

Expected to resign from the army to enter the ministry, but in June,
1861, accepts the colonelcy of the Third Maine Volunteer Infantry.

Commands a brigade at the battle of Bull Run.

Brigadier-general of Volunteers, September, 1861.

Loses his right arm, from two wounds, at the battle of Fair Oaks,
Virginia, June, 1862.

Major-general of Volunteers, November, 1862.

Commands an army division at the battles of Antietam and Fredericksburg.

Commands an army corps at the battles of Chancellorsville, Gettysburg,
Lookout Mountain, Missionary Ridge, Chattanooga, and elsewhere, and has
the right wing in Sherman’s march to the sea.

Thanked by Congress, January, 1864, for services at Gettysburg.

Brigadier-general in the regular army, December, 1864.

Brevetted major-general in the regular army, March, 1865, for gallantry.

Chief of the Freedman’s Bureau, at Washington, for the education and
care of the negroes and refugees, 1865–1874.

Sent by President Grant to New Mexico and Arizona, as special peace
commissioner to treat with the Indians, 1872, and wins the trust and
love of the various tribes.

Assigned to the command of the Department of the Columbia, August, 1874.

Campaigns against the Nez Percés of Chief Joseph, 1877.

Campaigns against the Bannocks and Pai-Utes, 1878.

Superintendent of West Point Military Academy, 1880–1882.

Commands the Department of the Platte, 1882–1886.

Major-general, March, 1886, and appointed to the command of the
Division of the Pacific.

Awarded medal of honor, by Congress, March, 1893, for distinguished
bravery in the battle of Fair Oaks, where he lost his arm.

As commander of the Department of the East is retired, November, 1894.

Devotes his energies to religious and philanthropic work, and dies at
Burlington, Vermont, October 26, 1909, aged seventy-nine.




THE APACHE INDIANS


A large collection of Indian tribes inhabiting the Southwest. They
first are mentioned in 1598 by the early Spanish explorers in New
Mexico.

The name “Apache” is derived from the Zuni word “Apachu,” meaning
“enemy.” Their own name was “Tinde (Tinneh)” and “Dine (Dinde),”
meaning “men” or “the people.”

They always were bitter enemies to the Spanish and Mexicans, who
offered high rewards in money for Apache scalps, and enslaved captives.
They were not openly hostile to the Americans until, in 1857, a Mexican
teamster employed by the United States party surveying the Mexican
boundary line shot an Apache warrior without just cause. The survey
commissioner offered thirty dollars in payment, which was refused, and
the Apaches declared war.

In 1861 Cochise, chief of the Chiricahuas, who had been friendly, was
confined, on a false charge, by Lieutenant Bascom of the army, at the
army camp at Apache Pass, Arizona. He cut his way to freedom. His
brother and five others were hanged by the Americans. Cochise hanged
a white man, in return, declared war, and almost captured the stage
station where the troops were fortified.

Beginning with the Civil War, the Apaches ravaged all southern Arizona
and the stage line in New Mexico also. Terrible tortures were committed
upon settlers and travelers.

In 1863 Mangas Coloradas (Red Sleeves), an old Mimbreño chief related
by marriage to Cochise, was treacherously imprisoned and killed by
soldiers, at Fort McLane, New Mexico.

Thenceforth the Apaches and whites in Arizona had little common ground
except that of “no quarter.” There was constant fighting.

In March, 1871, a number of Arivaipa Apaches gathered peacefully under
the protection of Camp Grant are killed, captured or put to flight by a
vengeful party of Americans, Mexicans and Papago Indians from Tucson.

In the fall of 1871 the Government peace commission tries to adjust
the differences between the white people and the red. The Apaches are
offered reservations and guaranteed kind treatment. They have little
faith in the words.

The Apaches, with the exception of the White Mountain in Arizona and
the Warm Spring in New Mexico, and some smaller bands, decline to
gather upon reservations. In 1872 General O. O. Howard arrives as
special peace commissioner, and by his talks and actions wins the trust
of the Indians. The reservation idea seems a success. Cochise and
his Chiricahuas agree to remain in their own country of the Dragoon
Mountains, southern Arizona.

In the winter of 1872–73 General George Crook proceeds against the
outlaw Apaches of Arizona, especially the Tontos and the Apache-Mohaves
or Yavapais. His cavalry, infantry, pack-trains and enlisted Indian
scouts trail them down and subdue them.

General Crook’s plans to make the Indians self-supporting on their
reservations appear to have brought peace to Arizona.

In 1874 the control of the reservations passes from the War Department
to the Indian Bureau. Reservations given to the Indians “forever,” by
the President, are reduced or abolished, and various tribes are removed
against their protests. Agents prove dishonest, the Indians are not
encouraged to work, and are robbed of their rations.

The Chiricahuas are generally peaceful, although Mexico complains that
stock is being stolen and run across the border into the reservation.
Chief Cochise, who has kept his word with General Howard, dies in 1874.
Taza his son succeeds him, as leader of the Chiricahua peace party,
until his death in 1876.

In April, 1876, whiskey is sold to some Chiricahuas, at a stage station
on the reservation. A fight ensues, and killings occur. The great
majority of the Chiricahuas refuse to join in any outbreak.

In June, 1876, it is recommended by the governor of Arizona that all
the Chiricahuas be removed to the San Carlos reservation. They do not
wish to go, but the majority follow Taza there. Chiefs Juh, Geronimo,
and others escape.

The policy of the Indian Bureau contemplates putting all the Apaches
together upon the San Carlos reservation. The White Mountain Apaches,
who have voluntarily lived upon the White Mountain reservation, their
home land, adjacent, and have supplied the government with scouts,
decline to go to the low country. When forced, they drift back again,
and finally are allowed to stay.

In 1877 the Warm Spring Apaches and the Geronimo Chiricahuas who had
taken refuge there are ordered from the Warm Spring reservation in New
Mexico to San Carlos. Some escape; the remainder escape a little later.
Thereafter, Chief Victorio and his Warm Springs are constantly on the
war-path, out of Mexico.

In January, 1880, Chiefs Juh and Geronimo of the Chiricahuas agree to
stay upon the San Carlos reservation. In August Victorio is killed by
Mexican troops.

In September, 1881, Juh and Nah-che (a son of Cochise and a lieutenant
of Geronimo), break from the reservation, for Mexico.

In April, 1882, Geronimo and Loco of the Chiricahuas follow.

General Crook is now recalled to the command in Arizona. He talks with
the Apaches on the reservations, finds a marked state of mistrust and
misunderstanding, and places his troops to guard the border against the
outlaws.

In March, 1883, Chato, or Flat-nose, a young captain of Geronimo’s
band, with twenty-six men breaks through, raids up into New Mexico and
Arizona, and murders settlers. With forty cavalry, about two hundred
Apache scouts, and pack-trains, Crook overhauls the Chiricahuas in
the wild Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico two hundred miles south of
the boundary, and persuades the whole band to return peaceably to the
reservation.

The Chiricahuas are placed under the control of General Crook, and he
locates them upon good land on the White Mountain reservation. Both
reservations are policed by the army. The Apaches seem to be content,
under the Crook plan that they shall work for an independent living. In
1884 they raise over four thousand tons of produce. There have been no
outbreaks.

In February, 1885, disagreements arise between the War Department and
the Interior Department, of which the Indian Bureau is a function.
General Crook’s powers are interfered with by civil interests at
Washington and in Arizona, liquor is being permitted upon the
reservations and the Indians grow uneasy.

In May, 1885, after a controversy with the agent over the right to
dig an irrigating ditch, and having obtained a supply of liquor, one
hundred and twenty-four men, women and children under Geronimo and
Nah-che, his lieutenant, escape again into Mexico. During their raids
they kill seventy-three whites and a number of Apache scouts.

General Crook secures an international agreement that United States
troops may operate in Mexico, and Mexican troops in the United States,
and sends a column on the trail of Geronimo.

In March, 1886, Geronimo signifies that he desires to talk. The general
meets him, Chihuahua and other chiefs, and they accept the terms of
two years’ imprisonment, with the privilege of the company of their
families.

On the march north a vicious white man by the name of Tribollet
supplies whiskey to the Chiricahuas, at ten dollars (silver) a gallon,
alarms them with lies by himself and his unscrupulous associates.
Geronimo and Nah-che, with twenty men, thirteen women and two children,
disappear. Chihuahua and eighty others remain.

The general’s action in making terms with the Chiricahuas, and in not
so guarding them that they would be forced to remain, is indirectly
censured by General Sheridan, commanding the army. Crook explains that
no other methods on his part would have met with any success, under
the circumstances, and asks to be relieved from the command of the
department.

In April, 1886, General Nelson A. Miles takes the command in Arizona.
He increases the number of heliostat signal stations, discharges the
reservation-Apache scouts (whom he suspects of treachery), employs a
few trailers from other tribes, and by a very energetic campaign which
permits Geronimo no rest, in September induces his surrender upon only
the conditions that his life shall be spared and that he shall be
removed from Arizona.

Without delay the Geronimo and Nah-che remnant of hostiles, and all the
Chiricahua and Warm Spring Apaches, four hundred in number, at the Fort
Apache (White Mountain) reservation, are removed, whether friendly or
not, to Florida. This is deemed the only practicable measure of freeing
the Southwest from the menace of Apache outbreaks. The expenses of the
Department of Arizona are lessened by $1,000,000 a year.

The climate of Florida is unfavorable to the Apaches. Geronimo
complains that he and Nah-che had understood that their families
were to accompany them. Many of the Apaches die from disease and
homesickness.

In May, 1888, the Apaches are removed from Florida to Mt. Vernon
barracks, Alabama; and in October, 1894, as prisoners of war to Fort
Sill Military Reservation, Indian Territory (now Oklahoma).

The principal reservations of the Arizona Apaches are the Fort Apache
and the San Carlos, each containing between two and three thousand
Indians. There are still over two hundred of the Chiricahuas and Warm
Springs at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Geronimo died February 17, 1909, at
Fort Sill. Nah-che succeeded him as chief.




[Illustration: APACHE ARIZONA

and the principal places in General Crook’s time]




GENERAL CROOK AND THE FIGHTING APACHES




I

JIMMIE DUNN IS BADLY FOOLED


“Tinkle, tinkle,” placidly sounded the bell of the old bell-wether,
to prove that he and the other sheep were grazing near at hand in the
stiff brush.

“All right,” thought Jimmie Dunn, whose business it was to keep tab on
the whereabouts of that bell.

For this was a simmering hot summer afternoon of the year 1870, far,
far down in southern Arizona Territory; and here on a hill-slope of
the Pete Kitchen big ranch about half-way between Tucson town and
the Mexican line Jimmie was lying upon his back under a spreading
crooked-branched mesquite tree, lazily herding the ranch sheep.

The Kitchen ranch really was not Jimmie’s home. He lived with his uncle
Joe Felmer (not really his uncle, either), who was the blacksmith for
Camp Grant, the United States army post ninety miles northward, or
fifty-five miles the other side of Tucson.

But the region close around Camp Grant was a sandy pocket famous for
fever and ague as well as for other disagreeable features, such as
scorpions, tarantulas, ugly Gila monsters (thick, black, poisonous
lizards), heat and sand-storms; so that Joe had sent Jimmie down to
their friend Pete Kitchen, on a vacation.

Everybody, American, Mexican and Indian, in southern Arizona, knew the
Pete Kitchen ranch. It was noted for its battles with the Apaches who,
passing back and forth on their raids out of the mountains of Arizona
and Mexico both, were likely to plunder and kill, at any time. Sturdy
Pete had not been driven away yet, and did not propose to be driven
away.

Jimmie himself was pretty well used to Apaches. They prowled about Camp
Grant, and attacked people on the road from Tucson, and frequently the
soldiers rode out after them. Joe Felmer had married an Apache woman,
who was now dead; he spoke Apache and Jimmie had picked up a number of
the words; but there were plenty of unfriendly Apaches who every little
while ran off with Joe’s mules or filled his hogs with arrows.

On his back under the mesquite tree Jimmie was not thinking of Apaches.
He was idly surveying the country――at the same time having an ear
open to the musical tinkle of the bell-wether, who told him where the
sheep were straying. And a delightful, dreamy outlook this was, over
all those quiet miles of mountain and desert Arizona which only the
Southern stage-line traversed, and which, so thinly settled by white
people, the roving Apache Indians claimed as their own.

In his loose cotton shirt and ragged cotton trousers Jimmie felt very
comfortable. Presently his eyes closed, his head drooped, and he nodded
off, for forty or so winks.

He dozed, he was certain, not more than five minutes; or perhaps ten.
Then he awakened with a sudden start. Something had told him to awaken.
He sat up and looked to see that the sheep were all right. He could not
see one animal, but he heard the tinkle, tinkle. He twisted about to
find the old bell-wether――and he gazed full into the grinning face of
an Apache boy!

The Apache boy, who appeared to be fourteen or fifteen years old,
was not more than five yards from him――standing there beside a giant
cactus, naked except for a red cloth band about his forehead, and a
whitish cotton girdle about his middle, with the broad ends hanging
down before and behind, and regular Apache moccasins reaching like
leggins half way up his thighs for protection against the brush:
standing there, grinning, in his left hand a bow, in his right the
wether’s bell!

_He had been tinkling that bell!_ And a smart trick this was, too: to
sneak up on the wether, get the bell, and ring it to fool the herder
while other Apaches drove away the sheep!

For an instant Jimmie stared perfectly paralyzed with astonishment. He
could not believe his eyes. Instead of a staid old tame sheep, here
was a mischievous young wild Apache! Then, trying to utter a shout,
up he sprang, to run. On the moment he heard a sharp swish, the noose
of an Apache’s rawhide rope whipped about his shoulders, and right in
mid-step he was jerked backward so violently, head over heels, that he
had no time or breath for yelling a word.

Barely had he landed topsy turvy in the brush when a heavy body rushed
for him, a supple dark hand was clapped firmly over his mouth, and
hauled upright he was half dragged, half carried, through the mesquites
and the cactuses and around the slope of the hill.

Now he was flung, limp and dazed, aboard a pony, his captor mounted
into the saddle behind him, and away they tore, while the brush beneath
reeled by under Jimmie’s swimming eyes.

This was a fast ride until the sheep were overtaken. There they
were, almost the whole flock, being forced hotly onward by Apaches
afoot and ahorse, with other Apaches guarding the flanks. It looked
like a war party returning with plunder from Mexico. The bands about
the foreheads, the round rawhide helmets that some wore, the thigh
moccasins, the guns, bows, lances and clubs, proved that they were a
war party; and they had a lot of loose horses and mules besides the
Pete Kitchen sheep.

Jimmie sighted another captive――a Mexican boy, older than he, fastened
upon a yellow mule led by an Apache horseman.

A broad-shouldered, finely built Indian wearing an Apache helmet with
feathers sticking up from it, and riding a white horse, evidently was
the chief in command.

The grip of the Apache who held Jimmie had slackened. Jimmie managed
to squirm ’round enough to look up into the Apache’s face. In return
he got a grin, and two or three Apache words that said: “Good boy. No
fear.” These were common words with the “tame” Apaches who sometimes
came into Camp Grant or to Joe Felmer’s little ranch near by, so Jimmie
understood.

The country grew rougher and wilder and higher. By the sun Jimmie knew
that the course was generally eastward, and he guessed that these were
Chiricahua Apaches.

The Apache Indians, as almost anybody in Arizona could say off-hand,
were divided into the Chiricahuas and the Pinals and the Arivaipas
and the Coyotes and the White Mountains and the Apache-Mohaves and
the Apache-Yumas and the Tontos and the Mogollons, and the Warm
Spring Apaches and the Mimbres (of New Mexico), and the Jicarillas
(Heek-ah-ree-yahs) or Basket Apaches, who never came into Arizona; and
so forth.

The Tontos and Pinals, who were outlaws, and the Chiricahuas
(Chee-ree-cah-wahs), who were hard, thorough fighters, seemed to give
the most trouble. The Chiricahuas lived in the mountains of southern
Arizona and of northern Mexico.

The pines and cedars of the higher country were reached before dusk.
Not a tenth of the sheep had come this far. The most of them had been
left to die from heat and exhaustion. Now having passed through another
of their favorite narrow canyons, the Apaches halted, at dark, to camp
beside a trickle of water in a rocky little basin surrounded by crags
and timber.

This night Jimmie was forced to lie between two Apache warriors, the
one who had captured him, and a comrade; and he fitted so closely that
if he moved he would waken them. It was an uncomfortable bed, there
under a thin dirty strip of blanket, limited by those greasy, warm
bodies, and he was afraid to stir. But he was so tired that he slept,
anyway.

Very early in the morning the camp roused again. Apaches when on a raid
or when pursued were supposed to travel on only one meal a day and with
only three hours’ rest out of the twenty-four. So now on and on and on,
through all kinds of rough country they hastened, at steady gait and
speaking rarely――Jimmie riding a bareback horse.

In late afternoon they halted on the rim of a valley so deep and wide
that it was veiled in bluish-purple haze. On a rocky point three of the
Apaches started a fire of dried grass, and sent up a smoke signal by
heaping pitchy pine cones upon the blaze.

Chewing twigs and sucking pebbles to keep their mouths wet, the
Apaches, talking together and watching, waited, until a long distance
across the valley, whose brushy sides were thickly grown with the
mescal, or century plant cactuses, blooming in round stalks twenty feet
tall, a smoke column answered.

The Apaches tending to their own fire fed more pine cones to it, and
two of them rapidly clapped a saddle-blanket on and off the smoke, and
broke it into puffs. The smoke column across the valley puffed in reply.

The Apache boy who had played bell-wether pressed to Jimmie’s horse.

“Chi-cowah,” he said, pointing. That was Apache for “My home.”

Now the party appeared satisfied. They scattered their fire, and struck
down into a narrow trail that crossed the bottom of the valley. A
peculiar sweetish smell hung in the misted air. This, Jimmie guessed,
was from the steaming pits wherein the hearts of the mescal, or century
plants, were being roasted.

They glimpsed several squaws and children gathering foodstuff in the
brush. As they filed through a little draw or rocky pass they were
hailed loudly by an Apache sentinel posted above. He could not be seen,
but the chief replied. The pass opened into a grassy flat concealed by
the usual high crags and timbered ridges. Here was the Apache camp or
rancheria (ran-cher-ee-ah), located along a willow-bordered creek.

Fifty or sixty of the Apache brush huts or jacals were sprinkled all
up and down the flat, and as soon as the party entered, a tremendous
chorus of welcome sounded. Women shrieked, children screamed, dogs
barked and mules brayed. Right into the center of the camp marched the
party, and stopped.

A circle of staring women and children, and a few men, surrounded.
Other squaws bustled to take the horses and mules from the dismounting
warriors. Jimmie was told to get off. Feeling lonesome and miserable,
he saw close in front of him a boy who did not seem to be Indian at
all, for he had fiery red hair and brick-red freckles and only one eye,
which was blue!

Yes――a red-headed, one-eyed, blue-eyed boy, rather runty, in only
a whitish cotton girdle, and moccasins. Evidently he dressed that
way――or undressed that way――all the time, for his body and limbs were
burned darker than his face.

Jimmie was not granted much space for staring back into that one
blue eye. He was slapped upon the shoulder, “Aqui (Here)!” grunted
the chief, in Spanish, and strode on through the circle. So Jimmie
followed, hobbling at best speed.

The chief went straight to a scrub-oak tree, with a hut beneath it, and
an Apache sitting in the shade of it, on a deer hide before the hut. By
the manner with which Jimmie’s Apache spoke to the sitting Apache, who
did not rise, it was plain to be seen that the sitting Apache was the
principal chief, and that Jimmie’s Apache was maybe only a captain.

They talked for a moment in Apache, too fast for Jimmie to understand.
Then the sitting chief, who had been eying Jimmie sharply, addressed
him in simple Mexican-Spanish easy to catch.

He was not at all a bad-looking Apache. In fact, he was about the
finest Apache that Jimmie had ever met: a broad-chested six-footer,
like the captain chief, but large eyed and kindly faced and dignified.

“What is your name?”

“James Dunn.”

“No Mexicano?”

“Americano,” corrected Jimmie proudly.

“Your father Pete Keetchen?”

“No.”

“Where you live?”

“Camp Grant.”

“With soldiers?”

Jimmie reflected an instant. If he said “With Joe Felmer,” then
the chief would surely hold him as a great prize, for Joe Felmer,
Government scout as well as post blacksmith, was an important enemy.
So――――

“Sometimes,” asserted Jimmie, which was true.

“Why on Keetchen rancho?”

“Tend to sheep.” And Jimmie blushed when he recalled that he had been a
great sheep-herder!

“Pete Keetchen your father?”

“No!” repeated Jimmie. “No father, no mother.”

The head chief and the captain chief gazed at him as though they would
read his very thoughts. The captain chief had such piercing dark eyes
that they bored clear through. But he was a sure-enough Apache, with
straight black hair and dark chocolate skin, darker even than ordinary.

’Twas to be imagined that neither of the chiefs believed Jimmie’s
statements. They still suspected that he belonged to Pete Kitchen.

The head chief spoke abruptly.

“You ’Pache now. Ugashé (U-gah-shay)――go!”

Jimmie knew that he was dismissed, and he turned away. He was faint in
the stomach and weak in the knees, and he had no place in particular to
go, until he saw the Mexican boy captive sitting in the sun, with his
feet under him and his shanks high. Jimmie seized upon the opportunity
to talk with him, at last.

“What is your name?” he asked, squatting beside him. All Americans in
southern Arizona could speak some Spanish; Mexican-Spanish was as
common as English.

“Maria Jilda Grijalba (Maree-ah Heel-dah Gree-hal-bah).”

“Where did you live?”

“In Sonora” (which was in Mexico). “Where did you live?”

“Camp Grant――American fort, Arizona.”

“How far?”

Jimmie shrugged his shoulders.

“Do not know.”

“You do not live on the rancho?”

“For little while.”

“You have father, mother?”

“No. Apaches kill them.”

“My father, mother, brothers, sisters, all killed,” lamented Maria,
weeping. “Alas! All killed, by Apaches.”

“We run off, pretty soon?” proposed Jimmie.

“No!” opposed Maria, in much alarm. “Must stay. Be Apaches. They not
let us run off. Big country. Get lost and die. Get caught and be
killed.”

But Jimmie had made up his mind that he was not going to be an Apache;
he would escape if he could. Or maybe he would be rescued.

However, here came the captain chief, and the bell-wether Apache boy,
and the strange red-headed boy with the one blue eye.

“Ugashé!” roughly ordered the captain chief, of Maria. Poor Maria
obediently arose and shuffled away.

The captain spoke to Jimmie, and smiled. He, also was a fine-looking
Apache: almost six feet tall and straight and sinewy, with square face
and thin, determined lips, and those extraordinary sharp eyes.

Jimmie stood up.

“Chi-kis-n,” said the captain, and nodded aside at the bell-wether boy.

“Chi-kis-n” was Apache for “my brother.” The Apache boy grinned and
held out his hand.

“Chi-kis-n,” he greeted.

The red-headed, one-eyed boy explained in Spanish.

“Your name Boy-who-falls-asleep, his name Nah-che. But you must call
him chi-kis-n――my brother.”

“Muchos gratias (Many thanks),” answered Jimmie, shaking hands with
Nah-che. Nah-che was a stocky, round-faced boy, and Jimmie liked him in
spite of that trick with the sheep bell.

“The chief’s name is Go-yath-lay,” continued the red-headed boy. “He is
war-captain of the Chiricahua. Nah-che is son of Cochise, head chief.”

The war captain, who had been listening intently, trying to understand
the words, nodded, and spoke again in Apache.

“Your chi-kis-n will show you,” translated the red-headed boy, who knew
Spanish and Apache both.

“Aqui (Here),” bade Nah-che: and Jimmie followed him to one of those
regulation Apache jacals――a low round-topped hut made from willow
branches stuck in a circle and bent over to fasten together, with
pieces of deer hide and cow hide laid to cover the framework of the
sides, and flat bundles of brush to thatch the roof. The jacals
resembled dirty white bowls bottom-up. Each had a little opening, as a
door to be entered only by stooping half double.

Before the hut an Apache woman in a loose cotton waist worn outside a
draggled calico skirt was busy cooking. She stirred the contents of an
iron kettle, set upon a bed of coals in a small shallow pit. She threw
back her long, coarse black hair and scanned Jimmie curiously while
Nah-che spoke a few words to her.

Then repeating the title “chi-kis-n” Nah-che strolled away. The woman
smiled broadly at Jimmie, took him by the arm, and talking to him led
him inside the hut. The earth had been dug out, there, so that they
might stand, in the middle, and not strike their heads on the ceiling.

The woman made Jimmie remove his trousers and shoes; and leaving him
his ragged shirt tossed to him a pair of old moccasins.

Again out-doors, she gave him a mess of the stew, in a gourd bowl. The
stew was corn and beans cooked together, and was very good indeed, to a
hungry boy.

“Go,” she signed. “Come back at night.”

Here in the open, Jimmie felt rather odd, with nothing on but his shirt
and moccasins. Still, most of the boys and girls of his age, in the
village, had even less on. They were brown, though, and he was white,
which seemed to make a difference.

Some of the boys were playing at what appeared to be hide-and-seek
amidst the brush and trees and rocks; others were shooting with bows
and arrows. The little girls had dolls, of rags, and stuffed, painted
buckskin. They all viewed him out of their sparkling black eyes, and
the girls giggled the same as white girls.

Jimmie’s squaw shoved him from behind.

“U-ga-shé!” she ordered. “Go!”

After all, thought Jimmie, if he had to live here for a while, he might
better pretend to enjoy himself, until he got a good chance to escape.
So he boldly joined in the game of hide-and-seek. At first everybody
there let him alone. But he chased around, with the others, his shirt
flapping, and soon he was one of the “gang” and was being shouted at in
Apache.

The one-eyed boy and Nah-che and several others of that age stayed by
themselves, playing a game with raw-hide cards, and talking. They were
too old for foolishness.

This night Jimmie slept in the squaw’s hut. There was a feast and
dance, judging by the noise that he heard when awake. Nah-che came in
late. In the morning the red-headed boy went away on foot with three
Apaches who evidently had been visitors at the village; and as he
did not return during the day, he probably belonged somewhere else,
himself.




II

JIMMIE LEARNS TO BE APACHE


These were the principal band of the Cho-kon-en Apaches who were
called Chiricahua (“Great Mountain”) Apaches because of the Chiricahua
Mountains amidst which they lived. But Cho-kon-en was their own name.

The pleasant-faced Cochise was the head chief. He was about fifty-five
years old. The captain Go-yath-lay or “One-who-yawns” was the war
chief. He was forty years old. The Mexicans whom he had fought had
given him the name Geronimo (Her-_on_-i-mo), which is Spanish for
Jerome.

There were other bands of Chiricahuas, under other chiefs――Na-na
and Chihuahua (Chi-wah-wah) and Loco, and so forth. Na-na was the
oldest of all; he was nearly eighty, and had been wounded many times
in battle――yes, as many as fifteen times. Chihuahua was stout and
good-natured. Loco was thin and quite bow-legged.

In the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico, which were the south end of
the Chiricahua Range, were the Nedni Apaches, under old Chief Juh, or
“Whoa.” Chief Cochise and Chief Juh frequently went to war together
against the Mexicans.

Northeastward, or in western New Mexico lived the Chi-hen-ne――the
Ojo Caliente (Oho Cal-i-en-te) or Warm Spring Apaches, under Chief
Victorio. With Chief Victorio’s people the Cochise people had long been
as brothers.

The woman who had charge of Jimmie was Nah-da-ste. She was a sister of
Geronimo. Her husband had been killed in battle with the Mexicans. The
warrior who had captured Jimmie was Geronimo’s younger brother Porico,
or “White Horse.”

Nah-che, Jimmie’s chi-kis-n, was the youngest son of Chief Cochise.
Geronimo the war chief liked him very much. His name meant “meddlesome,”
for he had been a mischievous baby. In about three years, or when he was
seventeen, if he had proved himself worthy in the hunt and on the long
trail, he would be admitted into the councils as a warrior.

The same with another boy, Chato. He was called Chato, or “Flat-nose,”
because he had been kicked in the face by a mule.

Taza, Nah-che’s elder brother, already was a warrior and would be
head chief, probably, after Cochise his father died. But that was not
certain; head chiefs were elected and not born.

As for the red-headed, one-eyed blue-eyed boy――――

“His name is Red-head,” said Nah-che. “He is not one of us. He is part
Mexican and part American. He was captured a long time ago by some of
our men, but he lives with the White Mountains now, in the north. The
White Mountains are at peace, on their land where the new American fort
is being built.”

Jimmie rapidly learned Apache, although many of the Chiricahuas spoke
Spanish. He soon had lost his shirt, and went about with only a rag
around his waist. Everybody in the Cochise camp was kind to him. He
was an Apache boy, now. The Apaches never whipped their children, nor
punished them in any way except by scolding.

The little children were made to help in the fields where corn and
squash and beans and melons were raised; and went with their mothers
to gather seeds and berries and acorns and mescal――for the Apaches ate
curious things.

The girls played with dolls, and at housekeeping and tended to the
babies, of which there were many. The boys of nine and ten, Jimmie’s
age, and over, worked some, but they were encouraged to use the bow and
arrow, and throw the lance, and practice at war and at the hunt, so as
to train them as warriors and to strengthen their muscles.

The war game was the best sport. Some of the boys pretended to be
Mexicans. The others remained Apaches. The “Mexicans” were given a
head-start, into the brush and timber, and the “Apaches” set out to
find their trail and to surprise them.

Although the “Mexicans” did everything they might think of, to conceal
their tracks and to get away, they always were discovered. Then by
running and sneaking and crawling flat with grass and cactus tied to
their heads the “Apaches” proceeded to ambush the “Mexicans.” Then the
“Apaches” yelled and shot fast with light arrows, and the “Mexicans”
were killed or captured.

Turkeys were caught by running after them up hill and down until they
were so tired that they could not fly, and were killed by a blow from a
club on the neck. Rabbits were chased, too, and surrounded by a circle
of boys armed with bows and clubs; and they, too, were killed.

All these sports made the Apache boys fleet of foot and quick of eye
and arm, and very strong in lungs and legs.

The Apaches had curious customs as well as curious food.

“You must never ask a Tinneh (‘Tinneh’ was the Apache’s own title; it
meant ‘man’) his name,” explained Nah-che. “Only somebody else may
speak it. If he spoke it, he would have bad luck.”

And――――

“You must never speak of the bear or the mule or the snake or the
lightning unless you say Ostin Shosh (Old Man Bear), or Ostin Mule or
Ostin Snake or Ostin lightning. It is not well to talk about them or
the owl. They are medicine.”

And――――

“After you are married you must not look upon the face of your wife’s
mother. You must avoid meeting her or speaking to her. You must hide
your face or turn your back, or you will be disrespectful.”

And――――

“You must not eat fish meat, or the meat of the pig. They are bad.”

And――――

“When anyone dies we give away everything of his that we don’t burn. If
that was not done, then there might be persons of bad hearts who would
wish a relative to die so that they would get his property.”

And――――

“When I go on the trail as a warrior, for the first four times I must
not touch my lips to water. I must drink through a hollow reed, or I
will spoil the luck of the whole party. And I must not scratch my head
with my fingers. I must use a scratch stick.”

War parties went out frequently, sometimes under Geronimo, sometimes
under Cochise also. The warriors marched on foot, as a rule, because
then they could climb and hide better. On foot an Apache could travel
forty to seventy-five miles at a stretch, which was as much as a horse
could do. No white man could equal an Apache, in covering rough country
and desert country.

The parties were sent out mainly against the Mexicans of Mexico, to
get plunder, although the Chiricahuas had no love for the Americans,
either, Nah-che explained again.

He was sitting, pulling the hairs from his chin and cheeks with a pair
of bone tweezers. It was unmanly for a warrior to have any hair on
his face, and Nah-che expected to be a warrior after he had made four
war-trails. Four was the lucky number, with the Apaches.

“We hate the Mexicans. They are bad,” said Nah-che. “They kill our
women and children, and pay for scalps. With the Americans it is like
this:

“When they first came into our country we were friendly to them. We
saw that they were different from the Mexicans, and they had been at
war with the Mexicans, too. They shot one of us, and offered to pay
a little something, which was not punishment enough. Still we did
not stay at war with them. Cochise made a camp near the American
wagon-road at Apache Pass, where Camp Bowie is now, and traded, and
sold wood. One time a Mexican woman and her baby were stolen by some
bad Indians from an American, and the Chiricahua were asked to return
them. We did not have them, or know anything about them, but Cochise
and Mangas Coloradas of the Mimbreño Apaches and some other chiefs went
with a white flag to meet a young American war chief at Apache Pass,
and talk.

“When they got there the American chief surrounded them with his
soldiers and told them that they would be kept shut in a tent until
they sent and got the baby and woman. They decided they would rather be
killed than be kept prisoners. So they drew their knives, and Cochise
cut a hole through the back of the tent, and there was a fight. Several
were killed. But Cochise and Mangas Coloradas escaped. Cochise was
wounded in the knee by a gun knife (bayonet). The Americans hung his
brother and five others, by the neck, and Cochise hung an American by
the neck; and he and Mangas Coloradas called all their warriors and
nearly captured the Americans. The young American captain had acted
very foolish.

“After two or three years Mangas Coloradas (this was Spanish for ‘Red
Sleeves’) grew tired of fighting. He was badly wounded, and he sent
word that he would like to treat for peace. The Americans told him to
come in with his people. Cochise had married his sister, and we and the
Mimbreños often helped each other, and now Cochise advised him not
to trust the word of the Americans. But Mangas Coloradas went to an
American fort in New Mexico.

“Then they seized him and put him into a little house with only one
window, high up. The soldiers scowled at him; so that when he was put
into the little house he said to himself: ‘This is my end. I shall
never again hunt through the valleys and mountains of my people.’ And
that was so. This night while he was asleep somebody from outside threw
a big rock down on his chest――or else a soldier guard punched him with
a hot knife on the end of a gun. We do not know. Anyway, he was much
frightened. He ran about, trying to climb out and fight with his hands
and then the soldiers shot him many times, and he died.

“Now you see that the Chiricahua cannot be friends with the Americans
any more than with the Mexicans, and it is so with other Tinneh. The
Warm Springs are friendly, because Chief Victorio thinks that is wise;
and the Sierra Blanca (White Mountains) have agreed not to fight. But
they have not lost chiefs and brothers like we have.”

This was the way the Chiricahua Apaches thought. But of course there
were two sides to the quarrel. Joe Felmer and Pete Kitchen and other
pioneers had claimed that old Mangas Coloradas had been a regular
bandit who never intended to stay at peace. He had tortured and killed
men and women and children, and was determined to drive all the
Americans out of the country. Once he had been captured by miners and
tied up and whipped, which had made him worse.

He had lived to be seventy years old, and although even Pete Kitchen
did not wholly approve of the manner with which he had been disposed
of, it was a great relief to have him out of the way. Maybe he might
have been educated to stay at peace, and maybe not.

But now that the Chiricahuas hated the Americans and Mexicans both,
Jimmie saw little chance of escape.

Maria the Mexican boy had settled down to be an Apache. All his folks
had been killed, and he said that he might as well live with the
Apaches. He had plenty to eat and little to do; and he thought that he
would marry an Apache girl, when he was old enough, and stay Apache.

The Red-head boy who lived with the White Mountain Apaches came in once
or twice, to visit, while out hunting or just scouting around. He could
not speak English. His father had been Irish and his mother Mexican,
and Spanish had been the only language used in his home. Since the
Apaches had captured him eight or nine years ago he had learned Apache,
too.

“Are you going to stay Apache, Red-head?” asked Jimmie.

“Yes,” answered Red-head, in Apache. “I’ll stay with the White
Mountains, but I don’t like the Chiricahua. It is no use for them to
fight the Americans. Besides, they killed my father and mother. Are you
going to be a Chiricahua, Boy-who-sleeps?”

Jimmie shook his head.

“No. I am American. I don’t want to be anything but American. I’m a
white boy.”

“That is good,” approved Red-head. He was a snappy, energetic boy,
built low to the ground, and with his red hair and freckled face and
one bright blue eye looked very nervy. “I like the Americans. Some day
I’ll be a scout with the American soldiers. The White Mountain Apaches
are good Apaches. Chief Pedro is wise. He knows that it is no use to
fight the Americans. It is better to live at peace with them, and raise
corn, and hunt, and be given food and clothes. That is easier than
fighting and starving and losing warriors. The Americans are too many,
and are well armed. The Chiricahua have bad hearts and will all be
killed. You ought to leave them.”

“I can’t,” replied Jimmie. “I don’t know where to go.”

“Well,” said Red-head, winking with his one shrewd blue eye, “wait and
maybe I’ll help you. But don’t tell anybody about my talk with you.”




III

THE RED-HEAD TURNS UP


Jimmie had been with the Cochise Chiricahuas about a year, as he
reckoned, because winter (and not a cold winter) had passed, and the
yuccas, or Spanish-bayonet cactuses, and the mescal, or century plant
cactuses, were again in bloom with their tall, stately plumes of white,
which indicated May.

All this time nobody had come looking for him, and he did not know what
was going on outside――at Pete Kitchen’s or at Tucson or at Camp Grant
or at Joe Felmer’s, or anywhere.

All the news was Apache news; gossip about hunting and raids, and
cowardly Mexicans and stupid Americans.

Camps had been changed frequently, for the Chiricahuas did not remain
long in any one spot. He had not seen Red-head in several months.
According to Nah-che the soldiers were getting more numerous, and
were fighting all the Apaches――the Chiricahuas and the Tontos and the
Yavapais or Apache-Mohaves and the Mogollons: all who would not settle
down at peace like the White Mountains and the Warm Springs.

Part of the winter had been spent in Mexico, but just now the camp
had been located again amidst the Chiricahua Mountains. Most of the
warriors were out on a big raid, under Cochise and Geronimo. They had
not taken any of the older boys. By this it looked as though they were
going into American country, where they might meet the soldiers.

Nah-che admitted as much. He said that report had come of a killing
of friendly Apaches at Camp Grant, so it was useless to trust the
White-eyes (as the Americans were called); they were the enemies of the
Apaches, and Cochise had gone to kill all the Mexicans and Americans
that he could find, down there.

Jimmie felt anxious. He well knew how cunning and bold the Cochise
Chiricahuas were. They had plenty of arms, including guns that they
had captured. They were particularly eager to kill a young American
war-captain who had been leading soldiers upon their trail.

“Was he a new young war-captain?”

“No, he was an old young war-captain――a horse chief. He had killed
Apaches out of Tucson and Camp Grant both.”

As Nah-che would not talk any more about him, Jimmie might only guess.
But all the young officers in the First and the Third Cavalry at Camp
Grant had been brave.

The Cochise and Geronimo party were gone more than half a moon before
word arrived from them. Then, one morning, two runners or messengers,
Porico (“White Horse”), who was Geronimo’s brother, and Hal-zay, who
was a half-brother to Nah-che, appeared. They had traveled hard and
were tired, but they brought exciting news.

The Chiricahuas had ambushed twenty American soldiers and scouts at the
Bear Springs in the Mestinez (Mustang) Mountains only a day’s march
east from Tucson; had killed six of them, maybe more, and had driven
the rest back clear into Camp Crittenden, southeast of Tucson; would
have surrounded and killed them, too, had they not fought so skillfully.

A few Chiricahuas had been killed, but among the first to fall, of the
Americans, was the young horse chief who had given the Chiricahuas so
much trouble. They had taken his clothes and other trophies, and had
easily escaped to the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico.

Cochise was going to stay there for a time, until the soldiers quit
trying to trail him. Then he would come north.

The old squaws in the rancheria immediately lay flat upon their
stomachs and screeched and wailed, mourning the warriors who had
fallen. This was Apache custom. But the camp on the whole was happy and
Jimmie was the only truly sad member. He was not an Apache; he was an
American, even though he did not look much like a white boy, now, save
for his eyes and hair.

The camp was moved, to guard against a surprise from the soldiers of
the American forts. After another half a moon the war party came in and
were given a great welcome. They had eaten most of the captured cavalry
horses, but they brought some of the other plunder. Taza was wearing
the flannel shirt of the young officer.

He was very proud of it. It was a blue shirt, with the straps of a
first lieutenant sewed upon the shoulders. Jimmie recognized these,
because he knew army uniforms. The shirt was passed about. Inside the
neck had been stitched a little tag, bearing the letters “H. B. C.”
printed on it.

Oh! This was Lieutenant Cushing’s shirt, then! His initials were H.
B. C., for Howard B. Cushing; and he was a first lieutenant, and he
had commanded lots of detachments out of Camp Grant, against the
Apaches. He was a terrific fighter, too, and one of the very best
officers on a trail. Jimmie remembered him well. All southern Arizona
knew of Lieutenant Howard B. Cushing of the Third Cavalry. He had
served through the Civil War; one of his brothers had been killed at
Gettysburg and another, as a lieutenant in the navy, had blown up the
Confederate iron-clad Albemarle by poking it with a bomb attached to a
long pole.

This Lieutenant Cushing of the Third Cavalry was just as brave. The
Apaches had had good reason to fear him. No wonder they rejoiced, now
that they had ambushed him and wiped him out.

Nah-che saw Jimmie gulp in his throat. Nah-che had keen eyes.

“You know him?” asked Nah-che.

“Friend,” answered Jimmie, turning away.

“He was a brave captain,” volunteered Nah-che. “He fought hard. But in
war brave men die.”

Jimmie longed for the Red-head to take him away; or for soldiers or
scouts to attack the camp and rescue him.

The killing of Lieutenant Cushing encouraged the Chiricahuas. Cochise
had talks with Chiefs Loco and Chihuahua, and with Chief Nana who was
with a Warm Spring band and helping the Chiricahuas. Parties were
being sent out constantly; some of the captains took their families,
Maria was traded to Chief Nana, and soon the main Chiricahua camp was
much smaller.

One day Nah-che, who had been away with Geronimo, came hurrying in with
orders for the camp to be moved again.

“There are soldiers marching this way,” he reported, breathless, and
big with his news. “They struck us when we were eating, in the medicine
springs valley near the Sierra Bonita. We were bringing meat up from
Mexico, but we left it. We have seen signal fires telling us of other
soldiers. Geronimo says to go at once to the next place-we-know-of.”

Instantly the camp was all confusion. The old men shouted, the women
ran around screeching and gathering their household things, children
scampered and screamed, dogs yelped. The frameworks of the huts were
set afire, and leaving in the smoke the Chiricahuas hustled out for
other quarters.

They made a queer procession. The old men stoutly hobbled by aid of
long staffs or “walking-sticks”; the women were laden with huge bundles
slung to their backs by means of straps about their foreheads, and with
babies tucked into their shawls or bound in wicker cradles; ponies
had been packed with baskets; the smaller children rode atop, but the
strong boys and girls walked. Jimmie and the boys of his age were not
obliged to carry anything.

Through canyon and across valley, into brush and timber, up slope
and down, they toiled, led by old Cha-dah, who was the camp tatah
or chief. Every so often the tatah and the other old men in advance
halted, and stuck their staffs into the ground, and waited. Here
everybody rested, for a brief space. By this system many miles were
covered before camp was established, at evening, and all might eat and
sleep.

Jimmie, lying wrapped in a piece of blanket near Nah-che, under a
pine tree, was awakened in the night by a hand firmly pressed upon
his forehead. The pressure warned him not to stir, so he only stared
up――and in the star-lighted dimness he saw the one bright eye of
Red-head beaming down from close above him.

Red-head was squatting, waiting. Now he removed his hand slowly, and
beckoned with his finger, and silently backed away.

This was enough for Jimmie. What Red-head was doing here, on a sudden,
after a long absence, he did not delay to reason out, but began
cautiously to slip from his blanketing.

First he drew away, crouched; then on hands and knees; then, stooping,
and carefully setting foot before foot, testing the ground lest a twig
snap. From tree to tree he stole, until he was beyond the camp――and on
a sudden, again, Red-head arose right in front of him.

That was good! Now he followed behind the Red-head’s soundless course,
swiftly, straight away, until Red-head stopped.

“Do you want to escape?” asked Red-head. He carried a bow and quiver,
and wore only a cloth about his middle, and moccasins.

“Yes.”

“If you’ll travel fast, I’ll take you,” said Red-head. “Soldiers are
coming. If we don’t find them you can go to Chief Pedro of the White
Mountains. The Chiricahua never visit there, because of the fort.”

“Bueno (Good),” approved Jimmie.

Red-head set out at a trot and rapid walk, but Jimmie kept right in his
wake. Jimmie’s legs were as strong as those of Red-head; his training
in the Apache games stood by him. On and on and on they hastened,
without a word, through the night, amidst timber, and across open
flats, and down cactus hills and up again.

Red-head seemed to know what he was about, but Jimmie of course was
completely lost. Not until the dusk had thinned and the eastern sky was
pink did Red-head halt, at a spring which had made the ground mushy in
a little hollow among rocks and cedars.

“Drink, eat, rest,” he said. He grinned with his freckled face, his
long red hair was damp with sweat. “You did well, Boy-who-sleeps. One
more travel and they cannot catch us. Wait.”

He fitted an arrow to his bow-string and stepped aside, hunting. Jimmie
flung himself down, drank, and lay flat, resting. The sky was pink as
far as over-head, he might glimpse Red-head moving silently among the
cedars; saw him shoot an arrow; and presently Red-head returned with
two rabbits.

They started a fire by twirling a pointed stick set upon a flat piece
of wood until the dust smoked; then they blew upon the dust and some
bark tinder until there was a glow. Then they cooked the rabbits over
dry cedar that made no smoke.

First by the stars and later by the pink east Jimmie knew that they
had been traveling toward the north. Now Red-head explained. Some of
his talk was Apache and some was Spanish-Mexican. He used whichever
language came the easier.

“We will not go straight to Camp Apache in the country where the White
Mountains are,” he said. “It is better that we go round-about. If
the Chiricahua see that we are going to Camp Apache that might make
trouble. They would say that the White Mountains stole you, and some
time they might capture _me_. Now if they try to follow us, we will
fool them.

“I will tell you about the soldiers. There is a new American
comandante. He has come to Tucson, to fight the bad Indians. He
is leading out a great lot of horse soldiers and white scouts and
tame-Indian scouts――Navahos and Papagos and Yaquis and Apaches,
too――and wagons and pack-mules. He has been at Camp Bowie, and he is
marching north to Camp Apache, but he may not stay. The White Mountains
have heard this from runners. The runners say that he is a wonderful
comandante, who knows everything but asks many questions. Shall we try
to find him, Boy-who-sleeps? I think that now is a good chance, while
the Chiricahua are hiding.”

“I don’t want to live with the Chiricahuas,” asserted Jimmie. “I hate
them. They kill my friends. I’m not an Indian. I’m white.”

“I don’t know whether I’m American or Mexican or Indian,” grinned
Red-head. “I can be anything. What is your American name, Boy-who-sleeps?
I will call you by it. We will quit being Apache.”

“James MacGregor Dunn, but everybody called me Jimmie.”

“Inju (good),” grunted Red-head, in Apache. “I am called Micky Free by
the soldiers at Camp Apache. You shall call me Micky, and I shall call
you Cheemie.”

“How did you lose your eye, Micky?”

“By a deer. Three or four years ago I shot a deer with an arrow, and
knocked him down. I thought I had killed him, but when I ran and
grabbed his head he fought me and struck me with his horn in the eye.
Old Miguel has only one eye, too. He lost that in battle.”

“Who is old Miguel?”

“He is a White Mountain chief. There are Miguel and Pedro and old
Es-ki-tis-tsla and Pi-to-ne. They are for peace.”

“Inju,” grunted Jimmie.

While they rested and ate and drank, Micky kept a sharp look-out. Every
now and again he mounted upon a rocky ledge and lay there, peering.

“I see smokes,” he said, coming down the last time. “I do not think
they are meant for us. The Chiricahua are signaling to each other. But
we had better go on, Cheemie, to a cave I know of. We will sleep.”

Yes, there were smokes, far back on their trail: smokes that signaled
“enemies.” This was well, because with enemies around, the Chiricahuas
would not risk following the trail of a boy. So that noon Jimmie and
Micky slept in Micky’s cave, which was concealed high up in the side
of a canyon. They entered it from above. From the mouth they might see
a long distance.

“In two days we shall cross the Tonto country,” remarked Micky. “That
is where we turn east for Camp Apache and the White Mountains. We will
have to be very careful again. The Tonto are bad people. They are
outlaws. When an Apache gets bad, he joins the Tonto.”




IV

THE CANVAS SUIT MAN


The country was steadily growing wilder, with much large timber. For
two days Micky had been leading on and on. The Chiricahuas did not
seem to be pursuing, and Jimmie was certain that he had escaped from
them. He wished that he might have said good-by to good Nah-da-ste, who
had taken care of him; and to his friends Nah-che and Chato, and some
others; but of course that had not been possible. They might have known
that he could not stay being an Apache.

Now on this the third day from the cave Micky suddenly stopped short
and examined an object beside him. They had been following just below a
gravelly ridge, so as to be out of sight. Yuccas and bunchy grass grew
here, and a few cedars, and the sun was warm.

“Tonto sign,” spoke Micky, pointing.

It was a band of dried grass knotted around a yucca leaf. Only eyes
like those of Micky would have seen it; but Micky saw everything.

“How do you know, Micky?”

“Because I know,” answered Micky. “That is the way the Tonto tie their
grass. A White Mountain would have tied different, and so would a
Chiricahua or a Pinal. And the same with piling stones or writing signs
on rocks or bark. It means a Tonto war party has passed here, and tells
other Tonto to follow. See――there is the trail.”

“Shall we hide, Micky?”

“No. The trail was made early this morning. It is an old trail. See,
Cheemie? You have lived with the Chiricahua and you ought to know.
There is a broken twig, where it was stepped on, and the leaves are
wilted. The sap is done flowing. I think we’d better follow and see
where those Tonto are going, so we won’t run into them.”

The trail proceeded up the gravelly ridge, where moccasin prints were
plain, and over, and through among cedars of a flat mesa; and suddenly
Jimmie fairly gasped for breath. They had come out upon the edge of a
great, broad, deep valley lying like a green basin; it was so deep that
the trees in it looked like shrubs, and the farther edge was veiled in
purple mist.

“Tonto home,” said Micky. “Down in there the Tonto live, where they
can hide. Up here is Mogollon country. It is all a flat mountain top,
on the Sierra Mogollon. We shall see many big pine trees soon. When we
find where this Tonto trail goes we had better turn back.”

The trail skirted the dizzy edge; then it veered inland, and was joined
by another trail, and presently the joined trails made straight into
a tremendous forest. The trees were all pines; they stood up tall and
stately, and under them the ground was clean, except for the needles
and the low grass and flowers. Throughout the long aisles flecked by
the sun not a thing moved. It was a silent forest.

Micky and Jimmie trotted fast, their eyes upon the trail, or searching
ahead. Now it was past noon. Once in a while the view opened into
the great Tonto Basin; and again there was only the timber, with the
serried trunks extending on every side. In such a forest, and when
gazing into such a basin, a boy felt small.

About an hour or an hour and a half after noon Micky, who was just
before, stopped short once more――stopped so quickly that he stood with
one foot uplifted. He signed “Come,” and Jimmie came on.

“Horse tracks now, Cheemie. American horses. Mules, too. American
soldiers.”

This was a larger trail; the pine needles were imprinted with many
hoof marks. The horses had been ridden four abreast――yes, five and six
abreast, so that the trail lay broadly. They were shod horses, which
meant cavalry horses, because the Apache horses were not shod, save
with buckskin boots in cactus country. No Apaches rode four or five
abreast, anyway. The mule prints were smaller and rounder; and the
prints cut deeper, showing that the mules had been laden: pack-mules.

Hah! Micky studied the new trail. The Tontos, too, had paused and
studied it.

“These are some of the soldiers I spoke of, I think,” finally declared
Micky. “They have been at Camp Apache, maybe. Anyhow, they are going
away from it. Maybe the Tonto will attack them. What do you say to do,
Cheemie? My heart tells me we have gone far enough. Shall we turn back,
for Camp Apache?”

“I’d rather try to find the soldiers, Micky.”

“I will take you to Camp Apache. There are soldiers at Camp Apache; and
the White Mountains will be good to you if the soldiers don’t want you.
We will all be chi-kis-n to you.”

“Are you afraid of these soldiers, Micky?”

“No; but I am afraid of the Tonto. Besides, I live with Chief Pedro’s
people on the reservation near Camp Apache. I have no business off in
this other direction.”

“I have, though,” answered Jimmie. “I live at Camp Grant. Maybe these
soldiers are marching back to Camp Grant, or Tucson, and they’ll take
me there.”

“Well,” replied Micky, “I will follow with you, Cheemie.” His one blue
eye danced. “If there is a fight, I would like to see it. I would
like to see those Tonto whipped. But don’t expect me to stay with the
soldiers, Cheemie. That might make me trouble. Come on, but we must be
very careful, or the Tonto will kill us, too.”

After having surveyed the soldiers’ trail the Tontos had continued on
beside it, and between it and the edge of the basin. But Micky crossed
the soldiers’ trail and hurried away from it. He seemed much excited by
the prospect of a fight, for he set such a pace that Jimmie half ran.
Evidently he was going to circuit out and back again, to cut the trail
farther ahead.

Jimmie kept his ears sharp pricked for soldier sounds――voices, or the
creak of saddle-leathers, or the tinkle of pack-mule bells; and also
for the shooting of guns: but all was silence. Twice Micky and he
struck the trail again. It wended right along, among the trees, and it
was getting fresher. Indeed, the soldiers could not be far ahead, now.
No Tonto trail had been cut; therefore the Tontos were still on the
other side of the soldiers’ trail.

The sun had sunk toward some high purplish ridges away yonder, bounding
the basin in the west, and evening was near. The third time that Micky
led in, to cut the trail, he and Jimmie got clear to the edge of the
great basin without coming to any trail at all. For the last hundred
yards they had crawled, with bunches of weeds tied to their heads, lest
the Tontos should be in waiting, but nothing had happened.

The big pines extended to the edge of the basin, and along the edge
were large boulders, scattered among the trees here. Some of them were
the size of a hut. They lay in twos and threes, as if dropped by a
blast.

Micky, with Jimmie close behind, wormed from the trees for two boulders
that touched. They touched at an angle, so that they left a space,
within which two boys might crouch, on the ground, and see out by
peeping through the cracks, or by standing up.

“We have come far enough, Cheemie,” whispered Micky. “It is a good
place to stay, till the Tonto and the soldiers pass. And if they do
not fight I am going back to my White Mountains. But I want to see the
fight. Are you thirsty, Cheemie? You’ll have to drink a stone.”

He picked up a round pebble and put it into his mouth. Jimmie did the
same. A pebble in the mouth made the mouth wet.

“Listen!” bade Jimmie. “I hear tinkle!”

“Yes; pack-mules. The soldiers are coming. You can go with them,
Cheemie, but you must not say one word about me. Promise.”

“All right, Micky.”

The bells of the pack-mules were yet a long way off. Micky, with the
weeds still bound on his head, cautiously rose, to peer over the two
boulders――and down he dropped.

“S-s-s! Tonto!” he whispered.

He began to poke out his head, gradually, around a corner of the rock
on his side. Jimmie gently wriggled, crawling flat, until he was under
an over-hang on his side, and might see straight before, with his head
just raised from the ground. Right up over the edge of the mighty basin
figures were popping, and scuttling for the timber: a file of them,
Apaches!

They crossed not more than thirty yards away. They were naked of body
and limbs, their hair was black and long and straggly, they were daubed
with deer blood and mescal juice, they carried strung bows and quivers,
they were the fiercest, most hideous Apaches that Jimmie had ever seen.

The low sun shone full against them, showing them plainly. They
scarcely glanced aside as they hurried; and if they did chance to note
Micky’s head or Jimmie’s head, they thought them to be two motionless
tufts of weed, like other tufts growing here and there.

Tontos! Jimmie counted seventeen, all springing out of the depths of
the earth as suddenly as jacks-in-the-box, darting across, and in among
the pines. Then there were two more, who dropped among the rocks under
the trees.

After the last had passed and vanished, Micky kicked Jimmie’s leg,
and Jimmie drew back to face him behind the boulders. Micky’s blue
eye fairly sparkled; even his freckles glowed, he was so excited. He
certainly loved danger. He was not American enough to say “Hurrah!” but
he looked it!

“The Tonto are ready,” he whispered. “We’ll see the fight. Good! Quick!
The soldiers are coming.”

He crawled around the boulders, craned and peered, crept swiftly, with
Jimmie in his tracks, to a better place, and wormed his way until they
both might lie in a warm niche half filled with washed-in soil and
screened with brush. From here they could see much better into the
timber beyond the cross trail of the Tontos.

Jimmie felt a wild desire to warn the soldiers of the ambush by the
Tontos; but the Tontos were cutting him off and he had no time for
making a circuit. No, none at all. The soldiers were in sight――the
head of their column had appeared, riding on, up an aisle through the
towering pines, a short way back from the edge of the basin.

The first, by themselves, were five, riding leisurely almost knee to
knee, and apparently enjoying the scenery. Their voices might be heard,
as they chatted. One, a small, sun-dried man, wore an old slouch hat
and grayish flannel shirt and dark trousers and cowhide boots. He
was Tom Moore, a government packer. Jimmie knew him――had seen him at
Camp Grant and in Tucson. Hah! And three were officers, in cavalry
fatigue――there was Lieutenant John Bourke, of Camp Grant! Yes, sir! And
Lieutenant William Ross! And another. But the man in the middle, on a
mule, Jimmie did not know at all.

If he was riding there he ought to be an officer, but he seemed to be
wearing a brown canvas suit, a sort of brown canvas round-brimmed hat,
and carried a shot-gun across the pommel of his saddle, the muzzle of
course pointing ahead. Perhaps he was some sportsman from the East, on
a hunting trip, with the cavalry.

Micky lay perfectly still, intent to see with his one eye what would
happen, but Jimmie trembled. His soldier friends were riding into an
ambush and evidently had no suspicion of danger. Neither did their
horses. The timber, with the sunshine streaming through the long
aisles, stretched fragrant and peaceful. The air was so quiet that the
riders’ voices, the occasional blowing of the horses, the scuff of
hoofs and the creak of saddles, could be heard plainly.

The cavalry column itself was to be seen, behind, a short distance,
winding on among the trees, and the tinkle of the pack bells sounded,
again. Jimmie caught his breath. Micky was tense, beside him. The
advance squad apparently had reached the Tontos――were within short
bow-shot, anyway. Why didn’t――――? Ah, look out!

“Twang! Whiz!” “Twang-twang! Whiz-whiz!” “Twang-twang-twang!” And
“Whiz! Thud! Thud-thud!” The Tontos were whooping and screeching and
shooting; their daubed faces and flying hair and naked bodies could be
glimpsed gyrating among the trees; their arrows whizzed and glanced
and hummed and thudded, to the twanging of the bows. They were mainly
behind the advance squad, trying to stampede the cavalry column. Up
half-rose Jimmie, up half-rose Micky, the better to see. Had the first
volley killed anybody? Didn’t look so, for not one of the squad was
in sight; the animals were rearing and snorting, but every rider had
instantly plunged from the saddle and dived for a tree, gun in one hand
and reins in the other.

[Illustration: HAD THE FIRST VOLLEY KILLED ANYBODY? DIDN’T LOOK SO]

That had been quick and smart work. Lieutenant Bourke and Lieutenant
Ross and Tom Moore were no fools; and that sinewy man in the canvas
suit was no fool, either.

“Inju! Bueno! (Good! Good!)” chattered Micky, in Apache and Spanish
both. “Huh! Tonto run already! Cowards!”

“Hurrah! There come the other soldiers!” babbled Jimmie.

The carbines were banging, as the first troop began to fight――officers
shouted, the man in the canvas suit jumped out, yelled orders and
pointed, and leveled his shot-gun――“Bang!” The first troop, dismounted
to the notes of a bugle, deployed on, firing, another troop was
spurring in at a gallop――and the Tontos were scampering off through the
timber.

Jimmie was just about to spring upright, glad, when Micky nudged him
hard, in warning. Not all the Tontos had gone. The two who had dropped
into ambush among the rocks at the timber edge had been cut off by
the cavalry, and were now running back, and dancing and dodging, their
heads turned.

“Don’t shoot them!” shouted the canvas suit man, in a loud voice. “We
have them!”

He was running, too――and his officers――and the foremost of the
men――from tree to tree, after them, to surround them at the edge of
the basin. The two Tontos had crouched, again, behind a large boulder.
Jimmie might have tossed a stone and struck them; they were close in
front of him and Micky, and fully exposed, against the boulder. But the
soldiers had formed a half circle, hemming them in against the basin’s
edge. Up straightened the two Tontos, behind their rock, drew their
bows to the arrows’ heads, and stood, at bay, aiming now here, now
there, threatening their enemies.

“Don’t shoot them!” the canvas suit man kept shouting. “Take them
alive.” And he called to the Tontos: “Friends! Friends!”

However, the two Tontos would have none of _that_. They stood braced,
with bended bows, glaring from tangled hair, as defiant and menacing
as a coiled rattle-snake. On a sudden――“Twang!”――they had loosed
their arrows, and with a single backward spring and another bound
had disappeared over the edge! Evidently they preferred death to
capture――they certainly had killed themselves, for the basin looked to
be a sheer drop of over a thousand feet.

Out bolted Jimmie and ran, the better to see. Forward ran the canvas
suit man and his officers and the soldiers. And there were the two
Tontos, alive and running, themselves. They were leaping and bounding
like rabbits, from rock to rock and landing-place to landing-place of
the merest trail zigzagging them almost straight up and down! that must
have been the trail which all the Tontos had climbed.

For a moment everybody was too astonished to shoot. Then――“Bang!” The
canvas suit man had thrown his gun to his shoulder, lightning-quick,
and aimed and pulled trigger.

The second of the two Tontos leaped aside, one arm fell limp, and was
dyed red. But he did not slacken. Now “Bang! Bang! Bang-bang!” The
soldiers and the officers also shot as fast as they could, so that even
the basin echoed. They were excited, and shooting down-hill, the Tontos
were leaping and dodging and looked very small, not much larger than
coyotes; and as far as anybody might see, not a bullet touched them.

Pretty soon they had plunged into the brush and scrub-oak chaparral
almost at the bottom of the precipice; they had got away.

Jimmie drew a long breath. In the excitement he had forgotten all about
himself. Now he came to, and discovered that he was standing out here,
alone, on a curve of the basin rim; and that the soldiers, the nearest
only a few paces away, holding their smoking carbines were surveying
him keenly. Some had begun to steal around, to head him off.

Naturally they took him for an Apache.

The canvas suit man had seen as quickly as any of the soldiers.

“No cuidado, muchacho! Ven’ aqui! (Don’t be afraid, boy! Come here!),”
he called, in Spanish, to Jimmie. And added, in English, to the
soldiers: “Bring that boy in.”

Jimmie did not wait to be brought in. He raised his hand in the “peace
sign,” and ran forward, crying:

“I’m not Apache. I’m American. I’m Jimmie Dunn, Lieutenant Bourke!
Hello, Tom Moore! Don’t you know me?”




V

JIMMIE REPORTS FOR DUTY


“Well, for goodness’ sake!”

Bronzed Lieutenant Bourke stared: runty Packer Tom Moore gaped amidst
his wrinkles; everybody stood stock-still, amazed. Jimmie’s shrill
announcement, as he ran in, created a sensation.

Now Lieutenant Bourke hastened to him; so did Tom Moore; so did
Lieutenant Ross: all the officers and men within hearing pressed around
him.

“By gracious, boy, we thought you were a bleached-out Tonto!” exclaimed
Tom.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Lieutenant Bourke. “Pete Kitchen
said the Chiricahuas had you.”

“They did,” answered Jimmie, so glad to speak English again. He found
the words a little stiff on his tongue, but he had not forgotten. “I
ran away.”

“Those were Tontos, weren’t they? How came you among the Tontos?”

“I wasn’t among ’em. They didn’t have me.”

“Are you here alone?”

Huh! Jimmie looked around an instant; he was so happy that he was
a-tremble. He did not sight Micky; the soldiers were covering the very
spot where he and Micky had been hiding, but Micky was not with them.
He had mysteriously vanished. Jimmie had promised not to betray him,
and must keep his word.

“Yes, sir.” So far as he knew now, that was true.

“How long have you been traveling?”

“Nearly a week, I guess.”

“Well if that ain’t the limit!” exploded weazened Tom Moore.

“You’d better report to the general, Jimmie,” bade Lieutenant Bourke
kindly. “General George Crook――that man in the canvas suit. He’s our
department commander now, so don’t omit to salute him. Come along.”

Scanned by curious eyes, Jimmie followed First Lieutenant John Bourke
to where the man in the canvas suit was standing expectant, his
shot-gun at an order.

The lieutenant saluted, and Jimmie saluted. That was regulations.

“This boy is Jimmie Dunn, sir,” reported the lieutenant. “He was taken
by the Chiricahuas about a year ago, while herding sheep on the Kitchen
ranch south of Tucson. He says that he has run away from them, and,”
added the lieutenant, with a quizzical laugh, “he doesn’t want to go
back.”

Jimmie stood at attention, while General Crook eyed him. This, then,
was the new “comandante” of whom Micky had spoken. He was a straight,
square-shouldered, active-looking man, as strong on his feet as any
Apache. Yes, he was of a tall, muscular build like Geronimo. He was of
light complexion, with sandy hair and thin sandy moustache, and high
forehead, and from between two very keen, gray-blue eyes a large sharp
nose jutted down to a firm mouth set over a longish, firm chin. He
needed shaving. The hands upon his shot-gun were brown and sinewy.

Now he queried abruptly, military fashion but not gruff; merely as
though he required a short direct answer.

“What band of Chiricahua?”

“Cochise’s band.”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know, sir. They’re traveling around.”

“Where were they when you left them?”

“They were in the north part of the Chiricahua Mountains, I think. They
were moving to a new camp, because of the soldiers.”

“Hah! Was Cochise there?”

“No, sir. He was out and so was Geronimo. It was just the old men and
the squaws. Most of the chiefs were in Mexico, on raids.”

“Who is Geronimo?”

“He’s Go-yath-lay, the war chief.”

“How long ago did you run away?”

“Five days, I think.”

“How did you happen to get up here? Did the Tonto have you?”

“No, sir. I was trying to go to Camp Apache.”

“You answer like a soldier, boy. Are you a soldier’s son?”

“No, sir. My mother and father were killed by the Apaches, but I lived
with Joe Felmer. He’s post blacksmith for Camp Grant.”

“Lieutenant Ross and Moore and I have seen him there often, general,”
put in Lieutenant Bourke. “He calls Joe Felmer uncle, but they’re not
relations, as I understand.”

“No, sir; we’re not,” said Jimmie. “Joe is mighty good to me, though.”

“Did the Chiricahua treat you well?” asked the general.

“Yes, sir; but I don’t like them.”

“Why not?” And General Crook slightly smiled. When he smiled his face
was kind and fatherly.

“Because they wanted to make me an Apache, so I’d help them kill
Americans and Mexicans and steal cattle. They torture people. And they
killed Lieutenant Cushing, too!”

“How do you know that?” sharply queried the general.

“They did, didn’t they, sir? I saw his shirt. Taza was wearing it.”

“Hum!” mused the general. “Could you guide us to the Cochise camp, do
you think?”

“N-no, sir,” faltered Jimmie. “You see, they have their own names for
places, and sometimes I was in Mexico and sometimes I was in Arizona,
and I got all mixed up.”

“I see,” admitted the general. “You say you were trying to reach Camp
Apache. Don’t you know that this is a long way west of Camp Apache? How
did you happen to be off here?”

“Yes, sir; I know it,” replied Jimmie. “The Chiricahua might think I
was starting for Camp Apache, so I tried to fool them. Then I saw the
Tonto trail, and then I saw the soldiers’ trail, and I was hurrying
to catch you as soon as the Tonto did, when the Tonto jumped out of
the basin, and I couldn’t do anything but hide and watch. I knew the
soldiers would whip ’em, though. Did――did anybody get killed?”

“No,” said the general grimly. “That will do,” he continued. “We’ve
been at Camp Apache, and can’t take you back there; but we may be able
to send you down to Camp Grant. Turn him over to Mr. Moore, if you
please, lieutenant, and see that he’s outfitted more like a white boy
and less like an Indian.”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Bourke saluted; Jimmie rigidly saluted. “Come
with me, Jimmie.” And they looked up Tom Moore.

There were two troops of cavalry and twenty pack-mules. Tom Moore was
busy, just now, attending to the pack-train; and having been left with
him Jimmie might gaze about and listen.

None of the soldiers had even been wounded, but those Tontos certainly
had shot hard. The general and party were examining a pine-trunk into
which a Tonto arrow had buried itself clear to the feathers! In several
other tree trunks there were arrows that could not be pulled out. As
far as might be discovered, no Tontos had been wounded, except the one
shot by the general. It had been a sharp skirmish, nevertheless.

Micky Free had disappeared. Not a trace of him was noted. Jimmie
loyally said not a word about him, and did not see him again for some
months.

“All right,” presently spoke Tom Moore. “Now, boy, you can ride behind
me, on my hoss, and I’ll fix you out after we get to camp. Haven’t time
here.”

For the sun was setting in a range of mountains across the big basin;
the basin itself was growing dark, while the high plateau was still
bathed in the last rays; and the general had given the order to march
and make a camping-place.

With Jimmie behind his saddle, Tom rode in the advance party. This was
composed of the general, and Lieutenant Bourke his aide, Captain Brent
and Lieutenant Ross and Guide Archie MacIntosh. Mr. MacIntosh was a
new man from the Hudson’s Bay country of the Far North――a fine scout
but not yet acquainted with this part of Arizona. In fact, even Tom
Moore had never been through here. So Tom was acting as pack-master and
assistant guide, both.

At camp that evening Jimmie was awarded an old flannel shirt and pair
of cotton trousers. The shirt belonged to Lieutenant Ross; the trousers
belonged to “Chileno John,” one of the packers. The suit didn’t fit
very well, but Jimmie now felt more like a white boy again.

Because he was in charge of Tom Moore, his place was with the packers.
They were a merry set, around their fires after supper: Charley Hopkins
and old Jack Long, of Tucson; and “Hank ’n Yank”――who were Hank Hewitt
and Yank Bartlett; and “Long” Jim Cook (who had a brother “Short” Jim
Cook); and Jim O’Neill, and “Chileno John,” and José de Leon, and
Lauriano Gomez who sang Spanish songs; and others. They looked rather
rough and they talked rather rough――but such stories they had to tell,
of their adventures in California and Arizona and Mexico, and up in
British Columbia!

The soldiers strolled over, to sit and listen and swap yarns. The
general and officers listened, too, now and then, and laughed.
Altogether it was a much more pleasant camp than a Chiricahua rancheria.

According to soldiers’ and packers’ talk this General George Crook had
made a hit. He had suddenly arrived, last June, in Tucson by stage from
San Francisco, to take command of the new Department of Arizona. His
regular rank was lieutenant-colonel in the Twenty-third Infantry, but
as he had been brevetted or given honorary rank of major-general for
gallant service in the Civil War, he of course was called “General.”

Up in the far Northwest, where he had commanded the Department of the
Columbia, he had done such good work against the Shoshones or Snakes
that the Government had now sent him down to see what he could do with
the Apaches.

He had set right to work. “A powerful active sort of man,” he was,
declared Tom Moore. After having questioned all the post commanders and
many scouts, about the trails and other conditions, he had started out
from Tucson with five companies of cavalry and a company of scouts,
both white and red, and a great pack-train, to make a big circle of
some six hundred miles: east one hundred and ten miles to Camp Bowie
at Apache Pass in the Chiricahua Mountains, thence north two hundred
miles across the mountains to Camp Apache and the White Mountain
reservation, thence west two hundred and fifty or three hundred miles
to Fort Whipple at the town of Prescott, which was the department
headquarters.

Lieutenant Bourke’s Troop F of the Third Cavalry it was which had
surprised the Geronimo and Nah-che band and made them leave their meat;
and there had been other skirmishes. At Camp Apache the general had
talked to the White Mountain Apaches.

“That man,” asserted Tom Moore, “he cert’inly knows Injun. He said
he’d nothin’ against the ’Paches; he wasn’t out to war on ’em, but
to get ’em to live peaceably. They could see for themselves that the
white people were crowdin’ into the country, and that pretty soon there
wouldn’t be enough game to live on. So the ’Pache’d better decide to
settle down and go to farmin’ on the land that was given him. He’d be
protected from his enemies, and wouldn’t need to steal. The ’Paches who
came in peaceful wouldn’t be punished; they’d be treated same as white
people; but the bad ones who hung out would make trouble for the good
ones, and he’d expect the good ’Paches to help him run down the bad
’Paches. That sounded like sense, and Pedro and the rest of ’em agreed.”

“He’s shorely got some pecul’ar idees,” commented old Jack Long. “For
one thing, he says an’ Injun’s as good as a white man an’ some white
men are wuss’n Injuns, ’cause they know better. But I reckon when he
says ‘peace’ he means peace, an’ when he says ‘fight’ he means fight.
He wanted mightily to ketch those two Tonto an’ talk with ’em――an’
when they threw arrers at him an’ skadoodled, blamed if he didn’t up
an’ shoot ’em himself! Got the olive-branch in one hand an’ sword in
t’other, _he_ has.”

However, with only these two companies of cavalry and a small
pack-train the general was now on his way to Fort Whipple, there to
wait and plan; for when with all his force he had arrived at Camp
Apache, he had received dispatches from the War Department directing
him to quit until the Government Peace Commission had tried.

This Peace Commission had been formed in 1867, for the purpose of
seeing that the Indians were being honestly treated, and of persuading
them to live upon reservations. President U. S. Grant was much in favor
of such a scheme. The Indians of Arizona never had been talked with,
so the President was sending a Mr. Vincent Colyer, a patriotic and
large-hearted New Yorker, to represent the Commission in the Southwest.

“That thar peace plan may work with some o’ those Eastern Injuns, but
’twon’t work with ’Paches,” grumbled old Jack Long. “They got too much
country to travel ’round in, an’ war is meat an’ drink to ’em. They
ain’t been licked yet, an’ till they’re licked they’ll think the whites
are ’fraid of ’em. They won’t understand civilian peace talk, by a
stranger. Some big white chief ought to do the talkin’. An’ now the
soldiers an’ settlers got to sit back an’ be perlite, so’s not to stir
up trouble, an’ Gin’ral Crook can’t make his words good an’ go get the
bad lots. ’Pache’ll see ’tain’t any use to stay on a reservation if he
can have more fun in the hills.”

Jimmie rather believed, himself, that Mr. Colyer or any stranger from
the East, who was not used to Indians, would have hard times “catching”
the Chiricahuas.

During the next few days General Crook proved to be a most remarkable
man indeed. At first sight, nobody would take him for a general in the
United States army. He wore no uniform――just a plain canvas suit; he
rode a mule, and he preferred a shot-gun to a rifle. He was not above
talking to anybody, as he chose. Only when you saw how straight and
decisive he was, would you suspect him to be a soldier and an officer.

Nothing was too small for him to notice, and nothing too hard for him
to do. He could talk in the sign language and he could read a trail.
He could speak Snake and Spanish and some Apache; and he knew almost
as much about Arizona as Tom Moore or Jack Long did. He was up in the
morning, even by two o’clock, as soon as the cooks. All day, as he
rode in the advance, he constantly asked the names of trees and bushes
and flowers, and mountains and streams――and he never forgot. He was a
tremendous hunter, and could stuff the beasts and birds that he killed,
and he had studied wild animals until he could tell many curious things
about them. He liked to explore by himself, with gun and fishing-rod,
and never was lost. He drank only cold water――no tea or coffee. He
could do without drinking at all, and without eating, either. In fact,
Tom Moore and Archie MacIntosh agreed, he could “out-Injun the Injuns”!

The pack-train was his particular hobby.

“He fetched a lot o’ notions down from Idyho an’ Californy,”
explained old Jack, with wag of head; “an’ by jinks, he began to tear
things loose as soon as he struck Tooson. Nothin’s too good for the
pack-train. Consequence is, now we’ve got critters an’ men who’ll go
anywhar a dog’ll go, an’ be fresh for an’ arly start next mornin’. He’s
sort o’ pack-train daddy, I reckon.”

Jimmie did not ride clear through to Fort Whipple at Prescott. At Camp
Verde, the post fifty miles this side of Whipple, the general sent off
dispatches for some of the posts south, and told Jimmie that this was a
good chance to reach Camp Grant, where he belonged.

“But if you do fight the Apaches, can I help?” ventured Jimmie.

He loved the bronzed, lean, untiring, wise General Crook, so brief
of speech, so kind in manner, so fatherly and yet so soldierly; who
quickly learned whatever he didn’t happen to know already, and who
somehow got things done without any loud orders.

“I didn’t come in here to fight them,” smiled the general. “I came in
to make peace. But those who won’t make peace and keep it, I’ll fight
very hard――they may depend on that also. I promised the White Mountain
Apaches that I’d protect the good Indians and punish the bad ones; and
the only way to control Indians is to do exactly what you promise to
do. Now we’ll all have to wait until Mr. Colyer of the Peace Commission
has tried. He’ll give them an opportunity to gather upon reservations
and learn to support themselves without murdering and stealing. A
great deal of the fighting between the Indians and the whites has been
unnecessary, because there are white men who don’t believe in good
Indians. You go to your friends at Camp Grant. Learn all you can about
pack-mules and soldier duties, too, and don’t forget Apache. I haven’t
any doubt that some day you can help the Government very much.”

When at last Jimmie was delivered at Camp Grant, and set out for Joe
Felmer’s little ranch, above, to surprise Joe, he met him coming in,
mule back. As a result, Joe opened his whiskered mouth widely, and
almost fell off his mule: for here was Jimmie Dunn, who had been
captured by the Apaches in mid-summer of 1870, and now it was the close
of August, 1871.

“Hello, black-beard white man,” greeted Jimmie, in his best Apache.




VI

THE PEACE COMMISSION TRIES


“Wall, ’xpec’ you want to hear all the news yourself,” proposed “Uncle”
Joe, that evening, at the ranch, after Jimmie had told his own story in
every detail.

“Yes, if you please,” answered Jimmie.

“Wall,” mused Joe Felmer, stroking his shaggy full beard, “lemme see.
‘Six-toed’ Hutton’s been kicked in the jaw by a mule, an’ he’s like
to go under. The kick busted his heart, same time it busted his jaw,
’cause he ought to’ve known better than to get in the way.”

“Six-toed” Hutton’s real name was Oscar Hutton. He had six toes on
either foot, and was one of the bravest scouts at Camp Grant. To be
killed by a mule kick did indeed seem an untimely end for a scout.

“’Paches have been awful bad all ’long the line,” continued Joe.
“Chiricahuas an’ Tontos an’ Pinals been raidin’ the stage road out o’
Tucson, both ways. Forty-seven whites an’ Mexicans have been killed
down thar’bouts, an’ ten thousand dollars’ wuth o’ property burned
or stolen. Up ’round Prescott the Hualpais an’ Apache-Mohaves have
corraled the mail rider an’ run ranchers an’ miners off. An’ a passel
o’ blamed rascals lit out with an old mule from my very pasture――three
of ’em at once on her back, in broad day!”

The recollection of this evidently made “Uncle” Joe very angry again.
He paused to mumble.

“Thar’s a band o’ Es-kim-en-zin’s Pinals an’ Arivaipas farmin’ on the
creek ’bout a mile from Grant,” he resumed. “Gathered thar ag’in after
that massacre last spring, when those whites an’ Mexicans an’ Papagos
from Tucson way came up an’ wiped out ’most their women an’ old men an’
stole their children. Yessir, killed over seventy squaws an’ only eight
bucks, some of ’em while asleep, an’ carried off thirty children. Sold
’em ’mongst the Mexicans an’ Papagos, they did. Now I hear tell that
the Government’s sendin’ what it calls a ‘peace commissioner,’ from New
Yawk, to fetch in other ’Paches an’ feed ’em an’ treat ’em nice. Wall,
reckon he’ll have his hands full.”

Although Joe and others, soldiers and civilians both, at Camp Grant,
insisted that there could be no good excuse for attacking Indians who
had surrendered themselves, the Tucson papers and people declared that
these very Pinals and Arivaipas had recently been murdering Americans
and Mexicans, and stealing stock, and deserved Indian punishment
instead of white protection. It would teach the Apaches a lesson.

Of course, when one’s father and mother and brothers and sisters have
been tortured and killed only because they were white, it is hard to
feel at all kindly toward the race that did it. Jimmie knew how that
was. White persons’ clothing――the clothing of the very ones who had
been murdered――was found in the Pinal and Arivaipa camp. Still, for the
white people to act like Indians, set a bad example, if the Indians
were to be shown that the white way of living was the better way.

The Camp Grant massacre aroused a great cry in the East. The East sided
with the Apaches. But when he had arrived, Commissioner Colyer seemed
to be going about with very odd notions. He was reported as thinking
that the Apaches were only a poor ignorant race, who had been robbed of
their lands and forced into war by the whites, and that they ought to
be met with kindness alone. Then they would be peaceable. The Tucson
_Citizen_ asserted that he advised the Arizona people to avoid trouble
by getting out of the Indians’ way. And the _Citizen_ and the Prescott
_Miner_ published hot, sarcastic articles about him and the Peace
Policy. The Apaches were being referred to as “Colyer’s babes” and
“Colyer’s pets.”

“What’s that?” growled Joe. “Thinks the Chiricahuas an’ Tontos don’t
know any better’n to hang folks up by their heels over a slow fire,
does he? An’ that we ought to call off the troops an’ get off our
ranches, so we won’t be irritatin’ the Injuns? Then they’d come in
of themselves, to be civilized! Jest why the ’Paches who can live by
fightin’ an’ stealin’ as they please will want to live by ploughin’,
I’d like to hear. This is part o’ the United States, an’ the white
people are jest as much entitled to protection as the ’Paches are.”

Camp Grant was a four- or five-company post located here in a desert
basin where the valley of the Arivaipa Creek, from the east, and of the
San Pedro River, from the south, joined. The San Pedro was supposed
to flow on north, for a few miles, to the Gila River; but it and the
Arivaipa were only dry sand-beds during the greater part of the year.

Camp Grant was not a pretty place; it was only a hollow square of clay
or log huts and ragged tents, shaded in front by brush porches or
_ramadas_.

Against it beat the sand-storms in the spring and the blazing sun
throughout nine months of the year――temperature, one hundred and twenty
in the shade! The giant cactuses, instead of trees, were many and extra
large――and so were the rattle-snakes, scorpions and centipedes. And the
Apache had always been extra bold.

One never might foresee what was about to occur, at Camp Grant. On some
days it would be perfectly quiet, with only the sentries walking their
hot beats, and the tame Indians squatting out of the sun; and again
there would be a sudden running to and fro, and away would trot the
cavalry, to rescue (if possible) a wagon train, and pursue the hostiles.

In a few days, at best, but likely enough not until after a week or
more, back the troopers would come, maybe with wounded, maybe with
prisoners, but in any case all fagged out, both men and horses.

Joe Felmer’s little ranch lay three miles south, up the San Pedro. As
Joe was post blacksmith, and also sold ranch stuff to the quartermaster,
Jimmie felt as though he belonged to the post, himself. He knew all
the officers, and old Sergeants Warfield and John Mott, and others of
the men; and “Six-toed,” and Antonio Besias the former Mexican captive
of the Apaches, and Concepcion Equierre the half-Apache interpreter,
and old Santos the short-legged Arivaipa ex-chief who was Chief
Es-kim-en-zin’s father-in-law; and many more.

When he had left, last year, Grant had been occupied by some of the
First and the Third Cavalry; but they had been transferred, Lieutenant
Cushing’s and Lieutenant Bourke’s Troop K of the Third had been sent
down to Camp Lowell near Tucson, and now the Fifth Cavalry was here.

It was in October when Commissioner Colyer, on his rounds, appeared at
Camp Grant. Jimmie was lucky enough to drive down there, with Joe and
a wagon-load of pumpkins, just in time to be present at some of the
“doings.”

Mr. Colyer had arrived in a six-mule army ambulance (a black, covered
spring wagon with high driver’s seat, and two bench-like seats inside,
facing each other), escorted by a squad of cavalry from Fort Whipple,
under Lieutenant Ross.

He was a square-set, benevolent-looking gentleman, in dusty black
broadcloth, and white shirt and broad black hat. Attended by Colonel F.
W. Crittenden, the post commander, and by other officers, he had been
talking, through Concepcion the interpreter, to the tame Apaches at the
post, and he was about to go out to Chief Es-kim-en-zin’s rancheria,
where the surrendered Pinals and Arivaipas were farming.

“They are the same people who were so barbarously attacked last spring,
I understand,” he remarked.

“Yes, sir,” replied Lieutenant Royal Whitman.

“You were in charge of the post then, were you not?”

“I was. But before I could reach their camp the deed had been done. I
think you will see by my report upon the matter, to the Department,
how I feel about it. It was a thorough outrage, and the members of the
attacking party ought to be arrested, tried and punished.”

“Quite true,” uttered Mr. Colyer. “A shocking state of affairs exists
through the whole Territory. All the Indians with whom I have talked
declare that they would gladly gather upon reservations, accept the
Government’s aid, and live at peace with mankind, if the soldiery and
white citizens would only cease hunting them down. Some of the bands
are so frightened and timid that they won’t confer even with me, their
friend. I’ve tried in vain to meet Chief Cochise, of the Chiricahuas.
You can see, my brothers,” he continued, addressing the group of
soldiers and scouts and tame Apaches, “what an injustice has been done
these simple savages. Our duty is not to punish them for defending
their homes, but to gain their good-will by patience and kindness,
until they are won to the benefits of civilization. That is why the
President and the Society of Friends have delegated me to visit among
you, and bring this bad feeling between the white men and the red men
to an end.”

“‘Simple savages,’ are they?” afterwards commented Joe. “If thar’s
anybody smarter’n an Apache in sizin’ things up, I’ve yet to find him.
At present this hyar Quaker strikes me as bein’ ’bout the simplest
pusson in Arizony. The ’Paches can understand straight talk, like that
Gen’ral Crook gave ’em, an’ they can understand war; but they don’t
understand coaxin’. When you coax a ’Pache he laughs in his insides an’
reckons he’ll do as he pleases as long as he can. Once you coax him,
then he thinks you’re ’fraid of him, ’cause that’s Injun way.”

Mr. Colyer was driven out to the Chief Es-kim-en-zin camp, where he
talked with old Santos and the chief, and others of the Pinals and
Arivaipas. He informed them that the Great White Father at Washington
would see to it that they were no longer ill-treated by the white men.
All the Apaches might come in and live on the lands that the Government
was giving them. They should have plenty to eat, and the white men who
interfered should be punished.

When he returned to the post he acted much satisfied. He arranged to
have a regular reservation set off, and said that an agent and teacher
would be appointed, by the Society of Friends. Soon he left, with his
escort, to continue his tour.

While nobody might doubt that Mr. Colyer was a very good and honest
man, nobody put much faith in his methods. After having fought and
raided all summer, many of the wild Apaches would be only too willing
to be fed and protected upon the reservations, all winter.

Now the Indians of Arizona seemed to be provided for――except that
Commissioner Colyer had not been able to find any Chiricahuas. He had
sent word to them, but they had hidden from him. And when in western
New Mexico he had stopped at the Cañada Alamosa, or Cottonwood Canyon,
where Chief Victorio’s friendly Mimbres and Warm Spring Apaches were
living, the most of them had run from his soldier escort. They liked
their Cottonwood Canyon, and feared that they were to be removed.




VII

JIMMIE TAKES A LESSON


“Micky Free!”

Jimmie almost shouted it, he was so astonished. He was again at the
post, on an errand for Joe Felmer, after Commissioner Colyer had been
gone about a week; and who should come trotting across the hot gravelly
parade ground but Micky Free himself, in single file with two strange
Indians!

Micky’s one quick eye sighted Jimmie, standing agape, and he fell out
of line and pattered over, grinning.

“How do you do, Boy-who-sleeps?” he said, in Apache.

“How do you do, Red-head?” answered Jimmie. “I am glad to see you.”

Micky wore a loose, whitish cotton shirt with its tails outside ragged
cotton trousers, and on his feet Apache moccasins. A white cloth band
was around his red head, his one blue eye beamed alertly, and his
freckled face was streaked with perspiration and dust. All that he
carried was an Apache fiddle made from a bent rib of a yucca, strung
with deer sinews.

The two Indians with him were stripped to breech-clout aprons, and
moccasins, and red flannel head-bands; one of them had rawhide shield
and long lance, the other, bow and quiver. They had continued on and
now had been stopped before the adjutant’s office by the orderly.

“Let us sit down and talk, Cheemie,” laughed Micky.

So he and Jimmie squatted.

“What are you doing, Micky?”

“I have come over from Camp Apache with two White Mountain runners.
They bring messages from that fort to this one. We came through in one
day and two nights. It is more than one hundred miles. Have you heard
the news, Cheemie?”

“What news, Micky?”

“Cochise says he wants peace. He has gone on the Ojo Caliente (Warm
Spring) place, in the Cañada Alamosa, where Chief Victorio is.”

“How do you know?” exclaimed Jimmie. This was great news.

“I got it from Maria Jilda, the Mexican who was captured when you were
captured. He came up to Camp Apache from the Apache Pass where Camp
Bowie is. He escaped from the Chiricahua, and now he is an interpreter
at Camp Bowie. Yes, Cheemie; Cochise and Geronimo and all that band
have gone to live with their brothers the Warm Springs and the
Mimbreños at the Cañada Alamosa on the Rio Grande River in New Mexico.
But,” added Micky, wisely, “they will not stay.”

“Don’t they want peace?” queried Jimmie. “Did they listen to the words
of the white peace man?”

“That white peace man in the black clothes?” demanded Micky scornfully.
“No. The Apaches laugh at that white peace man. It is easy to lie to
him. The wild Apache think he promises so much because the Americans
are afraid of them. The Cochise people are hungry and winter is near
and the soldiers have been fighting them hard. They hear that Victorio
is being fed and has plenty of clothes and guns. They can rest there
until they are ready to take the trail again. What are you doing,
Cheemie? Do you like the new American general? I saw him shoot that
Tonto. He is a good shot. Afterwards I found the Tonto. He was dead.
Then I went to the White Mountains, at Camp Apache.”

“I am living with Joe Felmer, on his ranch. He is a scout, and he works
at the post, too,” informed Jimmie. “The general sent me home, but
he told me to learn all the soldier ways I could, and not to forget
Apache talk. If I’m not old enough to be a scout, I can help with the
pack-trains.”

“I shall be a scout,” nodded Micky. “That is why I have come out with
the runners: to learn the country. He is a great general, that man
Crook. Chief Pedro and old Miguel liked his talk. It is true that if
some of the Apaches stay bad, the good Apaches will suffer by it. They
will be watched closely and cannot do things they would do if all the
Apaches were trusted. So Chief Pedro and the White Mountains will
help the new general who talks straight. It is this way, Cheemie――I
have heard Pedro and old Miguel and Pi-to-ne and all, say so: As long
as there are any wild Chiricahua and Tonto, there will be trouble
between the red men and the white men, in Arizona. We must kill the
bad Apaches. Then the good Apaches can live at peace and get rich. In
the spring the new general must begin to fight, because by then the
Chiricahua will be rested up.”

The two Apache runners or dispatch-bearers came back from the
adjutant’s office. Their names, as told by Micky, were Alchisé
(Alchisay) and Nah-kay-do-klunni. They both were Sierra Blanca――White
Mountain Apaches. They and Micky were taken by Antonio Besias the
interpreter to be given coffee and bread; and as there was nothing more
to be said, Jimmie went about his own business. He knew that he would
see Micky Free again, somewhere. Micky was that kind.

Although Chief Cochise and War-Captain Geronimo had moved with their
band of Chiricahuas upon the Cottonwood Canyon reservation near Fort
Craig in southwestern New Mexico, and Commissioner Colyer had been so
confident that all _his_ Indians were about to gather upon _their_
reservations, the white people of Arizona had no faith in this peace
policy.

Almost every copy of the Tucson _Citizen_ and the Prescott _Miner_
received by Joe Felmer or at Camp Grant contained accounts of Apache
attacks upon settlers and miners and soldiers, by the Tontos and the
Apache-Mohaves, and the Chiricahuas raiding up from Mexico.

The _Miner_ published a list of three hundred Americans and Mexicans
who had been killed by the Apaches from 1864 to the present time,
October 14, 1871.

Toward the end of November the worst news yet, arrived. A band of
“Colyer’s babes,” thought to be Apache-Mohaves, had attacked the stage
near Wickenburg, south of Prescott, and murdered the driver and five
passengers. Three of these passengers were members of the Government
surveying expedition which, under Lieutenant George Wheeler, of the
U. S. Engineers, had been exploring through Nevada and Arizona,
getting facts upon the mines and the country. The name of one was
Fred Loring――a well-educated, especially fine young surveyor, from
Washington.

This attack, said the papers, ought to convince the Government that the
Apaches of Arizona were far from “civilized.” These very Indians had
been living “peaceably” upon one of Commissioner Colyer’s tracts, where
they were protected.

Lieutenant Wheeler and his main party commanded by Lieutenant David
A. Lyle of the Second Artillery, with an escort of the Third Cavalry
(Company I), supplied by the Department of California, rode into Camp
Grant only a few days after the word of the Wickenburg Massacre had
been received.

They were on their way from Camp Apache to Tucson; had been exploring
since the middle of May, and were pretty well worn out. They had found
many of the Indians met to be rude and insolent, but――――

“No, they never attacked us,” said Lieutenant Lyle. “And now, to think
that they’ve killed poor Loring, when he was all through and was going
home! He had his hair cut very short, on his road out, and laughed when
he claimed that the Apaches would never be able to take _his_ scalp.”

“One drop of that fine young man’s blood was worth more to the United
States than the whole Apache race is,” declared Lieutenant Wheeler. “In
my opinion, the peace policy of forbidding a military campaign that
shall drive the Apaches in upon the reservations is encouraging them
to commit such outrages. The Indian question in Arizona will never be
settled until the campaigns of an energetic officer shall thoroughly
whip and subdue them.”

“And Crook’s that man,” asserted Chief Packer Tom Moore, who was over
from Fort Whipple, on a trip around to inspect pack-train outfits.
“We’ve had other gen’rals in Arizony. Some of ’em did too much――took
ev’ry scalp they could ketch. Some of ’em did too little――reg’lar
coffee-coolers. But this Gen’ral Crook, gentlemen, he’s goin’ to know
for himself whether a ’Pache’s good or bad. The good ones he’ll treat
square, and the bad ones he’ll trail down till he has their tongues
hangin’ out. Now he’s just lyin’ low, till the Government’s got plumb
sick o’ these ‘Colyer’s babes,’ and he has orders. If I don’t miss
my guess, next spring the Arizony hills’ll be full o’ soldiers and
pack-trains, and tame ’Paches fightin’ wild ’Paches, and Crook bossin’
us all from the saddle.”

Tom Moore and others from Fort Whipple brought word that General
Crook kept very active. He seemed to have no idea of resting. He was
constantly traveling, by mule and buck-board wagon, over the roads and
trails of northern Arizona, learning them as he had learned the trails
of southern Arizona. Usually he traveled with only Lieutenant Bourke,
who was his aide-de-camp, and a cook and a packer, for he did not wish
to use officers and men who should be ready for scouting expeditions.
He issued orders that the pack-train outfits should be prepared at
top notch. It was plain to be seen that he expected to go upon a hard
campaign as soon as the Peace Policy had been tried and had failed.

Jimmie decided that his best chance of taking the trail with this
active General Crook lay with the pack-trains; even a boy might be
useful in the pack-trains; he could catch mules and pull on ropes and
help the cook――and if he spoke Apache, like Jimmie did, and knew lots
of Apache tricks, he might be valuable as an interpreter, sometimes.
Besides, Joe Felmer was a scout and a horse-shoer both, and he surely
would be ordered out. Jimmie intended not to be left at home.

Luckily, he had plenty of opportunity this fall and winter to learn
pack-train wrinkles. For the practice that it gave the men, as well as
because it was the better method, the general distributed the supplies
to all the posts by means of pack-mules.

Before he had assumed command, the supplies out of Tucson and Prescott
had been hauled largely by wagons in charge of “bull whackers” and
“mule skinners,” and operated by civilian contractors, who made
freighting their business. Of course, pack-mules had been necessary,
too, with scouting columns and between out-of-the-way posts; and the
miners, and the Mexican merchants and traders from Sonora of Mexico,
employed pack-mules.

But in his campaigns against the Indians, in Idaho and Oregon and
Northern California, the general had depended entirely upon pack-mule
trains, which kept right up with the marches, no matter how rough the
country, and were always on hand. According to the say of old Jack
Long, “he had got pack-mule wise.” He had persuaded the War Department
to buy three full pack-trains from their civilian owners who had hired
them out to the Government; and these he had brought to Arizona with
him.

“He’s the daddy o’ the army mule, I reckon,” again declared Jack. “Yes,
siree! Those thar mules ain’t nary sore-backed Sonora rats, an’ they
ain’t bags o’ bones so high up you have to use a ladder to put a pack
on with. They’re picked stock; an’ every other mule’s got to measure up
to same standard. Gosh durn it, I b’lieve the gin’ral thinks as much of
his mules as he does of his men! He looks as close arter glanders as he
does arter measles!”

However, the general looked after the men pretty close, too. The
packers themselves had to measure up to standard. Those who were
drunken, or lazy, or cruel to the mules, were discharged, and better
men enlisted. Henceforward the pack-train service was to be known as
“Pack Transportation, Q. M. D. (Quartermaster’s Department), U. S.
Army,” and to belong to it would be an honor.

Yes, a responsibility, also; for as old Jack explained: “When you get
up in the mountings ’mongst the ’Paches, an’ you’re out o’ ammunition
an’ the pack-train’s got busted somewhars in the next county, then
what’s your scalp wuth? Nothin’!”

Jimmie might think himself lucky in having old Jack Long at Camp Grant,
to give him pointers. Joe Felmer was a scout and rancher; he did not
claim to be an expert mule packer. But old Jack had been a Forty-niner
in California, and had mined and packed all through California and
Oregon and Idaho and Nevada and Arizona. So he knew a great deal.

Jack had had two wives, one a Modoc squaw and one a white woman; and
once he had “struck it rich,” in California, and had been almost a
millionaire until he had spent his money. Lately he had been living in
Tucson, freighting and prospecting. There he had “j’ined Gin’ral Crook
ag’in the ’Paches.”

Now Chief Packer Tom Moore had appointed him to be a pack-master. The
chief packer had charge of all the pack-trains, and each pack-train was
in charge of its pack-master.

“Want to j’ine the pack trains, do ye?” queried old Jack, of Jimmie.
“Wall, if you’re goin’ to l’arn, you oughter l’arn right, an’ some day
mebbe you’ll be in the Fust-class Packer ratin’. Mebbe you’ll get to
be as big a man as I am. ’Tain’t all in throwin’ the diamond; anybody
can l’arn to throw the diamond hitch. But you got to know the why an’
wharfore o’ things. Come along to the corral an’ I’ll show ye.”

So Jimmie gladly followed Jack to the post mule-corral.

“Hey, thar, _amigo_ (friend)!” summoned old Jack, to Chileno John, who
was at work among the mules. “_Ven’ aqui_ (Come here). Fetch out one o’
yore bell sharps. Hyar’s a _muchacho_ (boy) who wants to l’arn to be an
_arriero_ (muleteer).”

Smiling broadly, swarthy Chileno John (who was supposed to have
worked in the mines of Chile) led aside a sedate, round-bellied,
mouse-colored mule, and lugged the pack material for her into position.

“That thar,” said Jack, “is a bell sharp. If you don’t know what a
bell sharp is, I’ll tell ye. A bell sharp is a pack-mule that’s been
eddicated into mule sense, so she keeps her place in line, an’ doesn’t
stray on herd, an’ comes in to her own feed canvas at feedin’ time.
When she ain’t a ‘bell sharp’ she’s a pesky ‘shave-tail.’ As long as a
mule hasn’t got sense an’ is alluz rampagin’ an’ makin’ trouble we jest
natter’ly roach her mane an’ keep her tail trimmed to about six ha’rs
on the end so’s to pick her out of a bunch at fust sight. Same way,”
grumbled old Jack, “’mongst these hyar army officers. That thar sprig
young Left’nant Stewart, fresh out o’ West Point, who doesn’t know
any better yet’n to climb a cactus tree, he’s a ‘shave tail’; but old
Cap Tommy Byrne, up ’mongst the Hualpais near the Canyon, he’s a sure
’nough ‘bell sharp’ who knows when to come in to his feed.”

Jimmie had not seen Captain Thomas Byrne, a grizzled Civil War veteran
who, reports stated, was regarded as a “father” by the Hualpai Indians
on the Beale Springs reservation near the Grand Canyon. But he felt
pretty well acquainted with Second Lieutenant Reid T. Stewart, the
slim-waisted, boyish, eager young officer who had graduated from the
Military Academy only last June and had been assigned to the Fifth
Cavalry in Arizona. He was stationed down at Camp Lowell, Tucson, and
Jimmie had got acquainted with him there and here at Grant, also. He
might be a “shave tail,” yet, according to Jack, but he was much more
pleasant than some of those crusty old “bell sharps.”

“What’s General Crook, then?” queried Jimmie, to get Jack’s opinion.

“The gin’ral. See hyar, me son,” reproved Jack severely: “no levity.
The gin’ral’s the old bell hoss o’ the hull outfit. Wall,” continued
Jack, “fust, one of us blinds the critter with a bandage o’ sackin’ or
with one o’ those leather contraptions the gin’ral’s interduced, so
she’ll stand. Then havin’ got all the riggin’ to hand, we lay on this
sweat-cloth, for which proper name is _suadera_, an’ a saddle-blanket
or two for more paddin’, ’less we have a reg’lar _corona_, the same
bein’ the blankets an’ the _suadera_ stitched together. Then atop that
we fold the bed blanket that we got to sleep under at camp. Then we
h’ist on the _aparejo_――this-a-way, easy――an’ settle it, an’ pass the
_grupera_ back.”

The _aparejo_ (ah-pah-ray-ho) was the pack-saddle――a long, broad
mattress of canvas stuffed with hay, and stiffened with ribs of willow
stems running up and down, in either half. It was broken in the middle,
so that it would fit over the mule’s back.

The _grupera_ (gru-pay-rah) was the crupper――a broad canvas and leather
band that extended in a loop around the mule’s haunches under her tail,
so that the _aparejo_ could not slip forward.

“Then we lay the _aparejo cincha_ so to hang acrost the middle, pass
the ring end under her belly, connect up with the _latigo_ strap and
all together draw tighter’n sin so’s to hold the aparejo in place.”

The _aparejo cincha_ was another canvas band, like a woven saddle-cinch.
It was long enough to reach across under the mule’s belly. One end
terminated in a ring and the other end in a leather strap, the _latigo_;
and by connecting the ring and strap the cincha was drawn tight.

“You have omitted to explain this, Señor Jack,” reminded Chileno John,
resting a sinewy brown hand upon the pack-saddle or aparejo; and he
lifted the flap that hung down on either side.

“That thar soldier hammer?” grunted Jack. “Wall, me son, every aparejo
has a duck kivver attached to its middle, so’s to protect it from bein’
cut by the ropes――an’ from weather, too. It’s got a wooden brace sewed
in leather ’crost each end, yuh understan’, to stiffen it whar the
cincha lays, so’s it won’t wrinkle ag’in the mule’s hide.”

“_Sobre-en-jalmas_ is the correct name, muchacho,” said Chileno John,
to Jimmie, with some dignity――for Chileno John took great pride in
the Spanish language. “It is a very old name, descended to us from
the ancient Moors of Spain. Sobre-en-jalmas――cover for harness. The
first two words are Spanish, and the last word is Arabian. But these
Americanos――――!” And Chileno John shrugged his shoulders. “They do not
know.”

“Wall, ‘soldier hammer,’ ‘sovrin hammer,’ or ‘Sullivan hammer,’ it’s
all the same,” grunted old Jack. “Plain ‘aparejo cover’ is good
enough.” And thus he disposed of the historic sobre-en-jalmas, which,
pronounced rapidly sobr’-’n-halma did indeed sound like some kind of
a ‘hammer.’ “After the pack saddle, ’long with its sovrin hammer, is
cinched on, then we h’ist on the packs an’ sling ’em an’ fasten ’em
with the diamond hitch,” he resumed. “But as we haven’t got nary packs,
the fust lesson stops right hyar, me son. Now you remember what I’m
tellin’ you, l’arn mules and pack-ways, an’ jump when you’re spoken to,
so you won’t be a drag tail.”

“What’s a ‘drag tail,’ Jack?”

“A drag tail, me son, is wuss’n a shave tail. A drag tail is a durned
lazy mule who’s alluz hangin’ back on the trail, an’ a no-’count packer
who’s alluz late on his job. Savvy?”




VIII

THE ONE-ARMED GENERAL TRIES


“Hey! Cochise is out again!”

It was a spring day of this next year, 1872, and in the ranch yard
on the Joe Felmer place Jimmie and his assistant, little Francisco
Vasquez, were practicing pack-train.

Jimmie was the pack-master, little Francisco (a Mexican boy) was
arriero or muleteer; the train was composed of Shosh (Bear), a big
black shepherd dog, Pete, a yellow hound dog, and Two-bits, just dog.

Shosh already had learned to carry a pack and pack-rigging, dog size.
He was a real “bell sharp.” Two-bits was still an unruly “shave tail,”
and the yellow Pete was so lazy that he ranked as only a “drag tail.”
But they furnished good practice for Jimmie.

Now Joe, returning from a trip down to Tucson, brought startling news.
Cochise was “out” again! Even little Francisco looked alarmed.

“Are all the Chiricahua out, Joe?”

“Cochise an’ Geronimo an’ nigh two hundred more of ’em. That pesky
Colyer man on his way back to the States got the Government to move all
the ’Paches from whar they were comf’table in the Warm Spring country
to another part o’ the New Mexico country called the Tularosa; an’,
by jinks, Cochise said he wouldn’t go――an’ he didn’t go! He took his
Chiricahua an’ lit out for his old stampin’-ground in Arizony. So the
word’s been passed to watch for trouble.”

Joe stalked on, muttering, to carry some purchases into the house.
Jimmie the pack-master and little Francisco the arriero dismissed
their pack-train and quit for the day. The knowledge that Cochise and
Geronimo and their shifty Chiricahuas had left the Cañada Alamosa
reservation, where they had been staying with Chief Victorio’s Warm
Spring band, and had joined the fighting Chiricahuas who had stayed
“wild,” cast a shadow upon foolery.

“Will the great General Crook march against them now?” asked Francisco,
his black eyes round and large.

“Who knows?” responded Jimmie, in Spanish. “There’s a new peace man
coming from Washington. Then if the Chiricahua will not listen to
peace, they will hear war. Bueno!”

“Bueno (Good)!” piped Francisco. “Will you take me, Jeem?”

“Perhaps, chico mio (my little one),” grandly promised Jimmie.

To Francisco, Jimmie was an important person, who had lived with the
Cochise Chiricahuas, and called the chief’s son “chi-kis-n” or brother,
and spoke Apache, and soon was going to be a real arriero or else a
scout, with the American soldiers.

Aside from a few scouting expeditions, the winter at Camp Grant had
been quiet. The agency for the Arivaipas and Pinals was in operation,
at the mouth of the Arivaipa Canyon about a mile east; a Mr. Ed Jacobs
was the agent.

Nevertheless, Chief Es-kim-en-zin’s people were still afraid; they had
not forgotten the attack by the Tucson crowd. They came in around the
agency buildings every day, but every evening they went back up into
the canyon, where they might defend themselves.

The Peace Policy and the visit by Commissioner Colyer had not proved
an entire success. A great many Indians were still out. The Arizona
newspapers insisted that as long as General Crook was forbidden to
drive the outlaw Indians from their hiding-places, the bad hearts who
were simply using the reservations would feel that they might do as
they pleased, also.

There had been attacks upon ranches and mines and stage stations in
south and north both; the legislature had called upon Congress for
better protection to Arizona; and General Crook was all ready. He was
only waiting.

“I think that the Apache is painted in darker colors than he deserves,
and that his villainies arise more from a misconception of facts than
from his being worse than other Indians,” had reported the general,
after studying the situation. And he had added: “I am satisfied that a
sharp, active campaign against him would not only make him one of the
best Indians in the country, but it would also save millions of dollars
to the Treasury, and the lives of many innocent whites and Indians.”

The Indians on the reservations were complaining of food and slack
treatment; in New Mexico Chief Victorio of the Warm Springs and Chief
Cochise of the Chiricahuas had refused to be changed from the Cañada
Alamosa; so the Government was sending out another peace commissioner.
Brevet Major-General O. O. Howard, to try to satisfy everybody.

He was to make especial effort to talk with Cochise, who so far
had declined to talk at all. Cochise and Geronimo had claimed that
they were willing to live with Chief Victorio on the Warm Spring
reservation, but they had run away from Mr. Colyer, in fear of the
soldiers. They rarely went near the army post, there, Fort Craig, and
orders had been given that the soldiery should leave them alone, so
that they would continue peaceful and contented, among the Warm Springs.

The President had hoped that Cochise would talk with General Howard,
who was a great chief like himself. Now Cochise was “out” again!

“As far as I can savvy the trouble, that Colyer man has spilled the
soup,” complained Joe, this evening after his return from Tucson. “Some
o’ these agencies are located in awful pore places, not fitted for the
Injuns at all――like that Date Creek reservation whar the Apache-Mohaves
are herded. But that Cañada Alamosa of the Ojo Caliente (Warm Spring)
country jest suited old Victorio, an’ Cochise, too, an’ they weren’t
doin’ any harm.

“Now ’long comes Colyer, an’ he says to the Government: ‘The settlers
’round the Cañada Alamosa don’t like to have the Injuns thar. It’s
good cattle ground, an’ they want it for themselves. So to avoid hard
feelin’s I recommend we move the Injuns all up yonder to the Tularosa
country, which nobody wants!’

“Natur’ly, bein’ as the same Injuns had been promised the Cañada
Alamosa if they’d live on it, an’ thar’s plenty other land for the
settlers, they see no good reason for swappin’. They say that up at the
Tularosa the weather an’ land an’ water are as bad for Injuns as for
white men, an’ it’s ghost country. I tell ye,” concluded Joe, “when you
make an agreement with an Injun you got to stand by it, or he’ll never
believe in you ag’in. You can’t fool him, or he’ll fool _you_! I’m
curyus to see what kind of a man this Gen’ral Howard is.”

Jimmie, too, was “curyrus” to see this General O. O. Howard, who was
visiting the peaceful Yumas and Pimas in western Arizona and was
expected, any day, at Tucson. His next stop probably would be Camp
Grant itself, so that he might talk with the Pinals and Arivaipas.

Veteran Sergeant Warfield, who had served under the general in the
Union Army, at Antietam and Gettysburg and in other big battles, said
that he was a great man, had commanded as high as thirty thousand
soldiers, in the field; had lost his right arm, by two wounds, at the
battle of Fair Oaks; was a hard fighter and was very religious――knew
the Bible by heart and almost had resigned from the army to go into
“preaching.”

“But let me tell you this,” added the grizzled sergeant, to Jimmie:
“Arizony’ll find out that General Howard’s a man who’ll see that right
is done to both white and red. He’s got a heap of sense, and he’s as
square as a piece of hard-tack.”

“A great American soldier chief is coming to talk with the Arivaipa,”
informed Jimmie, to old Santos, at the reservation.

“What does he want?” demanded Santos, in Apache.

“He wants to make peace with all the Indians.”

“What good is peace?” retorted Santos. “The Arivaipa asked for peace,
and the white people and the Papagos killed our women and stole our
children. We are still at peace, but none of our women and children
have come back, and we are hungry. We would have done better to fight
like the Chiricahua and the Tonto.”

In a few days, or early in May, General Howard did indeed appear at
Camp Grant. He was traveling in a six-mule army ambulance, with an
escort of cavalry from post to post. Colonel Crittenden and staff rode
out a short distance to meet him. The four companies of Fifth Cavalry
and Twenty-third Infantry were drawn up, to receive him; their worn
uniforms brushed and every button and buckle polished.

General Howard certainly looked like a fine, soldierly officer. He was
as tall as, and rather heavier than General Crook; with full brown
beard and handsome, lion-like countenance; in dusty campaign hat, and
double-breasted blue coat with two rows of brass buttons down the
front, and shoulder-straps bearing the single star each of a brigadier
general (which was his regular rank), and with an empty right sleeve
pinned to his sword belt.

“Yep, I jedge he’s all right,” announced the ambulance driver, to an
inquiring group of soldiers and scouts, after the parade had been
dismissed. The driver was a lean, lank, exceedingly solemn man who
could not be induced to smile. “Only thing I have against him is his
callin’ me ‘Dismal Jeems’――him an’ his aide Cap’n Wilkinson. I dunno
why. All the way over from Fort Yumy I’ve tried my best to cheer ’em
up. I told ’em about every massacree along the hull road; told ’em
we were liable to be scalped, any mile; told ’em all the cheerfulest
things I could think of. But somehow I didn’t make a hit. The gen’ral’s
powerful pious, too――holdin’ prayer-meetin’ on Sunday an’ readin’ his
Bible whenever he has a chance.

“But the Yumas an’ Pimas cottoned to him, an’ down at Tucson the people
liked him fust-rate. The Pimas an’ Papagos have promised to come in to
a council with the Arivaipas here next week, an’ the Mexicans who have
the Arivaipa kids have promised to fetch ’em, an’ I s’pose when we all
get together thar’ll be a grand killin’ match. But I’m a cheerful man
an’ alluz aim to look on the bright side o’ things.”

With that, “Dismal Jeems” drew a more melancholy face than before,
sighed heavily, and slouched away to rub down his sweaty mules.

General Howard was not here to stay long, this time. He spent most of
one day at the agency; then he left for Fort Whipple, to confer with
General Crook. But he was coming back; he had set May 21 as the date
for the big peace council.

“What do you think of the soldier chief, Santos?” asked Jimmie. Old
Santos, ex-chief, usually was to be found sitting in the sun, on the
bench in front of the agency store. He did not live in the hills with
Es-kim-en-zin.

“The soldier chief is a good man. He pointed to the sky and said: ‘I
have a Father up there. So have you. There is only one Father. Your
Father and my Father are the same. So you and I are brothers.’ That
was a wise speech. We shook hands, and we are brothers. I am glad. His
words tell me that he is a wise chief, and his sleeve tells me that he
is a great warrior. Now I trust him, because he thinks as I do.”

The council was held at the mouth of the Arivaipa Canyon, exactly as
General Howard had planned.

From their agency one hundred miles west, on the Gila River, the Pimas
came on time――twenty of them, with their teacher, the Reverend Mr.
Cook, and their interpreter, named Louis.

From their agency at Camp Verde, fifty miles west, some Tontos came;
and some Apache-Mohaves, from their agency at Date Creek, southwest of
Prescott; and a company of Papagos, from their homes south of Tucson.

From Tucson itself there came a large delegation of Americans and
Mexicans, headed by Governor A. P. K. Safford and the district
attorney. Many of the Mexicans were women, bringing the Arivaipa and
Pinal children whom they had adopted after the massacre.

The Pimas and the Papagos had long been enemies of the Apaches, so they
stayed together. The Tontos and the Apache-Mohaves had been enemies
of everybody, so they stayed together. The Mexicans had been enemies
of the Tontos and the Apache-Mohaves and the Arivaipas and Pinals, so
they stayed together. The Americans――the Tucson citizens and the scouts
and ranchers――were ready to back up the guard of soldiers, in case of
trouble. But General Howard’s purpose was to make peace between all the
peoples of the Southwest.

“Will there be a fight, you think, Jeem?” inquired little Francisco.
He and Jimmie had ridden over early on one of the ranch mules, to see
and hear whatever might happen. “The Arivaipa will fight to get their
children, and the Pima will fight the Tonto, and the soldiers will
shoot; won’t they, Jeem?”

“Who knows?” replied Jimmie. “No, they won’t!” he quickly added. “It is
all right, chico. Here comes General Howard. And see who is with him!
That is General Crook! Hooray!”

“Hooray!” echoed Francisco, who always tried to do what Jimmie did.

For with its six mules at a gallop, and with General Howard upon the
seat beside “Dismal Jeems,” the army ambulance had swung into the
pretty green valley along the Arivaipa Creek. Behind the ambulance
followed, in the road, a cavalcade of officers on horses and mules. The
first two were Colonel Crittenden of Camp Grant, and a sinewy, powerful
man, in a brown canvas suit, on a mule. General Crook himself!

He had come over with General Howard from Fort Whipple. So had
Lieutenant Bourke, and Lieutenant Ross, and Lieutenant George Bacon of
the First Cavalry, and others of Jimmie’s old-time officer friends.

General Howard and party climbed out of the ambulance; the other
officers left their mounts with the orderlies; and all crossed to the
stools and benches reserved for the “chiefs,” on the sod in the center
of the waiting circle.

“No Es-kim-en-zin yet,” whispered little Francisco. “They stay away. I
am afraid, Jeem.”

That was true. Only old short-legged Santos and a handful of decrepid
men and squaws were here; Chief Es-kim-en-zin and his warriors had not
appeared. General Howard and General Crook and Colonel Crittenden sat,
waiting. So did the governor and the district attorney. So did the Pima
and Papago and Apache-Mohave chiefs. Everybody waited. Agent Jacobs
plainly was worried, but it would not do to show any sign of impatience.

“Dismal Jeems,” the ambulance driver from Fort Yuma, circulated about,
wagging his head and prophesying that nobody would leave the spot
alive! Yes, a cheerful man was “Dismal Jeems.”

In about an hour, there was a sudden murmur of interest. From the mouth
of the Arivaipa Canyon emerged Chief Es-kim-en-zin, leading his band of
Arivaipas and Pinals. They were in their best paint, and advanced with
much dignity to the place assigned to them. Now the circle was complete.

For fifteen minutes no one spoke. General Howard evidently understood
that it was not proper to hurry a council. Presently he arose, and
through Concepcion Equierre the interpreter, who spoke English as well
as he did Spanish and Apache, invited the Arivaipa-Pinals to make a
talk.

Es-kim-en-zin was first. He made a very poor talk, because he
stammered, but he spoke thoroughly in earnest, and so did others of his
band. They wanted their children back again.

The Mexicans who now had the children were invited to reply. They said
that the children were being well brought up, as Christians; they loved
them and did not wish to return them to Indian life.

The governor and the district attorney spoke. They said that it was
better for Arizona and for the children to have the children brought up
in civilization. The district attorney added that most of the children
were orphans, and that therefore the Territory of Arizona was their
guardian. Their own people were unable to bring them up properly.

Es-kim-en-zin and his old men answered that it was true that many
mothers and fathers had been killed; but the Arivaipa people wept for
the little boys and girls who had been stolen from them, and would work
hard to take good care of the children of their race.

All the speeches in English and Apache were translated into Apache and
English by Concepcion Equierre, the agency interpreter; and again into
Spanish so that the Mexicans and the Papagos and Pimas might understand
what was going on.

That evening the Es-kim-en-zin Arivaipa-Pinals went back, six miles, up
into their canyon. The other delegations camped in the valley bottom
around the agency.

Jimmie and Francisco, on their mule, rode home with Joe Felmer.

“It’s goin’ to be nip an’ tuck,” asserted Joe. “As I understand,
Gen’ral Crook he agrees with the gov’ner an’ deestrict attorney that
the children are better off as they’re livin’ now. It may mean less
Injuns to fight, later. On the other hand, I heard that teacher-man
Cook talkin’ with his Pimas; an’ seems as though the Pimas, who are
’most like white folks an’ hate the ’Paches, too, sorter think the
kids ought to be given back to their own kin. The Papagos’ll be ag’in
it, ’cause they helped steal the children, an’ have used ’em. The
Tontos an’ Yavapais, bein’ ’Paches, will feel like the Arivaipas do.
But I have a notion Gen’ral Howard’ll find a way, so everybody’ll be
satisfied.”

It was not until the third day of the council that General Howard found
the way. Meanwhile both parties were growing angry. Chief Es-kim-en-zin
announced that he could see no good in so many long talks. The general
spent the second night among the camps, and slept on the ground there.
In the morning he made his final speech.

“The good Mr. Cook, of the Pimas, agrees with me that the children
ought to be returned to their own people,” he said. “Some of them are
being brought up as slaves and servants, and they all were carried off
by force, which is not right. But the district attorney from Tucson,
and the governor, and other honest persons, think differently, and
I should listen to their words, also. So we will take the matter to
Washington. I will appeal to my chief, who is the Secretary of the
Interior; and the district attorney may appeal to his chief, who is the
Attorney General of the United States. And these chiefs will appeal to
President Grant, who is the greatest chief of all.

“While the President is deciding, the children shall stay here at the
agency with a good Christian white woman whom I have engaged. They will
be well cared for, at government expense. Their relatives and friends
from the Arivaipas may visit them often, and their Mexican friends may
visit them often; and our Great Father at Washington shall say who may
keep them.”

A cheer started, but the district attorney sprang to his feet.

“We wish to keep the children until the President decides. We will
guarantee to do whatever he directs.”

“No guarantee is needed, from either side,” severely answered General
Howard. “Here is General Crook. With his army and his authority he will
see to it that justice is done exactly as I have outlined!”

“Good!”

“Bueno, bueno!”

“Inju!”

The word was repeated in a perfect storm of languages. The gathering
was all excitement and relief. Everybody seemed to approve of what the
general had said; that is, everybody except the district attorney and a
few scouts and ranchers who did not believe in yielding peace terms to
any Apaches whatsoever.

The Arivaipa-Pinals and the Papagos and the Pimas and the Apache-Mohaves
and the Tontos hugged one another; some of the Mexicans hugged some of
the Indians; General Crook and the officers laughed. It was a happy
solution of a serious problem.

“Kinder like a love-feast, after all, warn’t it!” remarked Joe Felmer.
“Huh! Wall, I reckon the gen’ral knows how the President’ll decide.”

Probably General Howard did, for in due time the children were given
over to the Es-kim-en-zin band, by orders from Washington, and
Es-kim-en-zin always remained at peace.

Amidst the hurly-burly of excitement Jimmie found himself close to
General Crook, who was talking earnestly with Joe Felmer and old Jack
Long. That was his style; he did not go much on red tape, but spoke
direct to officers and enlisted men alike.

Here in his travel-stained canvas suit without any mark of rank on it,
he scarcely would be taken, again, for a general commanding all the big
Territory of Arizona. He was thinner than when Jimmie had last seen
him, before; his face was lined, and he looked as though he had been
working hard, and worrying too.

His eyes, glancing aside, fell upon Jimmie, and recognized him. To
the beck of the general’s finger Jimmie stepped forward and stood at
attention.

“This is your boy, is he, Felmer?” The general seemed to remember
everything.

“Yessir, that’s what I call him.”

“He’s wearing rather more clothes than when I first met him,” commented
the general drily. “What are you going to make of him?”

“Wall, he’s ondecided ’twixt scout an’ packer,” drawled Joe. “He’s a
leetle small yet, but he’s growin’.”

“Yes, an’ he’ll have plenty time to grow while we’re all standin’
’round waitin’ on the Government’s Arizony pets to come in to their
feed canvas when they’re called!” grumbled old Jack. “He’s liable to
die of old age, if he ain’t sculped fust.”

“Tut, tut!” sharply reproved the general. “General Howard’s doing good
work. He’s the right man. But this is not saying that there won’t be
use for the army. As for you, my boy,” he continued, to Jimmie, “keep
on learning to the best of your ability, so that you’ll be ready for
whatever comes.”

“Yes, sir,” promised Jimmie.




IX

THE HORRID DEED OF CHUNTZ


General Crook had ridden back to Fort Whipple, on his mule “Apache,”
and General Howard had left in the ambulance driven by “Dismal Jeems,”
for Camp Apache and the White Mountain reservation.

He had another good scheme. He was collecting Indians from among the
tribes, to take them with him to Washington and the Great White Father,
that they might understand how many and powerful the white people were.

Old Santos had agreed to go, for the Arivaipas. The Pimas were sending
their teacher, the Reverend Mr. Cook, and Louis the interpreter,
and the young chief Antonito. The Papagos were sending their chief,
Ascencion. The Date Creek Apache-Mohaves or Yavapais were sending
Charlie and José.

Concepcion Equierre went from the Arivaipa agency, to translate Apache.

The general expected to get some of the Sierra Blanca or White Mountain
Apaches, at the Camp Apache reservation; and to invite the Chiricahuas,
also. He arrived safely at Camp Apache, and there added to his party
Chiefs Miguel of the one eye, Pedro and Es-ki-tis-tsla; but he failed
to find any Chiricahuas.

So he proceeded by wagon and mule, without them.

“I’d shorely like to see those Injuns’ faces when the hull party
strikes the railroad at Santy Fee!” chuckled Jack Long. “They’ll think
the Old Nick is to tow ’em with his tail up.”

For Santa Fe of New Mexico Territory was the nearest point east of Camp
Grant reached by a railroad.

“What does a railroad look like, Jeem?” queried little Francisco,
hearing the talk.

Jimmie himself had not seen a railroad for several years, but he
remembered, and he tried to explain.

“It’s two lines of iron, like wagon-wheel tracks, reaching miles and
miles, chico,” he said. “And on them roll fine wagons, joined together
and filled with people, and drawn by a――did you ever hear about boats,
chico? Those boats that sail up and down the Colorado River, and make a
big noise?”

Francisco eagerly nodded.

“My father has a brother who saw one.”

“Well, the thing that hauls the wagons is a steamboat on land. It runs
without horses; and it runs so fast that it could go from here to
Tucson, fifty-five miles, in two hours.”

Francisco crossed himself.

“I would be afraid, Jeem,” he quavered.

Poor little Francisco! He was to meet a sad fate.

But, first, June and July passed quietly at Camp Grant. From Fort
Whipple General Crook continued to keep scouting detachments and
pack-trains moving. The various posts were strengthened by troops and
supplies. The greater portion of the Fifth Cavalry was in Arizona, with
some troops of the First Cavalry, and part of the Twelfth Infantry and
of the Twenty-third Infantry――the general’s regiment. The Twenty-first
Infantry and most of the Third Cavalry had gone out.

The general was getting ready. According to the officers of the Fifth
Cavalry and the Twenty-third Infantry at Camp Grant, the President
had resolved that if the Peace Policy in Arizona did not persuade the
Indians to settle down within a year, General Crook should be ordered
to take matters over.

The year would be up this September.

Then, in August, things “broke wide open,” as Joe Felmer expressed it.

General Crook just escaped being assassinated by the Yavapais at Date
Creek, where he had gone for a talk. He had angered them by arresting
several of them for the murder of Engineer Loring and others, in the
Wickenburg stage massacre. He had been told that they were planning to
kill him, but he went anyway.

They did try to shoot him, in the council. Lieutenant Ross knocked up
the arm of the Indian who fired first, there was an all-round tussle,
Hank Hewitt the packer seized one Indian by both ears and broke his
head against a rock, a part of the Yavapais were killed or imprisoned,
and the rest fought their way into the mountains.

The Tonto Basin Apaches――Tontos and Yavapais both――were attacking
ranches and mines south of Prescott. Their worst chiefs were Chuntz,
and Delt-che (Delt-shay) or Red Ant (the Yavapais were known as Red Ant
people), and Cha-li-pun, the Buckskin-colored Hat.

And on the road only thirty miles south of Tucson the Chiricahuas
killed gallant young Lieutenant Reid Stewart, the “shave tail” who had
been out of West Point two months, and Corporal Black, while the two
were riding in a buck-board wagon up from Fort Crittenden, for Tucson.

“An’ I hear now they’ve got Bob Whitney, at last,” one day reported Joe
Felmer, on return from Tucson. “Yep; shot out his brains while he an’
Cap’n Gerald Russell o’ the Third were waterin’ their hosses in the
place called Cochise’s Stronghold of the Dragoon Mountains, between
Tucson an’ Bowie.”

Bob Whitney had been known as the handsomest guide and scout in Arizona.

“Anyhow,” pursued Joe, “this sort o’ thing won’t hang over, long. They
told me at Lowell (Camp Lowell, near Tucson, he meant) that orders have
been received from headquarters to be ready to take the trail on short
notice, an’ that the old man (who was General Crook) is puttin’ on his
war-paint and havin’ that mule ’Pache, o’ his, re-shod, four squar’.”

At the instant, while Joe was speaking in the ranch yard, a sudden high
chorus of shrill grief sounded, down the road to Camp Grant. Up the
course of the sandy San Pedro Valley wended a slow little procession,
of men and women afoot and on mules.

The grief immediately spread to the ranch, where the Mexican women
began to run wildly, and shriek, and tear their hair. Mrs. Vasquez, who
was Francisco’s mother, rushed by, to meet the procession.

“Mi niño! Ay, mi niño!” she wailed. “My little boy! Oh, my little boy!”

How did she know? Joe Felmer gaped, puzzled; and a cold fear seized
Jimmie’s thumping heart.

Upon the seat of a two-wheeled, creaking cart in the midst of the
procession Francisco’s father, Domingo Vasquez, was sitting and holding
in his arms something wrapped in a blanket. He held it very tightly.

Yes, it was poor little Francisco, killed by an Apache lance-thrust.
Joe Felmer scarcely could get the story, amid all that shrieking and
confusion; but finally he and Jimmie learned from Domingo what had
happened.

“I take him with me in my cart to Camp Grant this morning,” said
Domingo, in Mexican-Spanish, “while I cut wood along the Arivaipa, for
the fort. He visits with people I know, and I do not see him. When I
go to the fort to get him and come home, he is not there. They say he
has left to find me. We hunt a long time, and we call, and he does
not answer. And then, next, they tell me he is found, and I see them
bringing him. Just a little way off the trail up the Arivaipa from the
fort somebody had found him, behind a cactus there; and he was dead by
an Apache lance. Why should anybody kill my little boy――my niño, my
muchachito!――my little Francisco who never harmed?”

Why, indeed? Francisco was only a gay, innocent little Mexican boy,
alone, and too young to be an enemy. The murder had been done at a turn
of the trail within rifle-shot from the fort. A party of Chief Chuntz’s
Tontos and Yavapais had been sneaking around the post and the agency,
pretending that they were ready to come in. Old Santos insisted that
the murderer was a Chuntz warrior, if not Chuntz himself.

Santos was home again, after his trip east with General Howard. He was
filled with admiration of the ways of the white people. The general
had given him a New Testament, which he could not read, of course, but
which he placed under his head, every night, when he slept.

“Chuntz is bad,” sympathized Santos, to Jimmie. “He is bad and so are
his men. All those Tonto and Yavapai are bad at heart. To kill a boy
is not Christian. The only way to make those Tonto and Yavapai good is
to hunt them down. Cluke, the man with the brown clothes, must go out
after them, and after the Chiricahua, too. I have told the Arivaipa
what I have seen among the white men. The white men are many and very
rich, and we will live like them if they do not try to make us believe
that the earth is round. General Howard started to tell me that the
earth is round, but I answered that he and I are too great chiefs, to
be such fools as that!”

Little Francisco was laid away at the ranch. For some time Jimmie felt
sad and lonely. Francisco had been his chum. The end was cruel and
horrible.

So he was mighty glad when Joe sent him out with old Jack Long, to help
take a pack-train and bunch of cavalry horses clear to Camp Bowie, by
way of Tucson.

“An’, b’gosh, you’d better hustle back,” warned Joe. “That Chuntz is
a-goin’ to be made to pay for his boy killin’, as soon as thar’s snow
on the peaks. The old man’s only waitin’ till winter sets in.”

It seemed high time that something was done. In the past twelve months
of Peace Policy over forty Americans and Mexicans of Arizona had been
killed by the Apaches, sixteen wounded, and five hundred and fifty
cattle stolen.




X

ON THE TRAIL WITH THE PACK-TRAIN


John Cahill, the new blacksmith at Grant, went; but Joe had been
appointed a scout, and stayed at home.

Tucson, only fifty-five miles south, was easily made in two days, for
the loose horses and the Grant pack-mules traveled light. But Camp
Bowie, at the Apache Pass in the Chiricahua Mountains, was one hundred
and ten miles east from Tucson and Camp Lowell. That meant a real march
with thirty loaded mules, and a hundred remount cavalry horses, and the
cavalry escort commanded by Lieutenant Jacob Almy, and a riding-mule
for each man of the pack-train.

The packs were chiefly ammunition. Each mule carried three hundred
pounds.

“We’ll jest see what we can do, boys,” said Jack. “Regulations try to
make us think that a hundred and seventy pounds is all a mule’ll stand;
but the gin’ral knows more’n ary regulations issued by those folks
at Washington. I wouldn’t insult a good sound mule by puttin’ only a
hundred seventy on his back――not if he’s packed right. Pack him right,
so the load slings even, an’ he’ll carry his two hundred fifty an’
three hundred pounds at five miles an hour for twenty-five an’ thirty
miles a day, week in an’ week out.”

Old Jack was the pack-master or patron (pa-_trone_). Frank Monach was
assistant pack-master, or cargador (car-ga-_dore_). “Slim Shorty” was
cook or cencero (cen-_say_-ro). Frank Cahill was blacksmith. The
packers or arrieros were Jim O’Neill, “Chileno John,” “Long Jim” Cook
(six feet eight), Charley Hopkins, Sam Wisser the Pennsylvania German,
and Lauriano Gomez who sang Spanish songs.

The pack-train was called an atajo (ah-tah-ho); the packs were
“cargoes,” and the pack-saddles or aparejos, and such stuff, composed
the “riggings.”

Pack-train service had a language all its own. Yes, and an army train
as organized under General Crook had a discipline all its own, too, as
Jimmie soon found out.

The trail from Tucson to Bowie was the main Southern overland stage
road between the Rio Grande River in New Mexico and San Diego of the
Pacific. Therefore the traveling up hill and down was good.

It was Jimmie’s business to help herd the mules, in the evening and the
early morning, while the regular herders were eating; and to come in
and rouse the cook, at daybreak, and get him wood and water, if needed.

In half an hour after the cook was up, the men were wakened. While they
were folding their blankets (which were the pack-blankets) and taking
the canvas coverings off the “riggings” and “cargoes,” Jimmie brought
in the herd.

This was not difficult, because when he started the wise old bell
leader, all the mules followed; and so well had they been trained that
except for a few “shave tails” they took their own places, in a sort of
company front, each facing his pile of “rigging.” Every mule had his
own, individual “rigging,” adjusted to fit him perfectly.

The packers saddled their riding mules, and ate breakfast. After
breakfast they put the “riggings” and “cargoes” on the pack-mules.

They worked in pairs, and each pair attended to ten mules. A full
pack-train was composed of fifty mules; ten mules were assigned to a
troop or company of soldiers. The thirty mules in this train of Patron
Jack called for six packers.

Jimmie helped “Slim Shorty” the cook pack his kitchen stuff; and Jimmie
and the cook and John Cahill the blacksmith watched the loaded mules,
especially any “shave tails,” so that they should not ramble away or
try to lie down.

The packers worked like lightning, uttering scarcely a word except
signal words, for it was against regulations to talk much. The schedule
of breaking camp or “unparking” a train was as follows: Twenty minutes
for before-breakfast work, fifteen minutes for breakfast, twenty
minutes for putting on the “riggings,” twenty minutes for putting on
the “cargoes”; total, one hour and a quarter.

But “Chileno John” and Jim O’Neill, who were the prize pair of packers,
in an exhibition feat loaded their ten mules complete (“riggings” and
packs and all) in ten minutes!

The moment that the train was ready, Patron Jack, who had been eying
closely, called “Bell!” and “Slim Shorty” the cook rode the white bell
mare out upon the trail; in single file the pack-mules――“bell sharps”
and “shave tails” and slow “drag tails”――stepped after, usually of
their own accord.

The cavalry escort took the advance. Patron Jack and “Slim Shorty” led
the pack-train. The packers rode, one beside every fifth mule. Frank
Monach the assistant pack-master or “cargador” brought up the rear,
with John Cahill the blacksmith, whose business it was to look out for
dropped shoes and sore hoofs.

Jimmie rode behind, too. The long file of swaying, plodding mules,
under the canvas-covered packs, made a fascinating sight. So did the
sturdy packers or “arrieros,” in their broad hats and suspenders and
flannel shirts, and trousers tucked into heavy boots.

Jack aimed to start out by sun-up at the latest, so as to finish the
twenty-five or thirty miles at one stretch before mid-day heat and
dust. This was only a moderate march, in fairly level country. In rough
mountain country, fifteen miles a day, at a go-as-you-can gait, would
be enough.

To unload and make camp was called “parking.” The “riggings” and
“cargoes” were laid out in two neat parallel lines, and covered. Jack
and Frank Monach examined the mules, for sore backs caused by badly
fitting aparejos. The “bell” was hobbled and turned to pasture and the
mules followed.

“Riggings” were repaired, if necessary, and scraped clean of sweat and
dirt. The pack-blankets were opened, to air for sleeping blankets; from
their war-bags, or canvas clothing sacks, the men took out what stuff
they required.

But the pack-mules were the main thought. Nothing in the way of petting
and fancy trappings was too good for a pack-mule. Each mule had its
name, and knew that name. Nobody was permitted to strike a mule or
abuse it in any manner.

“You can abuse a dog an’ he’ll forgive you,” said old Jack. “But you
mistreat a mule, an’ he’ll never forget. You can change yore clothes,
but you can’t change yore smell――not to a mule!”

The bell horse or “cencero” (which is the Spanish for “bell”) had
the easiest time of any of the pack-train animals. It wasn’t packed.
All that the “bell” had to do was to tinkle along and set the pace,
while carrying the cook. The “bell” ought to be white, because mules
were supposed to be especially fond of white; the “bell” ought to be
a horse, because mules respected a horse more than they did another
mule; and if “he” was a white mare, as in this train, then so much the
better, because mules loved white mares.

The cook rode the “bell,” and therefore was nicknamed “cencero,”
himself.

Patron Jack expected to make Camp Bowie in five days easy, which would
bring the pack-train and the cavalry through in good condition. The
first two nights out, the mules were herded, to graze; but on the third
day the road crossed the Dragoon Mountains by way of Dragoon Pass.
This night the mules were tied along a stretched picket-rope, for the
Dragoon Mountains were Chiricahua country, and contained Cochise’s
Stronghold.

“He’s off yonder at this very minute, an’ mebbe lookin’ for us,”
declared Cargador Frank Monach. “I’ll bet a cooky those hills south’ard
are plumb full o’ Chiricahua.”

“That’s where they killed pore Bob Whitney, all right enough,” mused
Jim O’Neill. “Down at Dragoon Springs, in the Stronghold. Yes, an’
many another man has left his scalp there. That range westward is the
Whetstones, or Mustangs, where they got Cushing; and on west of the
Whetstones is Davidson’s Canyon south of Tucson, where Lieutenant
Stewart and Corporal Black went under. By ginger, a fellow doesn’t look
out on a very pleasant view, from up here!”

From the open Dragoon Pass of the stage road the Dragoon Mountains,
low and rolling but very rough, with much brush and stunted timber,
extended southward to the Mexican line; and separated from them by
yellow deserts, west and east and north rose other low ranges――all
chosen hiding-places of the fierce Chiricahuas.

“Anyhow,” remarked Jack Long, with a sly wink, “we got a young
chi-kis-n o’ theirs hyar――reg’lar member o’ the Cochise fam’ly――to talk
for us; an’ if ary Chiricahua appear we’ll send him in to ’em.”

Jimmie grinned and scratched his head; whether Cochise and Geronimo
would wait and listen to him, he wasn’t certain. But he’d rather like
to see Nah-che and Nah-da-ste, and explain why he had run away.

The stage and the mail riders had been attacked in this very pass.
However, nothing alarming happened, to-night. And the probable reason
why, they learned the next day.

Dragoon Pass was about half-way between Tucson and Bowie, so that Bowie
now lay some fifty miles east. The Chiricahua Mountains and their
Apache Pass might be seen, in the eastern horizon.

The Chiricahuas had been so bad during the last two months that the
stage road was being little traveled. And when, in the morning, on the
way down from the pass a cloud of dust was sighted before, everybody
stared, suspicious.

Horsemen! Injuns? No, cavalry! Good! A scouting detachment from Bowie,
as like as not; or from Crittenden or Lowell, behind. Lieutenant Almy
met them first, and both parties stopped, to talk. Patron Jack, at the
head of the pack-train, spread his two arms as signal for “Halt!” and
he trotted on, to join.

There was a lengthy confab.

“Wall, wonder what’s up?” drawled Frank Monach. “Reckon I’d better go
an’ see.”

“Send the boy, an’ save yore mule,” suggested Blacksmith John Cahill.
“He’s fairly itchin’ to sit in.”

So Jimmie somewhat importantly trotted forward, too, up the long line
of dozing, switching pack-mules, to bring back news if he heard any.

The party of riders from the east were several officers, and three or
four booted, flannel-shirted, whiskered civilians, wearing heavy Colt’s
six-shooters and carrying rifles. Yes, and somebody else――a young
Mexican, dark enough to be an Apache, clad in broad-brimmed black hat,
dirty cotton shirt, old trousers and moccasins.

Jimmie knew him in two looks. Maria Jilda Grijalba! That same Maria who
had been a captive in the Cochise camp, and who, Micky Free had said,
had escaped after Jimmie had escaped.

Jimmie gladly rode straight to him.

“Buenos dias, Maria (Good day, Maria).”

“Buenos dias, amigo (friend),” responded Maria, and they shook hands
heartily.

“I heard you had escaped from the Apaches. What are you doing here?”

“I have come out from Camp Bowie with these officers,” answered Maria.
“I work for the fort now. I am a scout and interpreter. We are going to
talk with Cochise, at the Dragoon Springs.”

“What, amigo!”

“Yes,” nodded Maria. “General Howard, the great man with the one arm,
is there, with Cochise, waiting. He has come from Washington again,
and has found Cochise. He has been in the Cochise camp for six days.
They have made peace. There will be a Chiricahua reservation, and
now General Howard has sent for the comandante at Bowie, so that the
comandante and Cochise shall know each other, and there will be no
mistake.”

Maria spoke in Spanish except when an Apache word seemed handier.
Jimmie understood. It was a great convenience to speak in two
languages, at once. As for Jimmie, he knew three languages.

“Would you like to go?” asked Maria. “You come with me, and we will see
Cochise, and Geronimo and Nah-che and all of them.”

“I’d like to go, but I don’t believe I can, Maria,” faltered Jimmie.
“I’ve got to stay with the atajo.”

“Are you an arriero? Who is your patron?” inquired Maria. “I will ask
him.”

But Patron Jack Long already had the matter on his tongue.

“Hyar’s a muchacho (boy) you can have, if you want him, cap’n,” Jack
was saying to the cavalry captain. “He lived with old Cochise a while
in these very diggin’s. Speaks ’Pache, an’ consider’ble Mex. Reckon we
can spar’ him from the pack outfit, if you’ll fetch him back to Bowie
’fore we leave thar.”

“Does he speak English, though?” demanded the captain. “I’ve got a
guide with me――Maria, there――who speaks Mexican and Apache.”

“Does he savvy Americano? Sure he does, bein’ that his name’s Jimmie
Dunn, an’ his folks were both ’Mericans ’fore the ’Paches got ’em, an’
he’s been brung up by Joe Felmer at Grant. Speak American? Speaks it
better’n I do, ’cause he had schoolin’ back East.”

“All right. I’ll take him, and much obliged to you,” said the captain.
“Lived with Cochise, did he? How was that?”

“’Cause he couldn’t help it. Thar warn’t any ‘how’ to it, ’cept the
‘how’ o’ stayin’ close an’ playin’ possum till he had a chance to skip
out. The Chiricahua jumped him an’ some o’ Pete Kitchen’s sheep south
o’ Tucson a couple o’ year ago, an’ tuk him along same time they tuk
yore Mexican. That Maria Jilda an’ him were captives together. He’s
chi-kis-n to Nah-che, old Cochise’s son. But he’s plumb American ag’in,
now. If you meet up with any ’Paches an’ want to talk with ’em, he’ll
interpret for you.”

“Hah!” exclaimed the cavalry captain, eying Jimmie, as did the other
men. “He’ll do finely, then. Come with us, boy. We’ll return you to
your outfit to-morrow. Let’s go on, gentlemen.”

“Wall, I don’t wish you any hard luck――or that Gin’ral Howard, either,”
called Jack, after――for Jack said whatever he chose. “But ’cordin’ to
my notion the peacefulest kind o’ Chiricahua is a dead Chiricahua, an’
you can tell Cochise Jack Long says so. Hey, Jimmie!” continued Jack.
“You tell yore chi-kis-n to tell his dad thar’s a gent in a canvas
suit, up at Whipple, who’s comin’ down hyar pronto (quick) with a
double-bar’l ‘peace policy’ guaranteed to turn wild ’Paches into tame
ones.”

They left Lieutenant Almy’s little detachment starting onward, and old
Jack grumbling as he signaled his pack train to “march.”




XI

IN THE STRONGHOLD OF COCHISE


Riding on beside Maria, Jimmie learned more about General Howard and
the Chiricahuas.

The general had returned as far as the Warm Spring reservation in New
Mexico, with Pedro and Miguel and Santos and the other delegates to
Washington. Then he had engaged two Warm Spring guides――young Chie, son
of Mangas Coloradas, and Ponce, son of another of Cochise’s old-time
friends; and with them, and Captain Sladen his aide, and Tom Jeffords,
a red-haired, red-bearded American trader whom the Chiricahuas never
harmed, he had proceeded right on west, into the mountains, to find
Cochise.

The rest of his party he had dismissed, to wait for word from him, at
Bowie.

It had been anxious waiting, for who might foretell what Cochise would
do? But suddenly, one day, the general had appeared again, at Bowie,
with only Chie as companion. He had met Cochise, in the Stronghold; had
talked with him, as man to man; and now he was here, in order that the
word should be sent out all along the line: “The Cochise Chiricahuas
have promised peace. Do not interfere with them.”

With that, he had immediately returned to the Stronghold; and now
Captain S. S. Sumner, commanding Camp Bowie, and several of his
officers and a few civilians, were outward bound, to be present at the
council.

“Do you think that the Chiricahua have quit forever, Maria?” asked
Jimmie, as they jogged along.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” replied Maria, shrugging his shoulders. “If they
might believe all Americans like they believe that one-armed man――but
who knows? Anyway, he is not afraid, and he speaks truth. What kind of
a man is that other general, the comandante named Crook?”

“They can believe him, too,” asserted Jimmie. “He’s a fighting general,
and a peace general, both. He’ll carry war to those Apaches that stay
bad. He’s ready now to move against the Tonto.”

“Good,” grunted Maria.

The abandoned stage station of Dragoon Springs, on the west slope
of Dragoon Pass, had been appointed as the council place. No
Chiricahuas and no token of any council were sighted here; but a
stout, broad-shouldered officer with black hair and heavy “shoe-brush”
moustache met the Captain Sumner party in the road.

He was Captain Sladen, General Howard’s aide. He said that the
Chiricahuas had seen soldiers in the road, this very morning; therefore
Cochise insisted that the council be held off at one side, where the
Chiricahuas might protect themselves.

Guided by Captain Sladen on a narrow saddle trail running south, the
party rode a mile or two, through a rolling park of grass and oaks
and mountain mahogany――and then here came General Howard and his
Chiricahuas!

Haw, haw! Even the sober Maria laughed. The general was aboard
a mule, and behind his saddle sat a painted, naked Chiricahua,
holding fast with both arms around the general’s waist! It was the
piercing-eyed Geronimo!

[Illustration: IT WAS THE PIERCING-EYED GERONIMO!]

That was a great position for a brevet major-general of the United
States army; but it looked “friendly”!

A large cavalcade of warriors painted and weaponed pranced on every
side. They left a little space about a red-painted horseman who stayed
near the general.

“Cochise,” said Maria. “I see Taza, too; and Nah-che.”

The Chiricahuas uttered a loud whoop. At signs from the red-painted
horseman they spread right and left along the opposite edge of this
park. When the Bowie party and Captain Sladen arrived, General Howard
and the Cochise company were waiting.

“D’yuh notice?” remarked Jack May, one of the men who had been sent to
Bowie by the general. “Ev’ry bronc’ (‘broncho’ was a name for the wild
Chiricahuas) is stationed where he can dive into that little canyon an’
be out o’ sight in a jiffy. Those fellows are smart.”

Cochise had daubed all his face with vermilion. He seemed tense
and excited. His large black eyes darted to and fro, searching for
treachery. His hair was graying, Jimmie observed; he had grown much
older.

Taza was here. And in the background, Chato and Nah-che. Jimmie signed
to Nah-che, and Nah-che responded, but he did not dare to come over,
yet.

The council was begun at once, with General Howard and officers, and
Cochise and his captains, sitting in the middle of the circle.

A tall red-bearded man, who was Tom Jeffords the trader, did the
interpreting.

“The Great White Father has sent me to make peace between the
Chiricahua and the Americans,” said General Howard.

“Nobody wants peace more than I do,” answered Cochise. “I have done
no harm since I came from the Cañada Alamosa. My horses are few, and
I am very poor. Once we were a large people. We lived well, at peace
with everybody except the Mexicans. But one day the soldiers seized my
best friend and killed him when he was in prison. Right there at Apache
Pass other soldiers hung up my brother, after they had attacked me when
I had surrendered. So I have fought the Americans and the Mexicans,
but the Chiricahua are getting less every day. Why shut us up on a
reservation? We will keep the peace, but we wish to go around free, the
same as other people.”

“That cannot be,” kindly explained the general. “Some bad white men
might fire on you, or some of your wild young men might fire at the
white men. Then the peace would be broken. The Great White Father, who
is President Grant, will agree that you live at the Cañada Alamosa.
That is a fine country, and you liked it.”

“We would be there now if the white people had not driven us off,”
answered Cochise. “They might drive us off again, and I will not go to
the Tularosa. The Apaches there get sick, and die. Give me Apache Pass.
That is my home. I will protect all the trails. I will see that nobody
is harmed by any Indians. But my people will not go back to the Cañada
Alamosa. They are afraid. They would not be allowed to stay there.”

“Then,” said the general, “we will give you this country right here. We
cannot give you Apache Pass. We will fix the boundaries at once. Does
that suit you?”

“Yes,” declared Cochise, pleased, “that is good. We will keep my
Stronghold, and the country around, of the Dragoon Mountains and the
Sulphur Springs Valley.”

“It is settled,” agreed the general. “I have full authority to say so.
This shall be your country forever, if you keep the peace. See, I place
this stone upon the mesa.” He moved a rock. “Now, as long as this stone
lasts, so long shall last the peace between the Chiricahua and the
Americans. You may have your friend Tom Jeffords for agent.”

“That is good,” repeated Cochise. “Staglito (Red Beard) is our friend.”

“You must send for all your Chiricahua to come in. Tell them that when
they are off the traveled roads they must show a white flag of peace,
so that there will be no mistakes. When they are on a traveled road
they must meet other people without any running or fear, as the white
people do.”

“That is good,” approved Cochise. “The stone lies on the mesa. The
white people and the Chiricahua will drink of the same water and eat of
the same bread, and be at peace.”

Now there was a shaking of hands all around, and the general and
Captain Sumner and Tom Jeffords proceeded to arrange with Cochise and
Geronimo the boundaries of the Chiricahua reservation.

“Let us talk with Nah-che,” proposed Jimmie, to Maria. There had been
no call for them in the interpreting, and now was their chance to look
up Nah-che.

“Chi-kis-n,” greeted Jimmie, extending his hand to grasp Nah-che’s.

“Welcome, chi-kis-n,” replied Nah-che, as they shook.

Nah-che had grown into almost a warrior.

“How is Nah-da-ste?”

“She is not here. The women and children are in another place, till the
chiefs know whether it is peace or war.”

“It is peace, chi-kis-n.”

“I think so,” answered Nah-che frankly. “The Chiricahua wish peace.
They will keep their promise if the white people will keep theirs. As
long as Staglito stays with us, there will be no trouble, because he
understands us. All these wars between the Americans and the Apaches
come because they do not understand each other. I think if there were
more one-armed soldier-captains there would be fewer wars. That other
soldier-captain, Cluke, is honest, too, we hear. Why doesn’t he come to
see us?”

“He is getting ready to fight those Indians who are bad,” said Jimmie.
“He was told to wait until the one-armed general had offered the
Chiricahua peace. Now he will go to war against the Tonto and the
Yavapai, who have refused peace.”

Taza joined them, and shook hands. He was carrying a beautiful
breech-loading rifle――an officer’s rifle. Eying it curiously, Jimmie
suddenly recognized it. It had been the rifle of stripling Lieutenant
Reid Stewart, the dandy “shave tail”――it was the only one of its
kind――engraved so fancifully; that is, Jimmie had seen the lieutenant
with it, at Camp Grant; and now Taza had it!

Taza must have noticed Jimmie stiffen and choke, for he said, in
Spanish:

“_No trieste, hermano_ (Do not feel badly, brother).” And in Apache,
“We all do things in war that we would not do in peace.”

Nevertheless, on the way to Camp Bowie, after the council, Jimmie could
not forget the sign of Lieutenant Reid’s rifle, in the Chiricahua camp.
He was such a young officer, to have been killed so soon, without
having had a chance to defend himself. And Cochise had declared that
his people had done no harm since leaving the Cañada Alamosa!

But then, that was Indian way. And Apaches had been killed, too, by the
white men. War was a cruel game.

General Howard did not return to Camp Bowie. He had gone the other way,
to Tucson, with his party and his ambulance. From Tucson he was going
to San Francisco, to report to General Schofield; and from there he
was going to Washington.

He certainly had accomplished a great work, only――――

“Will the peace last as long as the stone, do you think, Maria?” asked
Jimmie.

“The white people will break the stone, amigo mio,” said Maria. “Some
day they will break the stone, because they want the land where it
lies. Then there will be war again, and you and I will fight Nah-che.
But Cochise spoke straight. The Chiricahua in Arizona are tired. Did
you hear about the joke on the one-armed general?”

“No.”

“Nyle-chie-zie, who is Cochise’s brother-in-law, wanted to trade two
of his young wives to the general for the general’s four wagon-mules.
The general said he already had a wife. But the girls said that made no
difference; they would all get along together nicely. If the general
had not explained that the laws of the Americans forbade him to have
more than one wife at a time, he might have been in much trouble, I
think.”

“Yes, many wives at once are a trouble,” asserted Ponce, who, with
Chie, was returning to the Warm Spring bands. “The soldier-captain saw
Cochise’s hand. That is why he refused the two girls!”

“What was the matter with Cochise’s hand?” queried Jimmie.

They all were talking in Apache.

“Those two big holes in it are where one of his wives bit him. He was
afraid he would be sick, so he burned the places.”

“The one-armed soldier-captain is very wise,” laughed Chie. “He does
not wish to lose the only hand he has.”

“But it is true that white people are allowed only one wife at a time,”
insisted Jimmie. However, Ponce and Chie did not act as though they
believed this.

Camp Bowie was reached early the next morning. It was a small army
post, about the size of Grant, composed of log and adobe buildings set
in a clearing on a hill in the middle of the celebrated Apache Pass
over the Chiricahua Mountains that extended on southward into Mexico.
The pass was long and rolling, between high brushy, thinly timbered
slopes. Bowie commanded the stage road both ways for two or three miles.

This had been Cochise’s favorite resort, in former days. At the east
end of the pass was where his brother had been hanged, after the fracas
eleven years ago, or in 1861. There had been no Camp Bowie, then; only
the stage station.

But Bowie was established the next year, 1862――the same year as Camp
Grant――and like Camp Grant, since that time it had been trailing
Apaches almost every day. What with the attacks on the stages, east and
west, and on livestock, and what with the vengeful ambushing of the
soldiers themselves, by the Chiricahuas, anybody stationed at Bowie
was certain to have plenty of excitement. Why, the graveyard there was
enough to give one the shudders. It was a famous graveyard.

Before inspecting the graveyard, Jimmie reported to Jack Long. Jack
and the pack train were here. So was Lieutenant Almy, being entertained
by brother officers of the Fifth and Third Cavalry.

“So it’s sure ’nough peace, is it?” commented Patron Jack, after he had
heard the story of everything that had occurred near Dragoon Springs.
“All right. Gin’ral Howard means well, like as not. But did you tell
old Cochise what I said? No? Humph! One thing’s sartin, anyhow: if
he was put on trial before a jury o’ Arizony people, they’d vote
yewnanimous to hang him an’ half his band. Yes, sir-ee.”

“You bet yuh,” chimed in Slim Shorty, the cencero.

And, as a matter of fact, when the general arrived at Tucson, the
newspaper and people there talked just as Jack talked. They said that
Cochise should be punished, instead of being granted a reservation, and
his Stronghold, for his own. Nevertheless, Cochise stayed there, true
to his word, until he died, in 1874; and Taza also kept from war, until
in 1876 he died. But with Geronimo and Nah-che matters went different,
just as Maria prophesied.

“Now I will show you the graveyard, amigo,” proffered Maria, when
Jimmie had been dismissed from duty, by old Jack.

The graveyard really was about the only thing of consequence to see,
at Bowie. It was the largest graveyard at any of the army posts in
Arizona. The many wooden slabs, marking the resting-place of soldier
and traveler, read much alike, except for the names.

“Killed by the Apaches.” “At the Hands of the Apaches.” “Victim of the
Apaches.” “Met his Death by Apaches.” “Of Wounds Inflicted by the
Apaches.” And so forth, and so forth.

Maria seemed to be proud of this collection, but it was too melancholy
for Jimmie. He was very glad when, on a sudden, a series of loud whoops
attracted his attention. A short, brick-topped, familiar figure in
old shirt outside of old trousers, was beckoning to him, on the way
from the parade ground. A trumpet was blowing “Boots and Saddles,”
cavalrymen were running to the stables, and packers were hustling at
the post mule-corral.

So Jimmie legged back, to find out what was up. Micky Free, the
red-head, met him, and grinned delightedly, his one blue eye sparkling.
Micky had started a moustache, red like his hair. He showed hard travel.

“Hello, Cheemie. Your patron says for you to come quick, if you want to
go to Camp Apache.”

“When did you get in, Micky?” panted Jimmie, as they trotted on
together.

“Just now. Alchisé (Al-chi-say) and I bring dispatches. The canvas suit
general is at Camp Apache, and everybody is to join him there, to go
against the Tonto.”




XII

GENERAL CROOK RIDES AGAIN


“That’s right,” Patron Jack was urging, among the fast working men.
“Move yore feet, hombres, or the cavalry’ll beat you. The old man’s up
yonder, waitin’ on his mule, with both bar’ls loaded. Mebbe it’s peace
in the south but it’s war in the north.” And to Jimmie: “Say, muchacho!
Thar’s livelier things’n graveyards. We’re goin’ after Chuntz an’ the
rest o’ those boy murderers. So you jump an’ help the cook.”

Alchisé and Micky Free had brought orders from General Crook at Camp
Apache to Lieutenant Almy to join him there at once with all the
cavalry and pack-mules that could be spared from Camp Bowie.

Of course, the orders had not explained why; but the busy-minded Micky
asserted that everybody at Apache knew why: they knew why, because the
Sierra Blanca or White Mountains had been asked to send their young men
with the soldiers and help to drive the bad Tontos and Apache-Mohaves
out of the Tonto Basin. These Tontos and Yavapais were making trouble
between the white men and the red.

The pack-train was ready first. In an hour the cavalry were ready, and
the column moved out of Bowie, for Camp Apache, two hundred miles by
trail north across the mountains.

Maria had to stay behind, at Bowie.

“Good-by, amigos,” he bade, to Jimmie and Micky. “Some day we will go
together against the Chiricahua, with your Crook.”

There were fifty cavalry, mainly of the Fifth Regiment, and some fifty
pack-mules which carried only supplies for the march. Micky and Alchisé
led by the best trail, so that the trip was made in five days.

Now Jimmie had an opportunity to see the famous Camp Apache, in the
grassy, well timbered and well watered Sierra Blanca or White Mountains
of northeastern Arizona. By reason of the fine hunting and fishing, and
scenery and climate, it was considered to be the prize army post of the
Southwest.

It had been located in 1870, and was at first called Camp Ord, and Camp
Thomas. The Chiricahuas had sneered at the White Mountain Apaches, who
had permitted a soldier fort to be established among them. But Chiefs
Pedro and Miguel and Pi-to-ne and all had continued to live just west
of the post, and to remain tame Indians. In this they were wise.

With the twelve hundred tame Indians, and the many soldiers, some
infantry but the majority cavalry, Camp Apache proved to be a stirring
place. General Crook had arrived, with his escort; clear from Fort
Whipple, two hundred and fifty miles west. He had traveled fast,
breaking camp by four o’clock every morning, and now he was hustling
matters so that he might set out for Camp Grant, to the southwest, and
organize an expedition from there.

Lieutenant Bourke was at work enlisting the White Mountain young men.
Most of the White Mountains were very anxious to take the war-path
against the bothersome outlaw Tontos and Yavapais. Alchisé enlisted,
so did Na-kay-do-klunni, so did a sub-chief named Es-qui-nos-quiz-n or
Big Mouth, so did Nan-ta-je (Nan-tah-hay), a Coyotero; so did nearly
one hundred others.

Micky knew every one of them. But his band was the Chief Pedro band.

“Are you coming, Micky?” eagerly asked Jimmie.

“Maybe. I will wait and see, Cheemie, until I can tell where there’ll
be the best fighting.”

“We’ll catch the Tonto, won’t we, Micky?”

“Oh, yes,” assured Micky. “That Cluke is cunning. All the way over he
saw that the water of the high places was frozen; winter has come and
the Tonto and Yavapai will be staying home. They cannot move their
rancherias, easy. I will go to Camp Grant with you, anyway,” added
Micky. “But don’t say so, to other people. I am not an Apache. I will
do as I please.”

General Crook did not delay an instant at Camp Apache after he had
turned his orders into action. Upon the second morning after the
arrival of the reinforcements from Camp Bowie he started, with cavalry
and pack-mules and those White Mountain scouts who were ready, for Camp
Grant.

He directed that the rest of the Apache scouts were to follow, in three
days. They would find many other Indians at Camp Grant, who would try
to be braver than the Sierra Blanca.

“My young men will show how the White Mountains can fight,” had
answered old Pedro.

General Crook was in a great hurry.

“Yuh see,” explained Patron Jack, to the men who were astonished by
being roused out at two in the morning and led on without a halt until
late afternoon, “the old man’s promised to meet a lot more chiefs at
Grant, besides those Sierra Blancas, an’ he knows he’s got to keep his
word. If you don’t keep yore word with Injuns, they call you a liar.”

The distance by trail from Apache to Grant was a little more than one
hundred miles――but each mile, as Cargador Frank Monach put it, meant
one mile up, two miles down, and one mile across! Alchisé and Archie
MacIntosh the Hudson Bay trapper, were the guides. Micky Free had not
appeared, at the start; and when Jimmie, disappointed, inquired about
him of Alchisé, Alchisé claimed to know nothing about Micky. He only
shrugged his shoulders, and grunted:

“Maybe come, maybe stay. Who can tell?”

The second day’s march was terrific, into canyons and out again;
and when darkness fell the column was still struggling to find a
camping-place. The mules and the cavalry horses had all they could do
to keep their feet amidst the brush and rocks; the general rode from
head to rear, encouraging, and looking after men and mules――he sought
no rest, for himself, and everybody worked like a demon. But Alchisé
and Archie MacIntosh, in trying a short cut, had missed the trail.

Jimmie was toiling and urging with the rest, in the depths of a
star-canopied black canyon, when he heard a laugh, close at his ear,
and a voice that said, in Apache:

“Why do you work so hard, Boy-who-sleeps? Are you afraid the Tonto will
get away?”

It was Micky Free, bareback on a mule. He could scarcely be seen, but
Jimmie recognized his speech.

“Where did _you_ come from?” demanded Jimmie crossly.

“Oh, I am here,” laughed Micky. “I know all this country very well. I
told you I was going to Camp Grant.”

“Then you’d better get to work,” retorted Jimmie. “I haven’t any time
to talk.”

“No, I didn’t come to work; I came to fight the Tonto,” laughed Micky.
“But the rest of you had better work, or I’ll be the only one to get to
Camp Grant.”

Amidst the hurly-burly of stumbling mules and perspiring packers Jimmie
lost him, and did not sight him again until long after sunrise the
next morning, when at last the command was out of the canyons and the
wearied pack-train followed the cavalry into camp.

Micky was already there, ahead, squatting beside Alchisé. He arose and
came back to where Jimmie was helping Slim Shorty, the cook.

“Alchisé says there will be some good fights, Cheemie,” remarked Micky.
“Now I want you to take me to your general, so that he will know who I
am.”

“Aw, pshaw, Micky!” protested Jimmie. And in Apache: “I can’t. I’m
busy. The general wants to eat and sleep, and so do I.”

“Who is this one-eye?” asked Slim Shorty. “Where’s he from an’ what’s
his trouble?”

“His name’s Micky Free. He was with the Pedro band and helped me get
away from the Chiricahua. He asks me to take him to the general.”

“What! Tell him to chase himself. ’Tain’t any time for payin’ social
visits,” growled Slim Shorty. “It’s grub time an’ sleep time, an’
you’re workin’ for me. Savvy that?” Slim Shorty was cross, like
everyone else. Twenty-six hours straight had they been climbing and
threshing about.

“Here comes your general now,” prompted Micky. “He doesn’t eat or
sleep. You can take me to him when he passes, Cheemie.”

Sure enough, General Crook, on the faithful mule “Apache,” was ambling
slowly from group to group, through the camp; in his stained canvas
suit, his shot gun across his saddle! He seemed to be on a tour of
inspection, with particular regard for the pack-mules.

As he passed, the men stiffened to their feet, and stood at attention.
He dropped a word here and there, and halted briefly at Slim Shorty’s
fire. Slim stood at attention, so did Jimmie, but Micky only waited,
red-headed, lightly clad, grinning amiably.

“Feed your men well, cook,” bade the general. “They’ve earned double
rations. I see you’ve got a good supply of beans. That’s right. Always
set your beans to cook the night before, and they’ll be much more
wholesome.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Slim Shorty. “But these hyar beans won’t be done
till noon. There warn’t any ‘night before,’ this last trip. Got plenty
bread, bacon an’ coffee, though.”

“Oh, in that case――――,” smiled the general. His face was a little
drawn, but he didn’t look especially tired, and neither did Apache.
“How are you, my lad?” he queried, of Jimmie, and his eyes fell upon
Micky. “Who’s this? I didn’t know he was with the column. I’ve seen him
at Camp Apache. His name is Micky Free.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jimmie. “He lives with Chief Pedro’s band of
Sierra Blanca. He helped me get away from the Chiricahua camp, that
time.”

“He’s not Apache?”

“No, sir. He’s half Mexican and half Irish.”

“What’s he doing here? Is he enlisted with the scouts?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” faltered Jimmie. “Not with the Apache scouts.
He isn’t Indian. He followed us. He asked me to tell you that he wants
to fight the Tonto, though.”

“Well, well. That’s all right, but I haven’t time to tend to that now,
my boy,” replied the general. “I’m going after some breakfast. Let him
report to Lieutenant Bourke. Bourke has charge of the scouts. When we
get to Grant we’ll give him a chance to fight.” And the general rode
on. He kept going, until he disappeared around a shoulder in some low
ground. He did not return for two hours, and then he brought back a
load of reed birds, for the officers’ mess. What a man!

“What did he say?” inquired Micky, who spoke no English, of Jimmie.

“He said to have you report to Lieutenant Bourke, and when we got to
Grant you would be shown fighting.”

“That is good,” approved Micky. “I don’t care anything about your
Lieutenant Bourke, but the general has promised me fighting and I like
him. I will go to Grant, and then we will chase the Tonto with the
general, Cheemie; you and I.”

So saying, Micky strolled away, to eat with Alchisé. Throughout the
remainder of the march to Camp Grant he did about as he pleased:
sometimes he rode in advance, with Alchisé and Archie MacIntosh; and
sometimes he rode with Jimmie, at the rear; and sometimes he vanished,
to explore on his own hook. But he always turned up at meal times!

With his ragged clothes, and his red head and his smudgy reddish upper
lip and his one bright blue eye, Micky was a privileged character.

Camp Grant was reached exactly on time, and for the next three days of
this first week in November it was a busy place. Dispatch bearers came
and went; Chief Packer Tom Moore was here, from Whipple; one hundred
White Mountain scouts arrived, under Chief Es-qui-nos-quiz-n or Big
Mouth; Pima and Maricopa chiefs were waiting, to talk with “Cluke” and
find out what he wanted; word came that the Hualpais were ready, for
they also hated the Apaches, as the Pimas and Maricopas did. But Chief
Es-kim-en-zin refused to let any of his young men enlist; the Arivaipas
had friends among the outlaw Pinals who ranged near the Tonto Basin.

Every officer and enlisted man and pack-mule that could be spared
from the various posts, and every Indian who could be trusted off the
reservations, was called into service. Jimmie felt certain that he
ought to be included; he had done his level best, on the trip around by
Bowie and Apache――nobody had worked harder. So he anxiously consulted
Joe Felmer.

“Wall, you see it’s this way,” said Joe: “I’m goin’ as scout――Archie
MacIntosh, Tony Besias, an’ me, ’long with the Major Brown column. That
keeps us in advance, an’ ’twon’t be any place for a boy. This is war.
So you stick ’round old Jack; he’ll boss the pack-train, an’ I happen
to know that he thinks purty well o’ you. He says you tended strictly
to bus’ness, an’ obeyed orders.”

Jimmie looked up Patron Jack.

“Shore thing, muchacho,” answered Jack. “I told you I’d make a
fust-class packer of you, an’ I will. You fetch yore war-bag an’ fall
in ready to help the cook’ an’ by the time we’re out o’ the Tonto Basin
with old Chuntz’s scalp mebbe you’ll get a second-class ratin’.”

Hurrah! It was only proper, too, for Chief Chuntz had murdered little
Francisco, and had not little Francisco been his, Jimmie’s, partner?
Everybody at Grant was particularly eager to kill or capture Chuntz.

“To-morrow we start,” remarked Micky. “Where is the Gray Fox, Cheemie?”

“Who is that, Micky?”

“Cluke. He is the Gray Fox, because of his smartness and his dirt-color
clothes. All the Indians are calling him the Gray Fox. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He is visiting other forts, getting the soldiers ready.”

And that was true. General Crook was leaving nothing at loose ends, but
instead of issuing his orders from headquarters, was overseeing the
details in person. He never tired.

“I would rather follow him on the war trail,” continued Micky. “But if
he is not here I shall go with Big Mouth and Nan-ta-je and Lieutenant
Bourke, and you. It will mean fighting. We will find the Tonto and
Yavapai. That I know.”

“How do you know, Micky?” asked Jimmie curiously――for Micky spoke
assuredly.

“I know it from Nan-ta-je. Why he knows I cannot tell you now, but
you will see.” And with that, the mysterious red-headed Micky became
Indian, and refused to utter another word on the subject.

As far as Jimmie could learn from Joe Felmer and Jack Long and the talk
at the post, the plan for the campaign was as follows:

The troops and scouts at Camp Apache, under Major George M. Randall, of
the Twenty-third Infantry, were to work in toward the Tonto Basin from
the east. The Camp Grant column, under Brevet Major W. H. Brown, were
to work up from the south. From the far northwest, at Camp Hualpai,
Colonel Julius W. Mason (who had roundly threshed the Apache-Mohaves
that had conspired to assassinate General Crook at Date Creek, last
summer) was to march down with his Fifth Cavalry and some Hualpais.
From Date Creek to the southwest Captain George F. Price, of the Fifth
Cavalry, should come on; and from the west the Fort Whipple column,
under Major Alexander MacGregor, of the First Cavalry, and the Camp
Verde First Cavalry under Colonel C. C. C. Carr, and the Camp McDowell
Fifth Cavalry and Pimas and Maricopas under Captain “Jimmie” Burns,
were to complete the circle.

They all were to clean the country as they advanced, and close in on
the Tonto Basin.

Just before the Camp Grant column started, the general’s final orders
were read to all the soldiers and scouts, in line. It was to be a
fight to a finish. The Indians who would not surrender must be pursued
until killed or captured. Women and children should not be harmed,
if possible. Prisoners were to be well treated. Men prisoners should
be enlisted as scouts, when they were willing to serve; and full use
should be made of them, to discover the hiding-places of the other wild
Apaches. And――――

“The general commanding the Department wishes to state that no excuse
will be accepted for leaving a trail. If the horses become unfit
for service, the enemy must be followed on foot. He expects that no
sacrifice shall be left untried by officers and men, to make the
campaign short, sharp and decisive.”

Antonio Besias the interpreter and guide translated the orders for the
Apache scouts. At his first opportunity, Micky asked Jimmie to repeat
them. Nan-ta-je also listened attentively. He grunted satisfaction.

“That is good,” commented Micky. “It is straight talk. We will find
what we are looking for.”

The Major Brown column out of Camp Grant consisted of Companies L and
M of the Fifth Cavalry, commanded by Captain Alfred B. Taylor and
Lieutenant Jacob Almy, Lieutenant (Brevet Major) William J. Ross, of
the Twenty-first Infantry, who had won honors in the Civil War, and
Lieutenant John G. Bourke, of the Third Cavalry, who had been General
Crook’s aide-de-camp. They were all good fighting men. Then there
were thirty Sierra Blanca Apache scouts――Chief Big Mouth, Alchisé who
was called Alchisay, Nan-ta-je whom the soldiers nicknamed “Joe,”
Na-kay-do-klun-ni who was nicknamed “Bobby Do-klinny,” and the others,
managed by Joe Felmer, Archie MacIntosh and Antonio Besias. Then there
was the pack-train of fifty mules, in charge of Pack-Master Jack Long
and Assistant Frank Monach, and ten such first-class packers as Jim
O’Neill, Chileno John, “Long Jim” Cook and “Short Jim” Cook, Manuel
Lopez, old Sam Wisser the German, with Slim Shorty as cook and John
Cahill as blacksmith――men tried and true. Then there was Mr. James
Daily, General Crook’s brother-in-law who had come out to Whipple
last spring with his sister Mrs. Crook, and was “seeing the country”
with the cavalry; and Micky Free, who might be counted as a sort of
“detached” scout.

Altogether, Jimmie felt convinced, this was the best column in
the field. As Patron Jack asserted, it could “lick its weight in
wild-cats.”




XIII

HUNTING THE YAVAPAI


“Now Apache catch Apache,” announced Micky.

It was a sharply chill evening, December 27, this 1872, and under a
clouded sky the whole Major Brown command were encamped together in the
little canyon of Cottonwood Creek, about seventy-five miles northwest
of Camp Grant.

Not far west rose the long, high plateau of the Mazatzal or Four Peaks
Range, through which the Salt River cut a deep, crooked trail toward
Camp MacDowell on the other side.

But the seventy-five miles was only a small portion of the distance
that had been covered. The Major Brown column out of Grant had been
marching north, west, south, and north again, for more than a month;
sometimes in cactus and sunshine, sometimes in snow and storm, ever
trying to corral the Chuntz and Delt-che outlaws.

These were hard to find. In this rough canyon country they had made
their homes for years and years. They knew every inch of it. Only the
Sierra Blanca scouts, who were afoot, in silent moccasins, and kept
a day’s march ahead, had had any luck. Twice they had struck small
rancherias; and they had killed four or five warriors.

Micky hunted with the scouts, daytimes; and each night, when in camp,
he had great stories to tell. It all was a lark, to Micky the red-head.
He had captured a rifle, in one of the Chuntz jacals or huts, and now
was very happy. He seemed rather to pity Jimmie, who was held to the
plodding, scrambling pack-train, at the rear.

Still, duty was duty, and business was business; and the pack-train was
as important as the soldiers or the scouts. Without the pack-train,
then the expedition needs must quit or starve――and what would General
Crook say?

On Christmas Day forty men of Company G, Fifth Cavalry, commanded by
Captain “Jimmie” Burns and Lieutenant Earl D. Thomas, with pack-train
and almost one hundred Pima Indian scouts, all from Camp MacDowell, had
joined.

They’d had some luck. On the top of the Four Peaks they had surprised
a Yavapai rancheria (one of Delt-che’s, they thought), had killed six
Indians and captured a squaw and a little boy. They had brought the boy
along, because he could kill quail with stones and with bow and arrow.
His new name was “Mike.”

Only Nan-ta-je could understand much that Mike said. The Yavapai
language was different from straight Apache. And why Nan-ta-je
understood Yavapai, Jimmie presently found out.

This evening of December 27, two days after the Captain Burns column
had been met, something evidently was up. Patron Jack had received
orders from Major Brown to park his mules in close, along a picket
line, “in a place easy of defence.” That was one hint.

“‘Find heap Injuns, poco tiempo (in little while),’ those scouts keep
sayin’, do they?” grumbled Jack. “Humph! Looks like ‘heap Injuns’
might be goin’ to find _us_, mebbe!”

And now as Jimmie, having finished his duties for the evening, made way
through the early dusk to look up Micky and listen to the stories of
the scouts, he noted that Major Brown and the six officers and Chief
Guide Archie MacIntosh were in a group around a little fire, talking
low with one another.

The soldiers, wrapped in their cavalry overcoats, huddled also, in
messes, smoking and joking. They might have been waiting for the time
to roll in their blankets, but somehow they all seemed to be waiting
for something else.

A little apart from the cavalry camp was the scouts’ camp; Chief Big
Mouth’s White Mountains in one place, the Pimas in another. The Apaches
certainly knew how to make themselves comfortable. They stuffed their
moccasins with dry grass, to keep their feet warmer, and slept two or
three together in snug beds among the rocks.

This evening they were having an especially good time. They were
roasting and eating pieces of a mule that had died from poison. Micky
was squatting and tearing at a chunk, like the rest of them, near one
of their little fires.

With greasy mouth he grinned amiably as Jimmie approached to squat
beside him.

“Come and eat, Boy-who-sleeps,” he greeted, in Apache.

“I have eaten. I am full,” explained Jimmie. Poisoned mule was rather
more than he could stomach, although when with the Chiricahuas he had
eaten almost anything.

“It is well to be full,” said Micky, chewing hard. “We may not eat
again for a long time.”

“Why, Red-head?”

“Because,” asserted Micky, changing to Mexican-Spanish, “now Apache
catch Apache. We start soon. If you want to go, you had better be
getting ready.”

“Where are they? How do you know?” demanded Jimmie.

Micky swallowed a large mouthful of mule meat, and held his chunk in
the coals again, with a sharpened stick.

“I know,” he said. “Soon all the soldiers will know, so I will tell
you what I could not tell you before. Cluke knew, when we left Camp
Grant. He had talked with Bocon (which was Spanish for Big Mouth), and
with Nan-ta-je. Major Brown knew, too. But it has been a secret. We are
here to fight Delt-che’s Yavapai where they have hidden in the Four
Peaks above the Salt River. Nan-ta-je was brought up, there, when he
was a boy. It is a big cave, in the face of the canyon made by the Salt
River. It is reached by a secret trail from above. Nan-ta-je knows the
trail. He told Bocon and Bocon told the Gray Fox, and they arranged,
at Camp Grant. First we were to chase Chuntz, who had killed your
Francisco. That has been done, and he has got away. Now we will follow
Nan-ta-je to the cave of the Delt-che people.”

“How far, Micky?” breathlessly asked Jimmie.

Micky proceeded to gnaw his meat chunk, hot though it was.

“A night’s march, over the mountains along the Salt River. We start as
soon as a bright star rises over the hills in the east. The soldiers
must leave their horses, and all wear moccasins, to make no noise, and
must get there before daylight. If we are discovered on the trail,
we will be killed, every one of us. Nobody can escape, then. That is
what Bocon and Nan-ta-je say, and they know. It will be a fine fight,
anyway. The Yavapai will be in their cave, behind a rock wall across
its mouth, and we will be on a flat place outside, in front; and those
who fall off will land, in the river, far below. Yes. That is why I
came, to see. You must run off from your pack-mules and be there, too,
Cheemie.”

“No, I won’t run off, but I’ll ask, you bet!” exclaimed Jimmie, jumping
up.

“Inju (good)!” grunted Micky, gulping fast, to finish his chunk. “You
and I will stay with the White Mountains. They will fight. But I don’t
think much of these Pimas. Whenever one is killed, the rest stop
fighting and make medicine.”

Jimmie hustled back. He was all on fire to go. It sounded as though it
was to be a fight that a fellow would hate to miss.

A change had come over the camp. The cavalry detachments were astir.
The non-commissioned officers were passing among the squads, inspecting
equipment; in the glow of the fires the men were donning moccasins,
overhauling their stubby fifty-calibre Springfield carbines, and
stuffing their cartridge-belts, worn outside their blue overcoats,
with the brass cartridges distributed from the green ammunition-boxes
lugged by the pack-train.

The officers’ council had broken up; the captains and lieutenants were
with their companies; Archie MacIntosh and Joe Felmer strode briskly
through, for the scouts. Jimmie seized upon Joe.

“Joe! Can I go? I want to go!”

“Whar?”

“To see the fight at the cave!”

“What cave? How do you know about any cave? You must have been with
that pesky Micky Free ag’in. Wall, you keep yore mouth shut about a
cave. No, I don’t say you can go. You aren’t under my orders. You’re
with the pack outfit. Don’t bother me.”

And away hastened Joe, following Archie. Away hastened Jimmie,
likewise, to find Jack Long.

All the cavalry horses had been tied to a picket rope, near the mules,
against the canyon side. The riggings and the packs were being piled as
a breastwork――the task had been almost completed――old Jack and Frank
Monach and Jim O’Neill and Blacksmith John Cahill and even Slim Shorty
were standing armed and ready――evidently the packers were to join the
cavalrymen――hurrah, the pack men were to be in the fight!

“Say, whar you been?” accused Jack. “Now you stay――――”

“Oh, Jack, can I go? I want to go, Jack! Please can I go?” pleaded
Jimmie.

“Seems to me you’re alluz wantin’ to ‘go’ some’ers,” growled Jack. “You
ask Joe Felmer. He’s yore gardeen.”

“I did ask him and he said I wasn’t with him, I was with the pack
outfit; and the pack outfit’s going, isn’t it?” argued Jimmie.

“Best part of it,” admitted Jack. “Orders from the major are for every
able-bodied man to march out, an’ for those who can’t climb to guard
the animals an’ packs, hyar. Dunno which’ll be the dangerouser place,
in case the Injuns try a stampede.”

“Oh, let him go; he’s earned it, I reckon,” spoke up “Long Jim” Cook
gruffly. “He can stick beside o’ me. (Long Jim being six feet eight!)
Then all the bullets’ll fly so high he won’t even feel the wind of ’em.”

“I’ll be up in front with Micky Free. Micky and I can scout as well as
any Apache,” panted Jimmie. “We won’t be hurt.” He turned, to make off
again, but Jack sternly halted him.

“You do as the rest do, then: put on a blanket-roll an’ stick in some
grub, an’ change yore feet into moccasins.”

That took only a few moments, for a boy in a hurry. Slim Shorty the
cook good-naturedly supplied the moccasins; the blanket-roll was made
up in a jiffy, around a wad of bread and cold meat, and was slung over
Jimmie’s left shoulder――――

“If ’twasn’t Micky Free I wouldn’t let you go,” warned Jack. “But
nothin’ yet invented can harm _him_, so if you jest hang onto his
shirt-tail he’ll take you through!”

This time Jimmie got away, but none too soon, for the soldier column
was forming, to low commands. The fires had died down, darkness had
closed in, and he scurried fast, through the gloom. The scouts were
bunched――Apaches together, and Pimas together――standing, wrapped in
their blankets, waiting. Beyond them, somebody struck a match. The
flame lighted the face of Nan-ta-je and of Major Brown, who was looking
at his watch.

Jimmie, pausing and peering, felt a hand on his arm and heard Micky’s
voice, under breath. Micky could see in the dark.

“Inju. Star nearly up. Before sun is up, big fight.”

Nan-ta-je’s star must have appeared at that very moment, for Major
Brown struck another match, to show his hand raised as signal, he and
Nan-ta-je moved forward, the scouts moved, pressing in the wake of
Archie MacIntosh, and Joe, and Tony Besias, there were gruff orders,
half whispers, from the sergeants, to the soldiers; and amidst soft
shuffle of moccasins the whole long column followed the lead of the
major and Nan-ta-je, presently up out of the little canyon, for the
high mesa or table-land above.

Whew, but the December night was growing cold! The clouds had broken,
the stars were very bright, faintly illumining the dark winding column,
and the frosty breaths wafting from it. Scarce a sound, except the
scuff of the moccasins, could be heard. The United States cavalry in
Arizona did not carry sabers when scouting for Apaches; and to-night
even the canteens had been stowed in the blanket rolls, lest they
jingle.

According to the north star the course was westerly. Nan-ta-je and the
major led at a rapid pace, to keep the men warm. Jimmie stuck close by
Micky. He had no fear of not being able to hold his own. He trotted
loose-kneed, toeing in, head up, breathing through his nose, Apache way.

Trudge, trudge, scuff, scuff, hour after hour, as seemed, westward
across the high, rough mesa where the snow lay in patches and the Four
Peaks of the Mazatzal rose close on the right. To the left was the
canyon of the Salt River.

The Apache scouts forged ahead of the cavalry. Along after midnight,
from a little rise sign was seen away off, before. Lights! Major Brown
and Nan-ta-je had halted.

“Come! Quick!” hissed Micky, he and Jimmie trotting faster.
“Camp-fires. Maybe Yavapai.”

“Column, halt! Lie down, men,” sounded the low gruff order, behind.

Down flopped everybody, except Archie MacIntosh and Joe Felmer, and
half a dozen of the scouts with them, who continued on rapidly. Micky
slipped after, like a shadow; he did not intend to miss anything.

Jimmie had dropped in the van of the other scouts, near to the major
and Nan-ta-je. They and Chief Big Mouth and Bobby Do-klinny were
crouched under a blanket.

“Nan-ta-je step in track. Think it man track,” grunted, in Apache, the
Indian beside Jimmie. Queer how the Apaches seemed to know everything!
And Nan-ta-je had merely felt the track, through his moccasin sole!

Under the blanket the major――or somebody――struck another match. Just
the faint crackle told. The little group examined the track, there was
short muttering; then the crouchers relaxed and quit, and waited. Big
Mouth crept back.

“Shosh (Bear),” he informed.

Nan-ta-je had been fooled, but a bear track is very much like a
moccasin track.

Nobody spoke again. If anyone even coughed, from the cold air, he did
so with his mouth pressed against his blanket. Jimmie shivered with the
cold and the excitement.

Now here came Archie and Joe and their squad, trotting back from their
reconnoitering. Archie reported to Major Brown and Nan-ta-je.

“Yavapai fires,” whispered Micky, sinking beside Jimmie. “Pony herd,
too. Four wickyups. No Yavapai. Left wickyups and ponies, little while
ago. Maybe go to tell Delt-che.”

That looked bad.

“Huh!” grunted a White Mountain. “We go to surprise Yavapai. If Yavapai
know and surprise us, we all get killed, says Nan-ta-je.”

“What ponies?” asked somebody, of Micky.

“Pima and undah (white-man) ponies. Traveled far. Feet worn out.”

In their cavalry capes Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Bourke stole
forward, stooping. They had been sent for to consult with Major Brown,
Archie MacIntosh, and Nan-ta-je and Chief Big Mouth. Pretty soon they
went back. The march was resumed, toward the fires. The column had
spread out, ready to defend itself, but the White Mountain scouts kept
ahead. Chief Owl Ears’ Pimas were behind with the Captain Burns company.

The fires were still glowing at the Yavapai camp on the top of the
mesa, in a hollow where there were grass and water for the stolen
ponies. But save for the snorts of the ponies, all was silence. The
march had been made cautiously, and now the air had thinned; in the
east the sky had lightened. Morning was at hand.

“Yavapai cave near,” whispered Micky. The word had been passed along,
somehow. The march was halted again. Teeth chattered.

Next, Lieutenant Ross continued, with Archie and Joe and Nan-ta-je, a
dozen cavalrymen and the packers Jack Long, Jim O’Neill, Long Jim Cook,
Frank Monach, Slim Shorty――dead shots all, and fine Indian fighters.
Nan-ta-je led.

Captain Burns and Lieutenant Thomas, with their cavalrymen and most
of the Pimas, branched off on the back trail of the pony herd, to the
southeast. More Yavapai might be coming, from that direction, with
other booty.

The remainder of the column followed Lieutenant Ross. The White
Mountains had dropped their blankets about their waists, as if clearing
for action. Their faces were set alert, their nostrils flared, they
were straining every sense, to detect more “sign.” Micky pointed
downward; underfoot was a regular trail, disclosed in the gray light.

Their carbines and rifles at a trail, the Lieutenant Ross detachment,
led by Nan-ta-je, with Archie and Joe at his heels, had dipped out of
sight, as if over an edge. The last one of them disappeared. The faint
roar of rapid waters sounded.

“Canyon of Salt River there,” whispered Micky. “Yavapai cave, too.”

The crack of the canyon began to open――across were the opposite walls.
Cold mist was floating up. The trail conducted to the canyon, and down.
Major Brown and Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Bourke, with Tony Besias
the interpreter, Chief Big Mouth and others went forward to peer in. As
the column bunched, everybody tried to peer in. Micky craned forward,
with the scouts――he and Alchisé and Bobby Do-klinny; Jimmie edged on;
they all might look over the rim, for the officers were as curious as
the rest.

The roar of the waters rose louder. The river was far down, hundreds
of feet, at the bottom of a long crooked gorge with precipice walls.
Icicles hung from the crags. The trail entered, here, and clinging to
the niches and wearing away the sod of the few flat spots snaked at a
diagonal until, descending, it rounded a shoulder one hundred yards
below the rim, where the mists were wreathing.

It was as steep as the trail down which those Tontos had scampered,
into the Tonto Basin! Nobody was on it. The Ross party had gone.

“Mescal,” whispered Micky, sniffing. All the scouts were sniffing. A
sweetish scent was in the air, as if welling from below.

Apache mescal pits! Wood smoke, too! Smell it?

“Huh! Rancheria there,” grunted Bobby Do-klinny. “Close to Delt-che,
now. Where Nan-ta-je?”

Then――――

“Bang-g-g-g-g-g!”

The noise, echoing through the canyon depths and striking the faces
gazing in, fairly deafened. It sounded like a regiment, but it was only
a volley by the Lieutenant Ross party, unseen.

The little handful of advance guard had found the Yavapai!




XIV

THE BATTLE OF THE CAVE


The suddenness of the tremendous outburst paralyzed even Micky. As the
echoes rumbled and jarred, Jimmie’s heart beat in his ears. The hard,
quick voice of Major Brown broke in.

“Good heavens! What’s all that? Bourke, take the first forty
men――doesn’t matter who――support Ross as quick as you can, and wait for
the rest of the command. I’ll join you in short order. Hold your fire,
if possible, till I arrive. Tell Ross the same.”

“Yes, sir,” and the strong, active figure of Lieutenant Bourke sprang
to the trail. “Sergeant Turpin! Here!” Top Sergeant James Turpin was
the nearest to him. “Count off forty men, as they come, white or red,
and follow me. Quick, now!”

Chief Big Mouth yelped at his men in Apache; tossed away his blanket.

“Soldier-captain want men to fight Yavapai. Don’t let white men beat
you!”

There was a rush for the trail. Soldiers and Indians both were eager.
Sergeant Turpin had hard work. Jimmie saw no chance――――

“Sh! Come!” hissed Micky, at him.

Micky had slipped over the edge. Only his red head could be seen. His
feet were on a narrow ledge that, extending along, just held him.
Below, the canyon wall of stunted brush and rough gray rock and frozen
trickles fell sharply away, clear down to the cold river, a thousand
feet! It was a dizzy sight.

Clutching his rifle, planted as a brace to steady him while he half
kneeled, Micky twisted enough to beckon with his free hand.

“Come on. Leave your blanket.”

Micky’s blanket lay where he had peeled it. Without a thought of
hesitation Jimmie doffed his own roll, and squirming flat fumbled,
feet first, for the ledge; found it, and carefully lowered his body,
backward. Ticklish work, that was, for a fellow in a hurry――although
Micky apparently had done it as nimbly as a squirrel.

“Inju!” approved Micky, when Jimmie was safely settled. “Now wait.”

If anybody above had noticed, nobody took time to object. What with the
soldiers and scouts so eager to pass Sergeant Turpin’s count, and what
with the rear guard hastening up, and what with everybody preparing
weapons and clothing and re-forming for the prospective fight, there
were few thoughts upon the whereabouts of two such items as wild Micky
Free and his partner Jimmie Dunn. Micky was the kind who usually got a
front seat.

Now they too crouched here out of sight upon the narrow shelf. Scarcely
yet had the echoes of the thunderous volley died away. Listen!
Shrill, distant whoops and yells of defiance, also from below! But
there sounded a brisk command, above――the fast shuffle of feet and
the rolling of pebbles――and down the slanting trail that cut along
the sheer wall plunged, sliding and striding, the support company,
Lieutenant Bourke first, Chief Big Mouth next, and their file of men,
white and red mingled in a fast jumble, close pursuing, every carbine
and rifle ready for business.

Micky poised, crouching tense. Just as the tail of the little
procession swung past, slipping and steadying again he darted forward
on the shelf. Jimmie imitated. They scuttled so fast that they either
must keep going or tumble off. The shelf pinched out before it cut
the trail, but Micky never paused; he leaped, and landed like a goat,
on a smaller shelf, a mere piece of out-sticking rock; that gave him
purchase for another leap which took him to the trail; and turning
instantly he ran down.

Jimmie had no time for thought. What Micky could do, he could do――he
_had to_! He, too, leaped; barely touched the next rock with one
moccasin; sprang on, desperately, across space, brushing the wall;
landed on the edge of the trail, slipped, recovered (Whew!), and
gaining balance sped after Micky.

The trail descended, narrow and broken and icy in spots, at a steep
angle. Anybody who lost his footing on it would be a “goner”――he’d not
stop until, having bounced and rolled and hurtled, he was a fragment of
shattered bone and flesh in the roaring river below. It was a regular
Apache trail.

But Micky was running. The Lieutenant Bourke file were at a trot, and
already half-way to the turn around the shoulder. So Jimmie ran.

Micky caught the tail of the file before it rounded the shoulder, and
slackened to keep pace with it. Jimmie caught Micky just as the tail,
who was John Cahill the blacksmith, was disappearing like the lash end
of a dragged whip――but he did not go much farther.

The file were scattering like frightened quail, to a chorus of Apache
yells, and the clatter and swish of arrows, and a rapidly barked
command. Micky dived for the shelter of a jagged boulder, and Jimmie
followed suit. They all had arrived.

It was a broad shelf two hundred yards long, about half-way between the
bottom of the precipice and the top, and littered with boulders. On
right and left, behind the boulders, were the Ross men, their carbine
barrels pointing steadily at a high rock wall about in the middle of
the shelf, a little way out from the face of the precipice. Behind this
rock wall――which was ten feet high and built up smooth――was a large
opening: the Yavapai cave!

All the air resounded with whoops and screeches, and bow twang, and now
and then a gun-shot, coming from the cave. The Yavapais were inside.
Several might be glimpsed, between the end of the rock wall and the
mouth of the cave, darting about. They dragged a body or two back, out
of sight. The Ross volley had killed some of them.

“Big fight!” panted Micky. “Good. We are in time.”

“Hey! What in thunder are you doin’ down hyar?” scolded Joe Felmer,
from behind the next boulder――he and John Cahill together. “You want to
lose yore scalps?”

Micky only grinned impudently, and with an Apache yell answered the
Yavapais. The White Mountains were replying with taunt to taunt. Jimmie
said not a word. He may have done wrong, but here he was.

“Wall, you stay mighty close,” ordered Joe. “This’ll be no picnic.”

“What have you done, Black Beard?” called Chief Big Mouth, who was near.

“The pony thieves were dancing their deeds in the mouth of the cave.
Before they saw us we killed six of them.”

“Bueno,” grunted the fierce Big Mouth.

Lying low, Lieutenant Ross and Lieutenant Bourke and Nan-ta-je were
consulting together. Presently orders were passed from man to man,
on this side; and by ones and twos and threes the soldiers and
scouts spread out, in the gray dawn, selecting other positions here,
or bending, went scurrying across, against the shelter of the cave
rampart, to reinforce the other flank, while the carbines of their
fellows kept the Yavapais from shooting at them.

Listen, again! Amidst the cries of the enraged Yavapais there rose
the clink of carbine butt and shuffle of moccasins from marching men,
again. Major Brown was bringing down the rest of the troops. But Micky
had focussed his attention upon something else. The roving one eye of
his never missed a single point.

“Yavapai!” he uttered excitedly, half rising and pointing, and up he
jerked his rifle.

“Hooh!” exclaimed Big Mouth, craning.

John Cahill was the quickest. Away beyond, down the beetling canyon
wall, on an out-jutting rock there, stood a naked Indian with long
black hair. He whooped triumphantly. He had escaped, somehow, from the
cave――he was almost to the bottom and in a moment more――――

“Bang!”

Blacksmith Cahill’s carbine had spoken even while Big Mouth and Joe and
Micky were taking aim.

“Thut!” That was the bullet striking flesh. Off from the rock was swept
the Indian, and disappeared. Whether or not he had been killed, nobody
knew; but his body was found later, by some squaws.

“He will take no word to other Yavapai, I think,” pronounced Micky. “If
other Yavapai come and catch us here, then we are dead, too.”

The Major Brown soldiers were pelting in, breathless from the slippery
trail. Hither-thither they deployed, sneaking among the rocks and
darting across the face of the cave-mouth wall. Now a Pima of the
Bourke men stood up, daring the Yavapais while he peered for a
shot into the cave. A puff of smoke belched from a niche atop the
rampart――“Bang!”――and down he wilted, into a crumpled heap without
motion.

The Yavapais yelled louder――their “kill” yell. The Pimas and White
Mountains yelled back. The soldiers were not doing much shooting, yet.
Their officers were arranging them. Very soon the arrangement had
settled into this:

There was one line of crouching scouts and soldiers behind the many
boulders (which sometimes touched one another) not far in front of
the cave-mouth wall and on either flank as the ends curved in. These
were skirmishers. Back of them, clear along the edge of the immensely
broad shelf and extending around the ends of the shelf, and even among
the crags of the precipice, was a second line, in reserve, also behind
rocks, to cover the first line. Some of the rocks were low, some high;
they formed all kinds of shelter, from which one might shoot over and
around corners and through chinks. The Micky-Jimmie boulder, down from
the foot of the trail, in the second line, was about the size of a
roll-top office-desk; and squatting they might peep across the ragged
surface of it and see the whole length of the big shelf.

From either side Joe Felmer and Big Mouth wriggled in toward them, to
shoot between their rocks and this.

“Steady! Hold your fire till orders,” warned Sergeant Turpin and others.

For Antonio Besias the interpreter was speaking. He half rose, from
along the second line, and called in Apache.

“You must all come out!” he shouted. “The soldier-captain has many men
and many guns. He has found you, and you cannot get away. He does not
wish to kill you, but he will kill you unless you lay down your guns
and come out.”

Back behind his rock ducked Antonio, just in time to dodge a dozen
arrows, not to say several bullets. What a storm of hoots and shrieks
had drowned his voice!

“We are not afraid!” were retorting the cave warriors. “Yah yah! We are
not afraid,” they jeered, in Apache and Spanish. “It is you who will
die, you white men and you traitor moccasin-stealers who rob women.” To
accuse an Apache of stealing moccasins from squaws was the bitterest of
insults. “You will not live to see the sun rise. Our people are coming
up from below, and you will be fed to the buzzards. Yah!”

Nan-ta-je tried, in Apache and Mohave jargon both. But he, too, had to
duck, before he had finished telling them to send out their women and
children, anyway.

“We are not fighting those,” he said. “We fight only men. The
soldier-captain will wait until you send out your women and children.
They will not be harmed. It is not right――――” and his words were lost
in another burst of furious, insolent clamor.

Major Brown’s trumpeter orderly sounded: “Commence firing.” The high
strains lilted gaily from canyon wall to canyon wall, and back again.

“Take it easy, boys,” cautioned Sergeant Turpin, near the Jimmy squad.
“Let the front line do the work, but if you see a head, hit it. But
watch out for the women and children.”

The Yavapai warriors, behind their high rock rampart, taller than they
were, had difficulty in seeing out. Occasionally a head seemed to be
cautiously poked up, under an old hat, and the men of the front rank
promptly banged away at it.

Micky, squirming for a rest, leveled his battered rifle across the
top of the boulder, took aim with his one eye――“Bang!” Instantly an
answering shot so shrewdly scraped the boulder top that the stinging
rock splinters filled not only Micky’s one eye but both eyes of the
intently peering Jimmie.

“Fool Red-head, you; why you shoot?” scolded Big Mouth. “Squaw hold up
hat on stick, you shoot at that, man shoot at _you_!”

This trick did not deceive the soldiers long. The Yavapais quit it, and
from behind their wall began to send arrows by scores high into the
air, so that, curving downward, they might land among the rocks where
the soldiers and scouts lay.

Major Brown met this with a similar scheme. Nan-ta-je and Archie
MacIntosh wriggled forward, as rapidly as snakes, among the rocks, from
back line to front line, taking a message to soldiers and scouts. The
word was passed, for suddenly all the line elevated the carbines and
rifles a little higher and shot fast.

Long Jim Cook and Alchisé and Lieutenant Ross and the others in sight
were grabbing the cartridges spread by the handful beside them, and
using them as rapidly as triggers might be pulled. From the whole wide
cave floated dust; here and there the edges melted away.

“Hi! That’s the stuff!” muttered Joe. “Shoot into the cave an’ let the
bullets glance. That’ll fetch ’em.”

Now squaws and children were crying with pain and fright. The glancing,
re-bounding bullets favored nobody. The warriors howled furiously.
The lead was finding them, behind their wall. Worse, it was wounding
their wives and babies. So they stood up, to face it and try to divert
it――stop it, if possible.

Their scowling faces and naked or ragged-shirted shoulders might be
seen, above the breastworks, amidst the smoke and dust. They, too,
shot rapidly, point-blank, into the rocks before――and the squaws’ and
children’s arms were glimpsed, handing up to them loaded guns.

At the far end of the wall was a strange, wild figure――their medicine
man! Yes, because he wore a large head-dress of painted feathers and
a painted, beaded buckskin shirt hung with strings and shells, which
should protect him and his people from the bullets. He was fighting,
too!

Twice Joe Felmer drew bead on him and shot; only to mutter:

“I can’t tech that feller.”

“No. He is big medicine,” reproved Chief Bocon. “You had better save
your bullets, Black Beard.”

“Cease firing!” shrilled the bugle. And on a sudden there was nothing
doing, and almost a complete silence, except for crying children, until
Antonio Besias called again, in Spanish.

“You have fought well, but you can see that you have no chance. The
soldier-captain says for you to come out. Or if you are so foolish as
not to come out, send to us your women and children, that they may not
be hurt.”

The Yavapais did not answer. They had disappeared from the wall. Maybe
they were consulting together, about the peace summons. Everybody
waited expectantly. Jimmie, trembling with the excitement and the
horror of the fight, hoped that the people in the cave would now
surrender.

Ah, what was that? More defiance? The Yavapais were chanting――a high,
wild chorus, men and squaws both――and the shuffle and thud of a dance
could be heard.

“Hooh! They make ready to charge,” grunted Chief Big Mouth. “They sing
their death song. We must shoot straight, Black Beard.”

“Look out! It is the death song! They will charge!” were warning
Nan-ta-je, Bobby Do-klinny, Alchisé, and the other scouts, in Apache
and Spanish; and the soldiers repeated.

“Good!” pronounced Micky, his blue eye snapping. “It will be a fight
man to man. That is no fun, to shoot into a cave.”

The chant welled higher and stronger, and all the canyon echoed again.
Would they never come?

The front or skirmish line had shifted to their knees, guns at
shoulders――Lieutenant Ross had drawn his revolver.

“Steady, lads,” was cautioning Sergeant Turpin and his non-coms, to
this rear line. “Hold your places.”

“Here they come!”

A great cheer rang, for like jacks-in-the-box the Yavapai warriors had
appeared――some twenty or thirty of them――all together leaping atop
their rampart――strong, muscular, bronze-skinned fighters, bristling
quivers of reed arrows upon their left shoulders, strung bows in one
hand, rifles in the other, their eyes gleaming blackly, their raven
hair flung back, their painted faces scowling. They emptied their guns
in a crashing volley, and proceeded to ply their bows while the squaws
handed up fresh guns. The skirmish line of scouts and soldiers swept
the wall――the smoke eddied and hung――and out from the farther end of
the wall bolted a little bevy of other warriors, to break through for
freedom.

Up from their rocks jumped the skirmish line, and ran to head them
off. Long Jim Cook, Alchisé, Bobby Do-klinny, Nan-ta-je, Slim Shorty,
Lieutenant Ross, with his revolver――they all ran, shooting and yelling.

They were too many for the Yavapais. The top of the wall had been
cleaned――and back through the opening at the end hustled, pell-mell,
the escaping warriors, dragging cripples, but leaving, in the open
space there, half a dozen crimsoned, motionless forms.

The firing died away. The face of the cave precipice was beginning to
glow with sunlight. What next, now?

“Yavapai!” yelped Micky, springing up.

“Hooh!” exclaimed Big Mouth.

Micky had leveled his rifle――it missed fire. Now twenty paces before
their rock was standing, on another rock, a tall Apache-Mohave. How he
had sneaked this far, nobody might say. He must have run out from the
near end of the rampart, while everybody was watching the far end. The
smoke was very thick.

He did not know that there were two lines of enemy, and he had paused
a moment to whoop his triumph at having passed the first line. How
foolish! In a twinkle a score of carbines and rifles were focussed on
him――John Cahill aimed, Joe Felmer aimed, Big Mouth aimed――they could
not miss.

He was a fine, brave warrior――and he saw, too late.

“Soldados (Soldiers)!” he shrieked.

“Crash!” The guns all shot together; the bullets fairly lifted him and
drove him topsy-turvy, riddled through and through from head to waist.

“Crowed a leetle soon, that feller,” commented Joe.




XV

JIMMIE IS A VETERAN


The December sun was high and warm, flooding the broad rock-strewn
terrace half-way between river and sky, but the battle was still
going on. Now that the Yavapais had found out they could not break to
freedom, the second soldier line had been advanced, with a dash, to
join the first. As fast as it could be loaded and fired, every gun was
speeding bullet after bullet into the cave, filling it with a very
hailstorm of glancing, crisscrossing lead.

The cave was broad, and seemed to be shallow; and how anybody in there
could be alive was a mystery. But alive some of those Apache-Mohaves
were, for above the deafening staccato of a hundred carbines rose the
death chant and the shrieks and wails and groans and curses.

There was no token of surrender. It was a fight to the death. Cleverly
shielded in a niche at his end of the rampart the medicine-man, barely
seen through the smoke and dust, was shooting as before, helped by the
squaws who handed up guns to him; he certainly wore a charmed shirt.
Now and again a warrior bobbed up, fired blindly, and bobbed down.

Micky had long ago used the last of his cartridges. Like Jimmie, he
might only lie and watch.

“I told you there would be a good fight!” he shouted, in Jimmie’s ear.
“This is the end of these Delt-che people. They fight like wolves in a
pen, but it is no use.”

“Look!” shouted back Jimmie, pointing.

An Apache-Mohave boy――he was naked and chubby and could not have been
more than three or four years old――had run out, around the cave wall,
into the open space in front; and there he stood, sucking his thumb,
and scowling at the Americanos as if he wanted the noise stopped. Over
he keeled, struck by a chance bullet (for nobody would have shot at
_him_); but he was not dead――he lay and kicked and howled, and all the
firing ceased as if by magic.

From the soldiers’ line somebody darted forward. Hurrah!

It was Nan-ta-je. He reached the little boy, grabbed him and at one
jump was behind a rock again.

[Illustration: HURRAH! IT WAS NAN-TA-JE]

“Hurrah for Joe! Bully for Joe!” Even the Yavapais might have
cheered――but Nan-ta-je had been just in time. Scarcely had the uproar
of banging guns and howling warriors and shrieking squaws and wailing
children been renewed, when down from above rushed a tremendous
boulder, bursting like a bomb-shell upon the wall itself.

“Hooh!” ejaculated Micky, astonished.

The firing slackened, everybody outside looked up. On the very top of
the canyon, right over the cave mouth, were many figures――soldiers――and
Indians! Outlined against the sky, they appeared curiously small.

“By the great horn spoon, thar’s Burns!” exclaimed Joe Felmer.

Surely! Jimmie had forgotten about the Captain Burns and Lieutenant
Thomas company, but here they were, soldiers and Pimas, crowding the
rim of the cliff, and gazing over as far as they dared. They had
returned from following the pony trail, and had heard the shooting.
Several of the soldiers were hanging part way――waist far, that is――from
the edge, and held in place by other soldiers behind them were aiming
their revolvers. The cliff slanted back, above the cave, so that
persons above might see its threshold, and the rampart before――and, of
course, see the warriors between the two.

But that rock! Here came another! Watch out――soldiers had rolled a
second great boulder to the rim――they gave it a final shove, and
bounding, ploughing, hurtling, it brought an avalanche down the face
of the precipice and landing truly in the mouth of the cave burst
thunderously into a hundred pieces.

A third boulder followed immediately. Then two at once. The soldiers
and scouts below were cheering and shouting and shooting again, but
the crashing of the boulders was louder. The dust they made was denser
than the powder smoke――the mouth of the cave could not be seen. But
somewhere in that veil were the wretched Yavapais. Jimmie felt sick.

Even the death chant had ceased, across there. Anyway, it could not be
heard amidst the other uproar. The Captain Burns men worked hard. The
rampart was being crushed and buried. The Major Brown men were standing
up while they fired; they were so excited. Jimmie and Micky were
standing.

“Down, down with you!” bawled sergeant and corporal. “Wait till the
chargin’ order!”

The fight continued, but it was becoming a very one-sided fight.
Bombarded by the rock artillery from above, and by the carbines from in
front, and held by the cave wall behind, the Apache-Mohaves were being
literally wiped out of existence. They were replying not at all; their
brave medicine-man had disappeared amidst the murk――the occasional
rifts showed him no longer.

Still, it was dangerous, here in front of the cave, for the bursting
boulders, piling up in the entrance and shattering the rampart there,
sent their fragments flying like pieces of shell, causing the soldiers
to duck and laugh as they plied their cartridges.

Now the trumpet sounded――“Cease firing!” The shots died away as Major
Brown, standing, waved his arm at the Captain Burns company, on the rim
of the precipice over the cave, to signal them to stop rolling down
their boulders.

“Prepare to charge!” the orders were repeated, along the line below.
The sun was high, marking noon. The battle had been going on for at
least five hours!

“Prepare to charge!” Up sprang the line, and at the instant down
bounded the last of the boulders, which the officers above had been
unable to withhold. It gave one final tremendous jump, and landed well
out in front of the cave――“Boom!” Something struck Jimmie――yes, a piece
of it caught him as he blindly dodged――and whirling him around knocked
him head over heels.

He tried to pick himself up, and a fierce pain stabbed him in the right
leg, making him dizzy. He propped on one arm, among the rocks, while
his eyes cleared a little. Already the line was running and scrambling
forward, soldiers and scouts both; nobody now might pause to tend to
_him_. He stared, blinking weakly. What would happen? Were the Yavapais
away back in the cave, somewhere, and where they were waiting, to
defend it?

There was Micky, scooting about; and Nan-ta-je, and Joe, and Jack Long,
and Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Bourke, their carbines and revolvers
poised, as they advanced at double-quick. Right up to the top of the
huge pile of shattered rocks climbed the first man――Corporal Thomas
Hanlon, he――and glared in; jumped down, out of sight, and over and
around poured the others. But not a shot was fired. Evidently all the
Yavapais were dead. Oh!

With that, Jimmie sighed, everything swam before him, and he must have
fainted, because the next that he knew, Joe Felmer was sopping his face
from a canteen, and Micky was squatting beside, grinning.

From the cave sounded the hum of voices; the soldiers and scouts were
still busy there. The Burns soldiers and Pimas had come down.

“Hyar! You lie quiet,” ordered Joe. “You got a busted leg, I reckon,
an’ you don’t want to see inside that cave, anyhow. Wish I hadn’t,
myself.”

“Are they all dead, Joe?” quavered Jimmie, helplessly. Wow, how that
leg hurt! But it had been bound up, after a fashion, probably by Joe.

“Ev’ry buck, includin’ the medicine man. Plumb shot through, or
smashed; lots of ’em both. Some squaws an’ kids left,” grunted Joe.
“It’s what you might call a massacree. Now, you stay hyar, till
we’re ready to move ye. I’m needed yonder. Micky can nuss ye; both
o’ ye ought to be back with the pack-train――’tain’t no place for
boys――’speshully for one who can’t dodge rocks.”

Muttering, Joe (who really was kind-hearted) trudged away.

“Ah, I told you it would be a great fight, Boy-who-sleeps,” grinned
Micky Free, as he squatted. “Black Beard is angry, because you are the
only one of us wounded; but you will be a warrior, now.”

“Were you in the cave, Red-head?” asked Jimmie, also in Apache.

“Yes. It is very red. All the Yavapai warriors are dead. The medicine
chief is dead, under a rock. One old man was partly alive, and he died
soon. Some squaws and children hid behind large flat rocks, and under
dead people. They will be captives. You will see them. Delt-che is not
there; but he has lost his best warriors, and he never will make a good
fight again. I am glad we came, Cheemie.”

“What are the Pimas doing, Red-head?” asked Jimmie. For the Pimas, with
Chief Owl Ears in the center, were sitting in a bunch and wailing.

“Oh, those Pimas!” scoffed Micky. “They make medicine. They no good
any more. They find their Pima who was killed, and now their medicine
tells them they must not fight again till after they have mourned him
by singing and bathing and not eating. That will take several days. But
Apaches wait till they get home. I do not think much of the foolish
Pimas. And the Maricopas are the same. All no good――stop fighting and
make medicine. Huh!”

The soldiers and scouts worked fast, cleaning out the cave. The squaws
and children were placed under guard, the White Mountains and Pimas
were given whatever stuff――mescal, dried meat, skins, bows, arrows,
lances, guns, and so forth――that they could carry; the remaining
supplies (a great quantity) were piled up and set on fire.

Joe and Slim Shorty the cook came hurrying back, with a litter
contrived from two lances and a deer hide slung between.

“Got to get out o’ this place,” explained Joe. “Squaw says some other
squaws went down below, jest before the fight, to the mescal pits;
they’ll carry warnin’ to ’nother rancheria yonder an’ we’ll have the
hull caboodle on our backs if we don’t act fast. Easy, now, while we
put you in.”

Major Brown was in a hurry to climb up into the open and unite with
the pack-train. The long column ascended the winding trail. There were
eighteen captives――women and children, several of them wounded. Below,
in front of the cave the fire burned fiercely, consuming the supplies
and the many bodies heaped upon. Over seventy of the outlaws had been
killed. Some were left where they had fallen, in the cave.

After this no Indian would venture inside that cave. The skeletons of
the Delt-che people bleached, undisturbed for years.




XVI

THE GENERAL PLANS WELL


The campaign against the outlaw Yavapais, Tontos and Apache-Yumas was
by no means over, merely on account of the cave fight. But it was over,
for Jimmie.

Out went the troops and White Mountain scouts, again, this time from
Camp MacDowell. Jack Long came into the hospital there, just before the
start, and bade Jimmie good-by.

“You’ll be a fust-class packer yet, muchacho,” encouraged old Jack.
“Yessir; ’bout one more trip an’ I’ll promote ye. You might ask the
doctor to stretch yore legs a trifle, while he has you in hand. Some
day you’re liable to be a reg’lar patron, but that’ll be after my day.
I’ve a notion I’m due to peter out, what with these hyar up-hill,
down-hill, blow hot, blow cold meanderin’s, chasin’ ’Paches with
pack-mules.”

“Aren’t you feeling well, Jack?”

“Not extra pert, son. Yuh see, I’m kind o’ old. But I’ll stick as long
as I can. So ‘adios,’ an’ be good to yoreself.”

This was the last time that Jimmie saw old Jack. He died on the trail,
away over at the San Carlos River toward the White Mountain country,
and was buried there under some beautiful trees.

The general also paid Jimmie a visit in the MacDowell hospital.

“Well, my boy, how are you getting along?” he greeted, gazing down with
his peculiar grave smile.

“All right, thank you, sir,” asserted Jimmie, whose leg nevertheless
pained like sixty.

“The pack-mules returned in fine shape――fine shape,” abruptly spoke the
general. “Not a sore back, or a sore hoof. That’s the way mules ought
to be handled, always.”

Located here thirty miles east of present Phoenix, Arizona, Camp
MacDowell was not an unpleasing post at all. The Salt River, flowing
west, was a few miles below; and scarce a mile east the Verde or Green
River rippled down to join it. Hazy against the eastern horizon rose
the Four Peaks of the Mazatzal, in whose southern face had occurred the
cave battle.

The post buildings were thick adobe, with shingle or clay roofs; there
were cottonwood trees, for shade; and through the post ran a wide
acequia or irrigating ditch.

During all of January, February and March, in the new year 1873, the
hunt for the outlaws continued. In bitter weather they were chased
from hiding-place to hiding-place amidst the mountains, and given no
rest. Then, on the seventh or eighth of April, Hank Hewitt and a party
of the MacDowell packers appeared at the post. They were thin and
weather-worn: long-haired, long-whiskered, and grimy with smoke and
bacon-grease.

According to Hank great work had been done. Chief Chalipun――or “Charley
Pan,” as they called him――had sent word that he would come into Camp
Verde and treat with the general for peace. Already three hundred
other Yavapais and Hualpais had surrendered at Camp Grant.

Naturally, Jimmie was eager to get up to Verde, meet Joe, and the rest,
and report for active duty. He had thrown aside his crutch; the only
thing that bothered him now was a limp, and an occasional twinge when
he twisted his leg.

So he gladly rode north with Hank and others, by the military road up
the Verde River for Camp Verde, ninety miles.

He was just in time. The general was here; the last of the scouting
parties, under Lieutenant Almy and Lieutenant Bourke, had arrived from
the Tonto Basin; Chief Big Mouth, Alchisé, Nan-ta-je, Bobby Do-klinny,
and Micky Free were here, with the triumphant White Mountains; and
Chief Chalipun himself had brought in three hundred more Yavapais, for
the peace talk.

The happy Crook men all looked as tough as had Hank Hewitt’s squad. The
majority of them wore canvas suits, like the general’s; and the suits,
and the faces, and the hair and whiskers, told a tale of many smoky
campfires and hard marches.

“Hey!” Joe greeted. “That doc. stretched one leg more’n he did the
other! Old Jack said he’d left orders to have ’em both stretched alike.”

Poor old Jack! But Jimmie laughed bravely, and he and Joe shook
hands. Micky Free pattered across in his ragged moccasins, grinning.
His brick-red hair hung upon his shoulders, his red moustache had
increased, his one blue eye danced in his freckled tanned face.

“How, Cheemie!” he hailed. “You’re all right? Good! A three-legged deer
runs faster than a four-legged deer. You did not miss much. We had no
fights like the cave fight.”

There was not much time for hobnobbing. Chalipun was anxious to talk
with the general, and the general was anxious to settle matters with
Chalipun; and everybody wished to hear the confab. On this, the sixth
day of April, 1873, the talk occurred.

The general sat in a chair on the porch of the post headquarters. With
him were Captain and Brevet Colonel J. J. Coppinger, Twenty-third
Infantry, who commanded Camp Verde, a number of aides, and spare,
black-whiskered Antonio Besias, the Apache-speaking Mexican
interpreter; and Nan-ta-je.

The general also had grown whiskers. A sandy full beard it was, rather
thin on the chin but bunching thickly down from the cheeks.

“Tell Chalipun I am ready to hear what he has to say,” directed the
general, to Antonio.

Chief Chalipun, his black snaky hair cut square across the forehead and
confined by a band of red flannel, stood straight and spoke with fierce
energy.

“My people are done fighting the white people,” he said in good
Spanish. “We have come in because we want to be at peace. The Gray Fox
has too many cartridges of copper, and we have very few. We can fight
the Americans alone, but now our brothers are fighting against us, too,
and we do not know what to do. We cannot sleep at night, for fear of
being surrounded. We cannot hunt, because there are always soldiers
within sound of our guns. We cannot cook mescal, because the smoke and
the smell of our fires bring the soldiers to us. We cannot live in the
valleys; the valleys are full of soldiers. And when we hide in the snow
of the mountains, our Apache brothers follow us, with soldiers. We have
no place to go; our men and women and children are dying. We want to be
at peace with the whites, and be told what to do.”

“I have heard what Chalipun has said,” answered General Crook――Antonio
Besias translating, sentence by sentence, into Spanish. “It is good. I
will take him by the hand. If he keeps his promise to live at peace and
stop killing people, I will be the best friend he has ever had. If any
of his people have died, that was their own fault. I sent messages to
them, asking them to come in. When they refused, I had no way to do but
to fight them and kill them.

“The Yavapai have said that the white people began the war. It is no
use now to talk about who began the war. There are bad men among all
peoples. There are bad Americans, and bad Mexicans, and bad Apaches.
The thing to do now is to forget this, and to make a peace that will
last forever. It must be a peace not only between the red men and the
white men, but also between the red men themselves. There must be no
more fighting and stealing.

“The red men in Arizona shall live by the white man’s laws; they
shall be treated exactly as the white men are treated, and shall
not be punished unjustly. If they think that they are being treated
unjustly, they must tell the soldier-captain who has charge of their
reservation, and he will do right by them. They must remain where they
are put, as long as there are any bad Indians out in the mountains to
make trouble. They must not cut off the noses of their wives, as a
punishment. They shall have their own soldiers, to arrest drunkards
and thieves and other bad persons. They shall be allowed to work and
earn a living, like the white men. And the sooner they go to work, the
better, because when a man has nothing to do, he is liable to get into
mischief.”

With that, the general advanced and shook hands with Chalipun. The
assembled Yavapais seemed satisfied.

“It was a good talk,” agreed Jimmie and Micky.

“Where do you live now, Cheemie?” asked Micky, as the council broke up.
“There is no old Camp Grant, and there will be no Apaches to watch, at
the mouth of the Arivaipa.”

That was true. Old Camp Grant had been abandoned, and a new Camp Grant
established by the general, in a better country about fifty miles
southeast, half-way to Camp Bowie. The Arivaipas and Pinals, and the
Yavapais and Hualpais who had surrendered first, were being removed to
the new San Carlos reservation, over toward Camp Apache.

“Joe has his ranch, though,” reminded Jimmie.

“Yes; but he has no post to sell to. You come to the White Mountain
country, and we will talk Apache and hunt and go to war together.”

“The war is almost done, Micky. A big peace is being made.”

“No,” declared Micky, with a shake of his red head and a thoughtful
squint of his blue eye. “Chuntz is still out, and Delt-che is still
out, Naqui-naquis of the Tonto is still out. The Chiricahua have no
police, no soldiers, no anything over them; they do as they please.
This is not fair, the White Mountains think. Did you know that Major
Brown and Lieutenant Bourke have been to see Cochise?”

“No!”

“Yes,” asserted Micky. “They were sent down there by Cluke, before the
last scout. Cluke has had orders to let the Chiricahua alone, but he
wanted to get a talk with Cochise. Cochise is for peace, because he is
living where he chose to live. Maybe, though, his young men will grow
tired of one spot; then who will stop them, says Alchisé?”

“The general will,” assured Jimmie.

“Cluke will try hard,” wisely assented Micky. “He will follow them――his
trail has only one end. But you cannot turn Apaches into white men all
at once. I look to see more fighting.”

In April Delt-che the Red Ant made one last vengeful raid. But the
troops and scouts were hot after him. Major George M. Randall of Camp
Apache did the final work, this time. In the night of April 21 he
and his men climbed on hands and knees up the steep slope of Diamond
Peak in the Tonto Basin. Here, on the top of the Yavapais’ “medicine
mountain” they surprised the Delt-che band at dawn and drove them over
the edges of the precipice.

Delt-che and his surviving people were brought into the reservation at
Camp Verde.

At the various posts there was read, to the troops on parade, a message
from Division Headquarters:

                         GENERAL ORDERS NO. 7
                  HEADQUARTERS MILITARY DIVISION OF THE PACIFIC,
                              San Francisco, Cal., April 28, 1873.

    To Brevet Major-General George Crook, commanding the Department
    of Arizona, and to his gallant troops, for the extraordinary
    service that they have rendered in the late campaign against
    the Apache Indians, the Division Commander extends his thanks
    and his congratulations upon their brilliant successes. They
    have merited the gratitude of the nation. There is now occasion
    for hope that the well-deserved chastisement inflicted upon the
    Apaches may give peace to the people of Arizona.

                                By order of Major-General Schofield.

General Crook also issued congratulations, in General Orders No. 14,
Department of Arizona:

    The operations of the troops in this Department in the late
    campaigns against the Apaches entitle them to a reputation
    second to none in the annals of Indian warfare. In the face of
    obstacles heretofore considered insurmountable, encountering
    rigorous cold in the mountains, followed in quick succession by
    the intense heat and arid waste of the desert; not infrequently
    at dire extremities for want of water to quench their prolonged
    thirst; and when their animals were stricken by pestilence or
    the country became too rough to be traversed by them, they left
    them, and, carrying on their own backs such meager supplies
    as they might, they persistently followed on, and, plunging
    unexpectedly into chosen positions in lava-beds, caves and
    canyons, they have outwitted and beaten the wildest of foes,
    with slight loss comparatively to themselves, and finally
    closed an Indian war that has been waged since the days of
    Cortez.

Jimmie heard the orders read at Fort Whipple, where he was herding
horses for the quartermaster’s department. A scourge of epizootic had
played havoc with the army animals, and much of the cavalry required
remounting. The new horses were driven to Whipple from Los Angeles and
San Diego of California, in bunches of several hundred at a time, to
be divided among the posts.

This was rather a poky job, but if the war had ended, a fellow needs
must do something.

Joe Felmer had decided to quit scouting and ranching, and try
prospecting. So he had headed for Tucson.

The two thousand Yavapais, Tontos and Apache-Yumas at Camp Verde
were content. Everybody working, with worn-out tools they had dug an
irrigating ditch five miles long, to water fifty-seven acres of land,
and were putting in crops. The general had promised them that they
should be paid money, the same as white people, for whatever they
raised to sell, and they believed him.

From Camp Apache and the San Carlos agency there came encouraging
reports. In the south the Chiricahuas were quiet. Mexico complained
that stock was being stolen and run across the line into the Chiricahua
reservation; but Agent “Staglito” or Red-beard, who was Tom Jeffords,
declared that this was done by the Chief Whoa outlaws in Mexico.

Arizona did indeed seem at peace, for the first time in three hundred
years.




XVII

BAD WORK AFOOT


“Lieutenant Almy is killed! Almy’s been murdered!”

“What! Where?”

“At San Carlos! An Injun shot him. There’s been an uprising.”

The word sped rapidly through Fort Whipple. It was a noon of the first
week in June, and Jimmie had ridden in to dinner just on time to see a
courier dash across the parade-ground for the adjutant’s office.

Chief of Scouts Al Sieber appeared, walking fast. The men made a rush
for him.

“What’s that, Al? Almy killed?”

Al spoke tersely.

“Yes. At San Carlos. Chan-dezi (Long-ear) shot him. Chuntz was in it,
too; he and Cli-bic-li (Tied Horse) and Cochinay. The Chuntz gang have
been hanging ’round the agency, and sneaking in at night for food
and to make mischief. The Tonto and Yavapai had hatched a scheme to
kill the agency whites, this month, and take to the hills. But they
got hold of some whiskey on the reservation, and broke too soon. The
agency police started in to arrest the chiefs. Long-ear tried to lance
Agent Larrabee. Yomas, a friendly, knocked the lance aside. There was
a mob. Almy undertook to do the arresting himself. Went in among them
alone――bravest act I ever heard of. Long-ear shot him dead and made a
getaway, with Chuntz and Cochinay. That was May 27.”

“Does it mean a little scout, Al?” they hopefully queried.

“No, I think not, boys. The hostiles probably won’t leave the Gila
Canyon, there, and the troops and the police can corral them. But the
general’s going over.” Al saw Jimmie, and beckoned him apart. “Are you
fit for a trip to Apache?”

“Yes, Mr. Sieber.”

“That’s good. Joe Felmer asked me to keep an eye on you, whenever I was
around, and I’ve been thinking that it’s a little dull for a boy of
your calibre to be herding horses all the time. Well, the general and
some of the rest of us are starting for Apache in the morning, to look
into this fracas. They need horses, over there. The quartermaster’s
a good friend of mine, and I’ll just drop a hint that now might be a
proper time to send a bunch in, and you with it. That’ll help you to
learn the country. You’ll be forgetting how to speak Apache if you stay
here talking horse.”

“I’d like to go mighty well, Mr. Sieber,” Jimmie admitted.

“All right. Micky Free’ll be glad to see you. He asks about you every
time I run across him.”

Mr. Sieber hastened on. A fine man, was Al Sieber. He spoke Spanish
and considerable Apache; had lived among the White Mountains at Camp
Apache, and was a great favorite with Chief Pedro, there. “Man of
Iron,” the White Mountains called him.

He was of powerful build, and stern-looking; apt to be of few words,
right to the point; but he had a kind heart. He was now acting chief of
scouts, from Whipple and Camp Verde.

Lieutenant Jacob Almy dead――murdered? That was shocking news. Everybody
liked First Lieutenant Jacob Almy, of the Fifth Cavalry. Since he had
been put in charge of the Indians at San Carlos, by his gentle but
firmly just methods he had made many friends among them, also.

General Crook was energetic, as usual. He set out early the next
morning, on “Apache” his mule, with a small escort including Lieutenant
Bourke his chief aide, and Al Sieber. Jimmie and a Mexican herder
accompanied, driving the bunch of remount horses.

The loose horses traveled well. The trip of two hundred and fifty miles
through the roughest country in Arizona was accomplished in ten days.

There had not been much talk on the way over. The general acted
grimly determined, and in a hurry. Camp Apache was found saddened and
expectant.

Having turned his horses over to the post quartermaster, Jimmie
saw Micky waiting for him, beside the corral here back of the
parade-ground. Micky was sitting a spotted pony, and smiling broadly.
He certainly had the knack of always being on hand.

“Hello, Boy-who-sleeps. Have you come over to fight?” greeted Micky.

“Has there been a fight yet, Micky?”

“Only a little one, when those Chuntz men ran away. But we are ready.”

“Where is Chuntz?”

“He and Long-ear and Cochinay are hiding in the canyon of the Gila.
Tied Horse has been arrested. If we go after those others there will be
good fighting. The canyon is deep and long and full of caves. Would you
like another cave fight, Cheemie?”

“I’d like to get Chuntz and Long-ear,” vowed Jimmie.

“So would I. Come on. Pretty soon Sibi the Iron Man will talk with old
Pedro, and you and I will want to hear what they say. Sibi can talk
Apache, but he cannot talk as fast as Pedro, or as you and I. We will
help.”

The general was in confab at the post headquarters with Major Randall
and Al. There were fifteen hundred Pinals, Arivaipas, Yavapais, and
Tontos at San Carlos――many of them now very restless under guard.
Nobody might foretell just what was about to happen.

Soon after Jimmie had begun a sort of a reunion with Alchisé and
Nan-ta-je and Bobby Do-klinny and others, at the Camp Apache agency
building, Mr. Sieber came riding by.

“Jimmie,” he summoned, with crook of finger, “you ride along with me. I
may have use for you. Bring Free, if you want to.”

“I’m going for a talk with Pedro,” he continued, in Spanish, so that
Micky might understand. Micky knew no English. “If he talks too fast
for me, I want one of you to explain. And the same way if I speak with
words that he doesn’t know.”

“We will talk for you, Sibi,” answered Micky.

Old Chief Pedro of the White Mountain Apaches was, as everybody said,
the wisest, most sensible chief among the tame Indians. They found him
at home, sitting upon a blanket in the shade of a tree near his house.
Since he had come back from Washington he had put up a board shanty,
to live in instead of a brush wickyup. He was still wearing a white
shirt――which was white no longer.

In spite of the soiled ragged shirt, a splendid old Indian he looked to
be.

“You are well come, Sibi,” he remarked. “Sit down and we will talk. But
who is this boy with one leg shorter than the other? I do not know him.”

“He is a friend of mine, and of Micky Free,” replied Al. “He was
captured by Geronimo, and lived with Cochise and Geronimo. He was a
soldier at the cave fight when the Yavapai were destroyed. He is a
brave boy. The leg was made short by a wound. We may speak freely
before him.”

“That is good,” answered Pedro. “I know you, and I know this wild
Red-head. Now I know this other. I remember who he is. What have you
come to say, Sibi? Did Cluke send you?”

They all sat down: Al beside Pedro, but Jimmie and Micky a little way
apart from them, as was correct when in the company of chiefs.

“The Gray Fox is talking with Major Randall,” said Al. “That was bad
work at San Carlos, Pedro. You are a wise chief, and you know Apaches.
General Crook wishes to do what is right by all the Apaches. He wishes
peace, so that we may all live together and prosper. No one prospers
long in war. What is the best course to follow with these bad Indians?
Can they be made good?”

“Let us talk in Mexican, Sibi,” spoke Chief Pedro. “And if you or I
use words that are not understood, the Red-head or maybe the short-leg
boy will explain. This talk must be very clear. Now, there is no way
to make those bad Apaches good, except to kill them. The bad Indians
do not know what I know; they have not been to the cities of the Great
White Father and seen how powerful he is. I will give Cluke one hundred
and fifty of my warriors, smart fighters all. Let Cluke send them into
the Gila Canyon. The Gray Fox is brave, and his white soldiers are
brave, but the Chuntz people will go where his soldiers cannot follow;
this is summer, and they know every spot in the canyon, and will hide.

“But my Apaches will find them, and kill some of them. Then my men
will come home, and rest a while, and go out and kill more. By winter
time there will be fewer of the mean Apaches; and if they do not all
die during the winter, in the spring we will kill the rest of them.
But if Cluke waits till winter, before that time the bad Indians will
have made much more trouble at San Carlos, and perhaps among my White
Mountains, and perhaps among the Chiricahua.”

“I will think on what you have said,” responded Al.

“It will be no use to send you or any other person into the canyon, to
spend words on those people,” proceeded Pedro. “They will burn him, and
will send back an old woman to tell Cluke to give them more of his
men, to burn. Now I am done, Man of Iron. I cannot read from paper, but
I can look at the actions of a bad Indian, and can read how he feels
and what he will do.”

“Humph!” mused Al, as with Jimmie and Micky he rode away. “I believe
old Pedro is right.”

The next afternoon the general held a talk at the San Carlos agency
with Es-kim-en-zin, of the Arivaipas, and with those Tonto and Yavapai
chiefs who had not joined Chuntz.

The San Carlos agency was seventy miles southwest from Camp Apache,
where the San Carlos River emptied into the Gila. This San Carlos
reservation was really an addition to the southern boundary of the
White Mountain reservation. It was sixty miles wide and extended clear
to the New Mexico line, one hundred and twenty miles. The eastern half
was rough and mountainous, but the western half, along the Gila River,
was flatter and more open――especially around the agency, where the
Indians were supposed to live.

The majority of the Apaches did not like it. They said that it was low,
hot and unhealthful.

“I am sorry to hear that there are bad hearts at work among you,” spoke
the general. Concepcion Equierre translated. “They have deceived you
into believing that the white people might be killed, and that the
Apaches might be free to rob and murder again. Now the innocent have
suffered. Lieutenant Almy, one of your best friends, has been killed,
and you all are prevented from going about on hunts and visits.

“I want you all to live as free as the white men. I do not expect you
to stop being red men. I want your women to gather mescal and seeds and
roots, and your men to hunt deer and turkeys without fear; for these
things are good to eat. But you cannot do this without fear, when there
is war.

“Now about these Chuntz and Long-ear bad men. I have thousands of
soldiers, and many Apache scouts, and they are enough to give the bad
Apaches no rest. But I want you to punish your own bad people. You must
send out your own warriors, and keep sending them out until Chuntz
and Long-ear and Cochinay are killed or captured, and their people
surrender. It is not right that a few bad men should work so much harm
to everybody. I hope that you will consider what I have said. I am
done.”

All that summer of 1873 and into the next summer the San Carlos and
White Mountain police, assisted by cavalry and infantry detachments
patrolling the hills, harassed the outlaws. Wherever the Chuntz
people moved, in the Canyon of the Gila, the reservation Apaches were
ferreting them out.

Some of the outlaws sent in word that they were ready to surrender.
They were told that they might come in if they brought Chuntz, Long-ear
and Cochinay. Finally the outlaws were hunting their chiefs.

Cochinay was killed on May 26, 1874; Long-ear was killed on June 12;
Chuntz the villain was killed on July 25. A whole sackful of heads was
spilled by the Apache police upon the ground in front of Major John B.
Babcock’s headquarters, at San Carlos, to prove that “peace” was being
made!

Over at Verde, Delt-che had broken out and had been killed, in July.

So by mid-summer of 1874 the bad-hearted chiefs seemed all out of the
way, at last. Old Cochise, also, had died, in June, on the Chiricahua
reservation, and Taza was the head chief. He could be depended upon,
for peace.

Meanwhile Jimmie was helping to run the first telegraph lines in
Arizona, connecting military post with military post. He stayed in
telegraph work some years――during which a number of things happened.




XVIII

“CLUKE” GOES AWAY


The general’s plans had apparently worked out all right, when for no
especial reason, as far as Arizona could understand, the management of
the reservations was changed from the Military Department of Arizona to
the civilian agents appointed by the Indian Bureau at Washington. The
soldiers were to be retained only as guards and not as instructors.

The Indian Bureau started in to move the Apaches about. That had been
tried two years before, when in New Mexico Chief Victorio’s Warm Spring
Apaches had been ordered from the Cañada Alamosa to the hated Tularosa
tract. But General Howard had obtained from the President permission
for them to live again at their beloved Cottonwood Canyon.

In the summer of 1874 it was reported that the Camp Verde Indians were
to be taken over to the San Carlos reservation. The Camp Verde lands
were desired by the white people.

General Crook had much opposed this scheme. He was powerless, but he
sent a protest to the War Department, saying:

    There are now on the Verde reservation about fifteen hundred
    Indians; they have been among the worst in Arizona; but if the
    Government keeps its promise to them that it shall be their
    home for all time, there will be no difficulty in keeping
    them at peace, and engaged in peaceful pursuits. I sincerely
    hope that the interests that are now at work to deprive these
    Indians of this reservation will be defeated; but if they
    succeed, the responsibility of turning these fifteen hundred
    Apaches loose upon the settlers of Arizona should rest where it
    belongs.

All that winter of 1874–1875 the general (who had given his word) and
Chief Chalipun strove against the threatened change to the San Carlos
reservation. But it was of no avail.

In the spring of 1875 the general had been transferred to the
Department of the Platte, with headquarters at Omaha, Nebraska. He had
pacified the Snakes in the Northwest and the Apaches in the Southwest;
now he was needed to subdue the bold-riding Sioux and Cheyennes of the
great northern plains.

He took with him Lieutenant John G. Bourke, chief of staff, and other
officers whom Jimmie so well knew. Tom Moore, chief packer, was to
follow with the best of the pack-trains. The Third Cavalry already was
in the north; and the Fifth Cavalry was soon to go.

“Cluke has been sent away. The Apaches have lost their best friend,”
mourned Chief Chalipun; and submitted to being removed. So the Yavapais
and the Apache-Yumas at Camp Verde left their ditch and fields, and
went to a strange region――that of San Carlos.

Young Second Lieutenant George O. Eaton, of the Fifth Cavalry, was the
only man whom they would trust, to take them over. Even at that, on the
way they had a fight among themselves, and eighteen were killed and
fifty wounded.

The White Mountains were moved, next, down to the San Carlos. Their
reservation was to be closed.

Whatever the reasons of the Indian Bureau, Chiefs Pedro, Pi-to-ne and
others objected bitterly.

“These are our lands,” asserted Chief Pedro. “They were promised to
us by the great one-armed soldier-captain, Howard. When I went to
Washington, our White Father there told me again that if we were good,
these should be our lands forever. We have been good. We have done
as we were asked to do. We have raised more crops than all the other
Apaches put together. We have helped the soldiers fight our brothers.
We are contented here. But we are mountain Indians and we cannot live
down there in the low country where the water is bad and the air is
hot. The Pinals and the Arivaipas are not friendly to us, and the
Yavapai ways are not our ways.”

Finally eighteen hundred of them were herded down to the San Carlos.
Some hid out, and after a time many stole back from the San Carlos. The
soldiers at Camp Apache permitted them to stay.

The next year, 1876, the Chiricahua reservation was broken up. It
had no soldiers and no Indian police, and was too near the border.
Whiskey-sellers and outlaw Apaches sneaked in, but Taza said that if
the American government would help him he could keep the bad people out.

“Why does Washington punish good people on account of bad people?” he
asked, when told that the Chiricahuas must go.

At last, with about three hundred of his Chiricahuas, he went to the
San Carlos. Geronimo agreed to go, too; but he and Chief Whoa, who
had come in from Mexico, and old Nana, and Nah-che, and four hundred
others, ran off into Mexico.

The next spring they returned to visit Victorio’s Warm Spring band at
the Cottonwood Canyon reservation. Because of this, Chiefs Victorio and
Geronimo were arrested, and all the Indians were started, under guard,
for the San Carlos.

On the way Chief Victorio escaped, with forty warriors. After this he
made war on the Americans until he was killed in 1880. He claimed that
he had done no wrong, and that he never could trust the Americans again.

“The policy of concentration,” was what the Indian Bureau called its
scheme to place all the Apaches upon the San Carlos reservation. “A
policy of concentrated trouble,” Al Sieber said.

And that proved true.

Soon the San Carlos reservation contained about five thousand Indians,
good and bad; some working, some lazy. There were Yavapais, Tontos,
Coyotes, Apache-Yumas, Chiricahuas, Pinals, Arivaipas, Sierra Blanca
(White Mountains), and even a few Hualpais. They had different habits.
The Indian Bureau seemed to think that one Apache was just like another
Apache, but General Crook had known better.

Whiskey was being smuggled in or manufactured; white miners and
ranchers and prospectors were trespassing, and large sections of the
reservation had been lopped off for other uses; the agents were accused
of selling the Indians’ supplies outside, instead of distributing them
properly or storing them; the Indians quarreled among themselves, and
even some of the White Mountains had revolted.

So in the early morning of April, 1882, Jimmie Dunn, riding telegraph
line up along the Gila River from Camp Thomas, had plenty to think
about. Jimmie was a young man, now, with a limp (an honorable limp) but
with a good hard head.

Camp Thomas had been established just at the southeast corner of the
San Carlos reservation, or thirty-two miles up the Gila from the agency
quarters. Jimmie’s business as line-man was to ride between Thomas and
the second Camp Grant, and to see that the line was in order.

There was still constant trouble at San Carlos. The Apaches there
had no faith in the Government. The good ones saw little reason in
remaining good. Their only reward had been San Carlos, and they hated
San Carlos. The Chiricahuas especially were restive. A long time ago
Taza had died, while in Washington trying to talk for his people.
Geronimo was head chief, and Nah-che was his partner in everything.

Parties frequently broke away from the reservation, for Mexico. At this
very moment Chief Whoa and Nah-che were out again, with a band. They
had fled to join old Nana, who at almost ninety years was living wild!

Geronimo and two hundred of his Chiricahuas, and Loco and the Warm
Spring Apaches, were at the San Carlos, but likely enough they would
run away, too, whenever they took the notion. They despised the Taza
people as “squaws” and cowards; the other Indians, in turn, despised
them as trouble-makers.

General Crook was in the north. He had conquered the Sioux and the
Cheyennes, and was busy keeping them at peace.

General O. B. Willcox, of the Twelfth Infantry, commanded in Arizona.
The Sixth Cavalry had replaced the Fifth Cavalry. But there were not
enough soldiers, most of the white interpreters and scouts had been
discharged, and the Apache police were supposed to maintain order upon
the reservation.

The military telegraph had connected all the army posts. There was a
civil telegraph, also――for the railroad had arrived.

The Southern Pacific Railroad crossed the southern part of the
Territory, about by the old stage route. Through the northern part
of the Territory the Atlantic & Pacific Railroad was crossing the
great Mogollon Plateau, where General Crook had broken a trail in the
campaign of ten years ago.

The telegraph line had puzzled the Apaches very much, as “big
medicine.” They called it “pesh-bi-yal-ti”――“the talking wire.” But
they were learning to interfere with it by cutting it, and inserting a
little piece of rubber. Then the wire quit “talking.”

A sharp eye was required to see such a break, which usually was near
a pole or tree up which the Indians had shinned. Jimmie had the eye.
Also, he was not afraid. He was accustomed to the country, and to the
Apaches.

Sometimes he saw parties of them. If they were running away, they
were in too much of a hurry to stop. If they were hunting, they were
friendly. However, the run-aways did not cross hereabouts. They took
another route, further east, along the New Mexico western border.

As a rule, Jimmie rode with a partner; but to-day his partner was ill.
Jimmie felt capable of repairing any break by himself, whether the
Indians had made it, or whether the limb of a tree had fallen. The line
had to be ridden, anyway.

The military road was very quiet. It stretched on, up hill and down,
through timber and open parks, with the Gila River on the left, and far
on the right, or the south, the dark Pinaleno Mountains, beyond which
lay Camp Grant. Pretty soon the telegraph line would head down there.
He would ride on until he met another rider, coming from Grant.

The San Carlos reservation was behind, to the northwest, on the other
side of the Gila; and away in the north, beyond a high ridge, was the
White Mountain reservation, with old Camp Apache that was now Fort
Apache.

He was about ten miles out of Camp Thomas, and jogging easily. The only
moving things that he had sighted were rabbits and squirrels, and once
or twice a deer. But now when from a rise he looked across the Gila, he
saw, in the distance to the north, a great cloud of dust.

That froze him. It appeared mighty suspicious. Many people, and horses
or cattle, would stir up such a dust. In that case, Indians! This was
not white man’s country.

If they were Indians, they were moving very fast, and striking east,
like run-aways from San Carlos. Or was it cavalry, riding hard? But if
it was cavalry, that meant Indians, too.

Well, he’d soon find out. The Gila, running bank full, was some
distance below; the country beyond, approached by the dust, was open
and rolling. He had a fine view. So sitting his horse, Jimmie whipped
off his field-glasses and leveled them. Ash Flats sprang into the
field; and here surged the brown dust, and under it, into the clear of
a little swale, streamed a mass of hastily scurrying figures.

Indians, sure!




XIX

JIMMIE SENDS THE ALARM


First there were fifteen or twenty mounted warriors, as an advance
guard. Then there followed about one hundred and fifty other warriors,
all with rifles, and stripped and painted to fight. Then there trooped
and jostled a large procession of squaws and children, mostly afoot,
herding a tremendous bunch of loose horses and mules, and packing camp
stuff.

There must have been five hundred squaws and children, and six or seven
thousand animals, not counting dogs! A small guard of warriors were
riding the rear flanks of the march. It certainly was a big outbreak of
the San Carlos Chiricahuas, and they were hot-footing for Mexico!

Whew! Where were the police and the soldiers, then? Jimmie swept the
landscape for sign of them, and saw nothing. He clapped his glasses
closed. His eyes leaped to the nearest telegraph pole. His duty was
clear. He ought to send word at once to Camp Thomas.

Just as he was about to swing down, tie his horse, and climb the pole,
he sighted, with a last glance of his eye, four Indians swimming the
river below, with their ponies. Either he had been seen, or else they
were coming to cut the wire. Maybe both.

Already the foremost was urging his pony up out of the water’s edge,
to the bank on this side. Of course they had seen him, as he sat! But
he still had a chance to race back, to the fort, and give the alarm.
No; that would lose an hour, or more. Likely enough the wire from San
Carlos to the fort had been cut; at the rate that those Chiricahuas
were traveling, every minute was precious if they were to be headed off.

He ought to climb the pole and tap the wire. If he could not raise
Thomas in the one direction, he might raise Grant, in the other. But
he’d have to work fast. Lives were at stake, for no settler could stop
those bronc’s.

Jimmie resolutely tumbled off his horse, in a jiffy strapped on his
climbing irons, left his horse, and his rifle in scabbard (a rifle
would be of no use up there), and ran for the pole. And this was
a brave act, for he might easily have run, horseback, in another
direction――back to Camp Thomas, or to hide in the farther timber until
the Indians had gone after cutting the wire.

At top speed he shinned up the pole, and digging in, rapidly unshipped
his line-man’s little sending kit, in order to break in on the wire and
call the Camp Thomas operator. He did not dare to watch the movements
of those four Indians.

No doubt the four were coming full tilt, up from the river and through
the brush; but if he tried to watch them he would be nervous and make
false motions. The thing for him to do was to clamp on to that line,
and _get there first_. That required swift, sure work, and all his
attention. So he endeavored not to think of the four Indians.

Never had he felt so high in the air, and so much exposed. Almost any
other pole would have been better, but none had been as near and
convenient. He made a splendid mark, like a hawk roosting in a dead
tree.

“Ping!” A bullet! They were shooting at him! “Pung!” That was the
report, following. “Whing!” “Pung!” But he must not mind the warning.
He needed only a minute more. As he worked rapidly his fingers seemed
all thumbs. He did not dare to take his eyes off them. “Thud-bang!” The
bullet shook the pole, and the report was so close that the shooter
could not be far away. He heard shrill yells, somewhere below――――

“Whack-bang!” A heavy hammer fell on the top of his shoulder, and well
nigh knocked him from his perch. He clung desperately, wrapping himself
tighter――his shoulder stung and was oddly warm――but it was his left
shoulder, he was on the wire at last, and was sending with his right
hand.

“D,” “D,” “D,” he called Camp Thomas.

There was thud of hoofs below, a chorus of angry yells――“Whish-bang!” a
bullet fanned his cheek――“Ping-bang!” another cut a large sliver from
the pole close to his neck――“D,” “D,” “D,” he kept calling, even while
he glanced aside.

The four Indians were into the road and tearing for him, rifles leveled
upward――he saw smoke, heard the bullets――but the Thomas operator had
answered.

“I――I D,” “I――I D.”

Now for the ten seconds’ grace!

“Injuns out. Big band――――”

Camp Thomas broke.

“Repeat. Who are you?”

“Too nervous. Steady, boy,” cautioned Jimmie, to himself. He was not an
expert operator, anyway. But this was a crisis.

He hastily started to repeat. The four Indians were right at the foot
of the pole, yelling at him.

“Get down, get down!” they ordered, furiously, in Apache. He gazed
full into their upturned, painted faces――and into the muzzles of their
rifles; and he grinned sickly and continued to send.

“Injuns out. Big band. Sig., Dunn. Injuns out. Big Band. Sig., Dunn.
Injuns out. Big band. Sig., Dunn.”

Would Camp Thomas never O. K.? Would those muzzles below never belch
their balls and rip him and hurl him headlong?

“No tiras (Don’t shoot)!” suddenly yelped one of the voices, from one
of the painted faces.

Nah-che! And Chato (Flat-nose), too! The muzzles were lowered――the
scowling Chato’s last of all.

“Come down, chi-kis-n,” ordered Nah-che.

But Jimmie only shook his head, while he worked his key.

“Come down or we shoot you down,” blared Flat-nose; and he drew a
deadly bead.

But Thomas had broken in at last.

“O. K. Where?” ticked Camp Thomas.

“Ash Flats. Head east. Bronc’s and squaws.”

“O. K. Get off wire,” answered Camp Thomas.

“Bang!” sounded Chato’s rifle, and Jimmie’s little instrument flew
into fragments. But Jimmie cared not, now. He went sliding painfully
down; landed right in the midst of the four Indians, staggered――two of
them were afoot, waiting for him――they sprang at him, and wrenched his
revolver from its holster. They acted as though they were going to kill
him, or take him along, when Nah-che interfered.

“No!” he ordered, while Chato scowled. But Nah-che was obeyed, because
he was a grown warrior and son of Cochise. “What were you doing,
chi-kis-n?” he demanded.

“I talked with Camp Thomas,” answered Jimmie, defiantly.

“What did you say?”

“I said that the Chiricahua were running away.”

The three other Indians murmured angrily. The two young bucks besides
Nah-che and Chato Jimmie did not know. He had not seen Nah-che and
Chato for several years, either. They had grown. Chato was ugly,
because of his flattened nose, but Nah-che was supple and handsome.

“No matter,” said Nah-che, to his companions. “This is my brother.
He did right. He is brave. He shall not be harmed. Give him his gun
and let him alone. We are not afraid of the soldiers.” He addressed
Jimmie. “Yes, chi-kis-n, we are running away――all the Warm Springs and
Chiricahua except the Taza band. There are many of us, and we know
there are not enough soldiers in Arizona to stop us. We can whip the
Camp Thomas soldiers first, and whip the rest as they come. Geronimo is
with us, and Loco, and one hundred warriors who belong to Juh and me.”

“Why are you running away, chi-kis-n?” asked Jimmie. “I thought you and
Juh were already run away. People said you were in Mexico.”

“We were,” replied Nah-che. “We live in Mexico. That is the only place
for us. Nana is there, too; and Chihuahua. Now Juh and I have come up
to help Geronimo and Loco get away.” He began to talk hotly. “Why do we
all run away? That is a foolish question. We will not be moved around
so, and put in sickly places among Indians who don’t like us. We would
have stayed at our home in the Dragoon Mountains, and have been happy.
A few of us drank whiskey sold us by bad white men, and we all were
blamed. The San Carlos is not a good place. The White Mountains tell
false stories about us, the agents steal our rations from us and we go
hungry. The white traders would rather sell things to us, and cheat us.
So Juh and I ran away. Now there is talk that the white men want all
the San Carlos country, because of mines, and that the Apaches will be
taken away, many miles, to a strange land. Geronimo says he has been
told to come to Camp Thomas, for a talk――and if he goes there, he will
be put in prison again; maybe killed, like Mangas Coloradas was killed.
We would rather die on the warpath than die in prison or in a strange
land. So we all, the Chiricahua and the Warm Springs, except Taza’s
squaw-people, will live in the Mexican mountains. There we can lead
our own life. The Mexicans dare not fight us, we have plenty guns and
plenty food, the American soldiers cannot cross the line, to follow
us.”

“Don’t you fool yourself,” retorted Jimmie. “Crook will come, and he
will go anywhere.”

“Cluke is a good man. If he had stayed, maybe there would be peace
instead of war,” responded Nah-che. “There has been one other good man,
at San Carlos. He was the soldier-captain Chaffee. Why does the White
Father at Washington let us be cheated, like children, by dishonest
agents? Why does he listen to bad tongues, that say we must not stay
where we were promised we might stay? But good-by, chi-kis-n. Now there
is war between us. The Chiricahua are never coming back to be cheated
again. You have been chi-kis-n; but you are American and I am Apache,
so when we meet in war, look out for yourself. It will be man to man.
We are no longer boys.”

Nah-che wheeled his pony. With a whoop, away they four tore,
flourishing their guns.

Jimmie gazed after only for a moment. Then he was aware that all his
left shoulder and arm were red and paining. The bullet had slashed a
furrow an inch deep through the muscles of the upper arm, but the blood
was clotting and he did not pause to tie a bandage on.

He unstrapped his climbing irons, kicked them off as he stooped to pick
up his revolver, and hobbled for his horse; mounted and raced for Camp
Thomas.

Camp Thomas had only two reduced companies of the Sixth Cavalry.
When he got there, the two companies were drawn up in column of twos
in front of the adjutant’s office, as if ready to start out. Micky
Free was here, with a party of White Mountain and Tonto scouts. The
telegraph instrument was clicking rapidly.

“Hello, Cheemie!” intercepted Micky, gaily, in his Spanish. “You been
fighting, what?”

“Not much,” panted Jimmie, pulling short. “When do you start?”

“Pretty soon, when the talking wire is done. They are telling what you
said, to the other posts. You did good work, Cheemie. The wire from San
Carlos is cut, but Tom Horn (he was a white scout and packer at San
Carlos) brought more news by horse, and Sibi has been here. Now they
are out, spying on the trail, and we will follow. It has been a big
outbreak.”

“Were you there, Micky?”

“No; but I heard it, and the agency Indians have signaled, and Tom Horn
was there. All the Chief Loco Warm Springs and the Geronimo Chiricahua
have gone. They number seven hundred. The trouble was this. You know
Stirling?”

Jimmie nodded. Mr. Stirling was chief of the agency police. These were
not scouts, but Indians appointed by the agent as policemen.

“Some days ago Stirling tried to arrest a Chiricahua who had been
making whiskey. The Chiricahua ran and Stirling missed him and hit a
squaw. That turned the Chiricahua bad, although Stirling said he was
sorry. They have been getting bad anyway, because there is talk that
all the Indians are to be moved far away, so that the Americans can dig
coal on the reservation. Last night Juh and Nah-che sent in word that
they were near, waiting to help Loco and Geronimo. This morning the
Chiricahua and Warm Springs began to pack up, and Stirling and Navajo
Bill, a policeman, charged them alone, to break them up. The Chiricahua
had been waiting for this. They shot Stirling one hundred times at
once, and a squaw cut off his head and it was kicked about like a ball.
He was a very brave man, that Stirling. Navajo Bill wasn’t hurt, but
another policeman was killed, and one Chiricahua. Now the Warm Springs
and Chiricahua are out――and I think they will keep right on going.”

“Yes,” answered Jimmie soberly. “I met Nah-che. He came while I was
talking on the wire. He says that all the soldiers in Arizona cannot
stop them.”

“That is true,” agreed Micky. “They have two hundred fine warriors,
and better guns than the soldiers’ guns. They nearly all have those
guns that shoot sixteen times, and lots of ammunition. The soldiers are
scattered, and before we get together, and the New Mexico soldiers get
together, Geronimo will be into Mexico. What was Nah-che doing on this
side the river? The squaws and children cannot cross, with the horses.
It is too high.”

“I think Nah-che brought a party over to drive me away or kill me. He
had Chato with him, and two others. But he made them quit shooting at
me. We are chi-kis-n.”

“That won’t count again,” warned Micky. “So watch out, next time. This
is war, and long war. Now you’d better get your arm fixed, Cheemie. The
Loco and Geronimo band will have to keep on, up the river, until they
can cross. They will strike south, near New Mexico, until they cross
the border. There are no soldiers, ahead in that country, to stop them;
and they wouldn’t care if there were. But we’re to meet Sibi and follow
and fight as well as we can, under the ugly long-nosed man.”

That was Lieutenant George Gatewood, of the Sixth Cavalry, at Thomas.
He came in a hurry out of the adjutant’s office.

“All ready,” he barked, to the junior lieutenant, his second in
command, and swung into the saddle.

“’Ten-_shun_! Column――march! Trot!”

The bugle sounded briskly, and away they went, in long column, the
red and white guidons flapping, Micky and his scouts galloping to the
advance.

Jimmie proceeded to have his arm bandaged, and to talk with the
operator. Then he reported at headquarters, but he had little to tell
that was not already known. He felt, though, that he had done his duty.

While his shoulder was healing, the troops of Arizona and New Mexico
struck the hostiles several times, down at the border, but did not turn
them.




XX

THE GRAY FOX RETURNS


“Crook is coming back! General Crook is coming back!”

That was the word at Camp Thomas, in this the early summer of 1882, a
couple of months after the Geronimo outbreak.

The Third Cavalry already had arrived from its northern plains
campaigns, and the Sixth was being stationed over in New Mexico. But
the Sixth had done well, and the best news was that which bore the name
of Crook. He had been ordered from the Department of the Platte to the
Department of Arizona, again.

“Now we shall see the Chiricahua grow tired,” laughed Micky Free, when
Jimmie met him. “Sibi is glad; the White Mountains are glad; everybody
will be glad, except Whoa and Geronimo. Are you going to help fight,
Cheemie, instead of riding all the time along the talking wire?”

“You bet I am, Micky,” declared Jimmie. “Hope Tom Moore’s coming, too.
I reckon if my leg won’t let me scout I can join the pack-train.”

General Crook wasted no time. Scarcely had he announced himself at Fort
Whipple, ere he was bound for San Carlos and Fort Apache, to straighten
out these affairs first.

Jimmie rode over to the fort with a party from Thomas, to learn the
latest. The general was there, with Lieutenant Bourke, now a captain.
Wearing an ancient, smoked and scorched corduroy suit he had arrived on
the same “Apache,” his mule. He looked rather older than when he had
left, back in 1875. The campaigning in winter up north had been tough.
But he acted as energetic as ever.

He held a council with the dissatisfied White Mountains.

“I want to have all that you say here go down on paper,” he addressed.
“What goes down on paper never lies. A man’s memory may fail him,
but the paper does not forget. I want to know from you all that has
happened since I went away, to bring about this trouble between you and
the white men. I want you to tell the truth without fear, and in few
words.”

Old Pedro had listened attentively to the general through an
ear-trumpet, for Pedro had grown quite deaf. He answered.

“When you were here, if you said a thing we knew that it was true. We
cannot understand why you left us. The people who have come among us
talk in one way and act in another. And I remember the other officers,
too, who treated us kindly. I used to be happy; now I am all the time
thinking and crying, and I say: ‘Where is old Colonel John Green, and
Randall, and those other good men?’”

Alchisé spoke.

“When you left us, there were no bad Indians out. Everything was peace.
But I think that all the good men must have been taken from us and
only bad ones sent in. We did not mind having no rations, for we had
learned to take care of ourselves. Then one day we were ordered to give
up our fields and go down to the hot land of San Carlos to live. I have
tried hard to help the whites, and they have put me in the guard-house.
Where did you go? Why doesn’t Major Randall come back? Where is my
friend Randall, the captain with the big moustache that he always
pulled?”

The general was very patient with all who wished to talk. Then he took
a pack-train and rode into the depths of the Black Canyon, where a
number of the Apaches lived because they feared arrest.

The Apaches here, also, claimed that they had been mistreated. They had
set a spy to watch the agent at San Carlos, and had caught him selling
their rations. Then they had sent a man to tell the agent that he must
not do this, and the man had been kept in jail for six months without
any trial. They said that they had been getting only one cup of flour
every seven days. One shoulder of a little cow had to last twenty
persons for a week.

It was another long story, and the general promised that he would help
them.

“I think there will be peace at Fort Apache and at the San Carlos,”
Micky asserted, as he and Jimmie rode back after the council was over.
“And if the Chiricahua will stay in Mexico and kill only Mexicans, you
and I will have no fun, because the Gray Fox cannot make war in Mexico.”

“Maybe the Chiricahua will stay there.”

“No. After a time the young men will get tired of killing and robbing
Mexicans, which is easy. They will want to win honor by robbing the
Americans――and then, we shall see.”

At Camp Thomas Jimmie met the general face to face while crossing the
parade-ground. He had small hopes that the general would remember him
when he saluted――but something in the general’s keen, inquiring eye
made him halt and stand expectantly.

“Well, my man,” blurted the general. “I seem to know your face.”

“Yes, sir. I’m Jimmie Dunn.”

“I remember. You still limp a little, I see. What are you doing now?”

“I’m a telegraph line-man, sir.”

“That’s good. You had a talk with Nah-che, when he was on his way out,
last spring, didn’t you? Do you think he can be persuaded to come in
peaceably?”

“He might if he knew you were back, sir. But he said the Chiricahua
hadn’t been treated well――they were out to stay.”

“The Apaches have grievances. The worst of the outlaws are better than
the whites who have been robbing them.”

The general was about to stride on, when Jimmie hastily spoke.

“But if you go against the Chiricahua, I’d like to go too, sir.”

“That will be a hard and maybe a long chase,” gravely said the general.
“Probably into the Mexican mountains, with picked men. You can help by
sticking to your present business. The telegraph and the railroad are
very necessary.”

Jimmie, thinking it over afterward, almost decided likewise. His leg
bothered him, and his shoulder was still tender. Chasing Geronimo
through the Mexican mountains, with a leader who never rested, required
nerve and strength both.

The general tried to hold a conference with the Geronimo runaways. From
the border he sent a party of Apache scouts under Alchisé across, for a
few miles, but they found no traces of the Chiricahuas.

Two Chiricahua squaws were captured while returning to San Carlos.
They said that the Geronimo band had a strong hiding-place deep in the
Sierra Madre Mountains several days’ travel below the border; were
living off the Mexicans, and knew that the American soldiers could not
come down there.

General Crook assigned Captain Emmet Crawford of the Third Cavalry (a
broad-shouldered six-footer) to the military station at San Carlos,
obtained permission from the Indian Bureau for the White Mountains to
live upon the high, cooler lands near Fort Apache and to plant crops
there, and from headquarters at Fort Whipple issued an order that said:

    Officers and soldiers serving in this department are reminded
    that one of the fundamental principles of the military
    character is justice to all――Indians as well as white men――and
    that a disregard of this principle is likely to bring about
    hostilities, and cause the death of the very persons they are
    sent here to protect. In all their dealings with the Indians,
    officers must be careful not only to observe the strictest
    fidelity, but to make no promises not in their power to carry
    out; ...

As long as the Chiricahuas stayed out of the United States, there
was not much more to be done. The Apaches on the reservations seemed
content again; the border was being patrolled by one hundred and fifty
Apache scouts, in the hope of catching the trail of any outlaws who
might venture up; the telegraph was kept in fine working order, and the
troops at the posts were given constant practice marches.

This fall and winter no word came from Geronimo. But in March (which
was the year 1883) the expected news broke――and bad news it was.

Jimmie chanced to be in the telegraph office at Thomas when the message
came. He took it off the wire as fast as the operator did. It was from
Bowie, in the south.

“Band of hostiles crossed line raiding north through Whetstone
Mountains. Heading west for New Mexico probably. More.”

“Where’s that adjutant?” barked the operator, tearing off his sheet.
“Things are hummin’. Gee whizz, isn’t that man ever around when he’s
needed?”

But the adjutant of course got the message at once.

“More” came thick and fast, from all directions. The Chiricahuas
numbered only twenty-six warriors. They were under Chato, the
Flat-nose. They had dodged the patrol, outwitted all the troops and
volunteers, the telegraph and railroad did not stop them; on a circle
of eight hundred miles, traveling at seventy-five miles a day they
swung through Arizona and southwestern New Mexico, stealing fresh
horses whenever needed, and killing miners and settlers.

“Picked men for the pursuit,” were the orders from the general at
Whipple. This appeared to leave Jimmie, with his lame leg, out of scout
service. Well, he might do some good in his regular job, anyway. But
the last news was the worst news of all.

Near Silver City, southwestern New Mexico, a horrible act was committed
by the Chato band. They overtook Judge H. C. McComas, driving on the
main road with his wife and little boy, Charley; they tortured and
killed the two grown-ups, and carried off Charley, aged six years.

This made soldiers and settlers alike furious. Jimmie could stand the
strain no longer. He had been captured, once, himself. He threw aside
his line-man position and rode over to Fort Apache, to find Frank
Monach, pack-master.

“I want a job, Frank.”

“Thought you had one.”

“I had, but I’ve left. I’m too lame for scout work; I can pack, though.
How about it?”

“Well,” drawled Frank, sizing him up, “the old man’s partic’lar. The
pack outfits have got to be the kind that’ll keep agoin’. We’re due to
follow those bronc’s till we get that boy back, even if we travel clear
to the City of Mexico.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here,” retorted Jimmie. “I can pack and sit a
mule.”

“All right. Old Jack Long’s watchin’ you, I reckon. He took a lot o’
stock in you. You’re hired. So get your war-bag an’ fall in.”




XXI

TO THE STRONGHOLD OF GERONIMO


“Fight to a finish, or a surrender, b’gosh,” announced Frank, to-day.
“Chiricahuas can take their choice. But the old man’s goin’ after ’em.
We’ll have no murderin’ an’ boy-stealin’ in this department. Everybody,
man an’ mule, is ordered to meet him at Willcox, pronto (quick). So
this outfit’ll hit the high places in the mornin’.”

Jimmie and the other packers at San Carlos, where they had been waiting
prepared, gave a cheer. It was now the first week in April. The killing
of Judge McComas and Mrs. McComas, and the stealing of little Charley,
had occurred on March 28. Chato had escaped into Mexico again, having
lost only one warrior, except――――

“Did you hear tell thar’s a Chiricahua buck been fetched in who claims
he broke from the Chato bunch ’cause he wants peace?” queried Long Jim
Cook.

“No. Where is he?”

“In the guard-house. They got him locked up till the old man talks with
him. His name is ‘Peaches,’ or somethin’ like that.”

“Mebbe he brings some sort o’ word from Geronimo. You know the old man
sent one of those squaws that he captured, back down, last fall, to
tell the Geronimo band they’d better change their minds.”

Jimmie asked Micky Free.

“He is not a Chiricahua,” said Micky. “He is a White Mountain, but he
married two Chiricahua squaws, so he had to live with the Chiricahua.
His name is Pa-na-yo-tish-n (Coyote-saw-him). He does not like the
Chiricahua, now. They are living in the mountains five days’ travel
from Arizona. They have plenty wood, plenty water, plenty grass,
plenty meat, and kill plenty Mexican soldiers with rocks because they
must save cartridges. That is why Chato made his raid up north: to
get cartridges. Pa-na-yo-tish-n ran away. He says he does not want to
fight, and there are others who do not want to fight, but they are
afraid of Geronimo. He knows the trail to Geronimo, and will lead the
general straight. Then maybe we talk, maybe we fight. It will be a good
fight, Cheemie. Geronimo has seventy men, and fifty big boys who can
fight like men. Yes, if they have powder, and do not get starved, and
the talk is bad, we will see much fun. I think that even the packers
will better watch out sharp.”

Micky Free always had hopes. He was a regular fire-eater.

The cavalry from Fort Apache, and the pack-train, and about one hundred
Apache scouts from the San Carlos and the White Mountain reservations
marched across country to Willcox. Pa-na-yo-tish-n (whom the soldiers
and packers called “Peaches”) was taken along, as a prisoner, in
handcuffs.

Willcox, the nearest station on the Southern Pacific Railroad, just
west of Railroad Pass over the Chiricahua Mountains, was overflowing.

The Camp Thomas troops had arrived; so had those from Fort Bowie,
to the southeast. By train other troops, and horses and mules, and
ammunition and supplies of all kinds were pouring in. The general and
his staff were here. So were Charley Hopkins and “Short Jim” Cook and
others of the old-time packers; and Archie MacIntosh and Al Sieber, the
chief scouts; and Antonio Besias the interpreter; yes, and Maria Jilda.

It was a great reunion of Crook men.

Reports said that the United States and Mexico had arranged to
pursue Indians into each other’s territory, but the United States
troops were not to cross the boundary before May 1. In order to make
certain that this was understood, the general traveled by the Mexican
Central Railroad into the northern Mexican States and talked with the
commanding officers there.

When he returned he talked again with “Peaches.” “Peaches” stuck to his
story, and when the general directed that the irons be removed from
him, “Peaches” said that he was willing to wear them until it was shown
that he had spoken only the truth. But the irons were taken off anyway,
because Alchisé and other scouts engaged to watch him very closely.

On April 22 there was a parade, and inspection of the whole outfit.
That night the Apache scouts held a big war-dance which lasted until
morning. They and Micky (who had danced as hard as anybody) were still
hot and excited when the column was formed for the advance.

The scouts, and pack-mules, and a line of rumbling army wagons, and
portions of seven companies of the Third and Sixth Cavalry, marched
from the railroad to the boundary at San Bernardino Springs in
southeastern Arizona, one hundred miles by the wagon trail.

Stalwart Captain Emmet Crawford brought in one hundred more Apache
scouts from San Carlos. There were war-dances and medicine ceremonies
each night. Alchisé and others told the general that their medicine
was showing up very strong; the Chiricahuas would surely be found and
killed or captured.

“That is so,” asserted Micky, who believed in the medicine.

Six of the cavalry troops were to be left here at the border, to guard
it and the wagons with the extra supplies.

“Adios, amigo,” bade Maria, to Jimmie. “You will have good luck. The
medicine says so, and Pa-na-yo-tish-n will lead Crook straight. But it
will be a long march, maybe two hundred miles.”

“Aren’t you going, Maria?”

“No. I stay, because I know all this country.”

It did not look like a very great force, after all, which at sunrise
of May 1, this 1883, crossed the border to find Geronimo. There were
more Indians than soldiers――one hundred and ninety-three of them, White
Mountains, Tontos, Yavapais, Apache-Yumas and some of the Taza friendly
Chiricahuas.

Captain Crawford, of the Third Cavalry, commanded them. He had as his
assistants Lieutenant George Gatewood and Lieutenant W. W. Forsythe, of
the Sixth, and Lieutenant James O. Mackay, of the Third.

The forty cavalrymen of the Sixth (less than half a company) were
commanded by Major Adna R. Chaffee and Lieutenant Frank West.

The general’s staff was Captain Bourke, and Lieutenant G. J. Febiger
of the Engineers. Doctor Andrews was surgeon. Archie MacIntosh and Al
Sieber were chief scouts. Micky, and old Severiano the Mexican who had
been brought up by the Apaches, and Packer Sam Bowman were interpreters.

The pack-masters of the five pack-trains were Frank Monach, Charley
Hopkins, of Tucson, “Long Jim” Cook and “Short Jim” Cook, and George
Stanfield.

“One blanket and forty rounds of ammunition to each man,” were the
orders. The mules carried additional ammunition and sixty days’ rations
of hard-tack, coffee and bacon. Everybody was well armed with the
Springfield forty-fives, and Colt’s revolvers; even the packers had
carbines and pistols.

Plainly enough, the general was outward bound on business!

“U-ga-shé (U-gah-shay)!” barked Lieutenant Gatewood, at the scouts.
And away they went, afoot, in their red head-bands and flapping shirts
and leggin-moccasins, across the boundary, with Alchisé and “Peaches”
in the lead, as guides. They all spread out in a broad front, to cover
the country. Their officers rode just behind, with Archie MacIntosh and
Sieber the Iron Man.

The general and aides and cavalry escort followed. Then there ambled
the long files of pack-trains――Frank Monach’s first. A guard of the
cavalry closed the rear.

The “good-by” and “good luck” cheers of the border guard died in
the distance. The march to “get” Geronimo, Nah-che and the other
Chiricahuas had actually begun.

At first about twenty-five miles a day were covered. But the country
grew rougher and hotter. Only two or three of the Mexican villages were
inhabited; many others were deserted and in ruins, on account of the
Chiricahuas. The brush along the streams was thick, the flowers were
large and bright. High, bluish mountains loomed on right and left and
before.

It was fine Apache country, all right――and “Peaches” was leading
straight into it, for within a few days fresh moccasin tracks might be
seen frequently.

“To-morrow for the Sierra Madre,” said Frank Monach, in camp on the
night of May 7. “Then we’ll be hangin’ on by our toe-nails. What I’d
like to know is, whether Geronimo’ll wait for us or whether he’ll keep
a-goin’ himself.”

The huge jumble of the Sierra Madre range frowned directly before.
It certainly appeared mighty rough. No white men had yet ventured to
penetrate far into the Sierra Madre; but the general was determined, as
Al Sieber said, “to open it up.”

He was so anxious, that this night the march had continued until after
eleven o’clock, and camp had been made without fires, in the bottom of
a deep canyon. So dark it was that even the mules lost their places.

The climb of the first flanks of the Sierra Madre was begun at
daylight. The trail that led out of the canyon was littered with
plunder――torn letters, Mexican dresses, scattered flour, and beef
carcasses. It was so steep that several of the mules fell off, and
landed one hundred feet below, in a canyon. But they were not hurt.

The Chiricahua sign became more plentiful. “Peaches” said that
Geronimo’s real stronghold was still several days’ march before,
but that this was as far as the Mexican soldiers ever had got. The
Chiricahuas had ambushed them and driven them back.

To-night everybody except the scouts was very tired. Jimmie ached from
head to foot; the job of forcing the mules on was the hardest work of
all.

“Come, Cheemie,” invited Micky. “You come with me and you will see big
medicine made.”

Jimmie groaned, and hobbled after Micky Free.

What with chasing deer and turkeys and rabbits, to eat, and hunting the
Chiricahuas, the scouts had been having a great time. They had never
been too tired to dance and yarn; to-night their medicine-men were to
find the Chiricahuas for them.

The officers messed with the packers and scouts; it was all one family.
The general and Captain Bourke had joined the Monach mess, where
Alchisé and other principal scouts ate, too. So the general and the
captain were admitted to the circle of the medicine-making.

The chief medicine-man lay in a trance while the lesser medicine-men
squatted around him and sang. Soon he thumped his chest and spoke,
telling his dream.

“Keet,” the Apache boy who carried the medicine things and was in
training for a medicine-man, himself, translated for the general and
Captain Bourke.

“What did he say?” asked the captain. “The general wishes to know.”

“He say: ‘Me can’t see ’um Chilicahua yet. Bimeby me see ’um. Me ketch
’um, me kill ’um. Me no ketch ’um, me no kill ’um. Chilicahua see me,
me no get ’um. No see me, me ketch ’um. Me see ’um little bit now.
Mebbe so six day me ketch ’um; mebbe so two day. Tomollow me send
twenty-fibe men to hunt ’um tlail. Mebbe so tomollow see ’um more. Me
ketch ’um hoss, me ketch ’um mool, me ketch ’um cow. Ketch Chilicahua
pretty soon, bimeby. Kill ’um heap, an’ ketch ’um squaw.’”

That impressed the scouts. They were sure of success.

The signs grew fresher and fresher, and the trail worse and worse.
But abandoned rancherias were found――and they had not been abandoned
long, either! The eager scouts fairly ran hither-thither, searching
and signaling; the cavalry-men toiled afoot, leading their horses; and
the pack-mules, urged on by Jimmie and the other packers, coughed and
slipped and sweat, and six of them rolled a thousand feet and were
dashed to pieces.

But the general showed no token of quitting. He was after Geronimo.

Now it was the night of May 10. In the morning Captain Crawford and his
scouts were going ahead, by themselves. Alchisé had insisted that this
was the only way to do. He complained to the general that the soldiers
and the pack-trains were too slow, to catch the Chiricahuas.

Frank Monach came into camp from a reconnoiter with a few of the
soldiers and the huskier packers. Jimmie could not go. His leg was
rather bad.

“B’gosh, we found where a passel o’ Mexicans had been wiped out with
rocks an’ arrows an’ lances,” announced Frank. “Over yonder in the
foothills. They must have come in from the other side.”

This night the scouts were very busy, making medicine and mending
moccasins and preparing meat and bread.

“Medicine man say ‘Kill ’um heap Chilicahua, three day from tomollow,’”
declared young “Keet,” proud of his English words.

Early in the morning one hundred and fifty of the scouts, with Captain
Crawford and Lieutenant Gatewood and Lieutenant Mackay, Archie
MacIntosh, Al Sieber, and Micky and Severiano and Sam Bowman, hastened
ahead.

They were to fight and to surround, and try to hold the Chiricahuas
until the soldiers arrived. The dismounted cavalry and the pack-trains
followed at best speed, again into the heart of the high country.




XXII

WAR OR PEACE?


During the next few days Captain Crawford sent back several notes, to
say that by the signs he was likely to strike the Chiricahuas at any
moment. The pursuit was closing in. Maybe the medicine-men were right.
They had prophesied “Three days from to-morrow,” which would be May 14.

But May 14 passed without especial event. Then, at one o’clock noon of
May 15, in a little box canyon there was sudden excitement among the
cavalry ahead of the Monach pack-train. Jimmie, first in line at one
side behind the “bell,” saw the Indian runner dart down the slope, into
the trail, and hand a note to the general.

The general read it. Lieutenant Febiger hastened back to Major Chaffee,
and instantly the trumpet pealed “Mount!” Into their saddles vaulted
the troopers. Down to the pack-trains galloped Lieutenant West.

“Close up your outfits!” he shouted. “Be prepared for action.
Crawford’s scouts have struck the hostiles.”

“Hooray!” That was good news. Afterwards it was learned that the
foremost scouts had discovered some Chiricahuas in a canyon, had fired
upon two men and a woman, and had frightened the rest away. The runner
had brought the note six miles across the mountains in less than an
hour.

“Listen to that!” yelped Martin, the cook, from the “bell.”

Distant rifle-shots sounded faintly. It was a battle! Captain
Crawford’s scouts and the Chiricahuas were fighting!

The reports welled faster. Every ear was keen set. Major Chaffee’s
cavalry had quickened pace, each trooper erect in his saddle; the
pack-mules were being forced more compactly, ready for corralling
should the cavalry leave; the general, in the advance with his aides,
clearly was impatient for the country to open out and the battle-field
be sighted.

“Bet they got away, dog-gone it!” yelled back Cook Martin. For
presently the firing dwindled to spatters, and ceased. Shucks!

“Anyhow, the old man’ll keep agoin’,” voiced the packer behind Jimmie.
“There’s a nice moon for huntin’ Injuns, an’ we can live on what those
bronc’s are throwin’ away!”

So it was plod, plod, up and down, and down and up. The troopers
dismounted, to lead their horses.

Toward dusk a great smoke was to be seen several miles away, on a high
mountain-side. The pack-train guessed that a Chiricahua rancheria was
being cleaned up.

The horizon over there flared into red, and while supper was being
eaten, in camp under a glorious full moon, here came Captain Crawford
and his scouts at last, both afoot and ahorse. They brought also
forty-seven horses loaded with plunder, and five prisoners――two boys,
two girls, and a woman.

Alchisé acted rather disgusted, but Micky Free was joyful.

“Hello, Cheemie,” he greeted, as he and others of the scouts squatted
near the camp-fires, to eat again. “We had good fun. It was Chato’s and
Bonito’s rancherias. Alchisé and Sibi are mad because we shot too soon,
and the Chiricahua ran off. We killed nine and captured those five. We
didn’t catch any more. The country was very rough, and they hid. But we
set the rancherias on fire. There were thirty houses. And to-morrow we
get more Chiricahua.”

“Wasn’t the little white boy there, Micky?”

“Yes, he was there, the squaw says. His name Carlos (Charles); six
years old. He was with some old squaws and they ran off with him. But
she says she can find them in two days. Loco and Chihuahua want to come
back to the reservation; maybe Geronimo and Chato and Nah-che; Whoa
still thinks bad.”

“Where is Geronimo?” asked Frank Monach, in Spanish.

“Nearly all the Chiricahua men are down in the south, hunting Mexicans.
They will be surprised when they know the Cluke men have found where
they live, and that Pa-na-yo-tish-n had led us so straight. We now are
inside and they are outside. Inju!”

Everybody was much disappointed that little Charley McComas had
disappeared. If some of the younger scouts had not shot first without
orders the rancherias might have been surrounded and Charley rescued.

However, the captured squaw seemed to be certain that she could find
the older squaws who had him. Early in the morning she was sent away,
with one of the boy prisoners and two days’ rations. She promised she
would tell the Chiricahuas it was no use to fight.

This was a cold, rainy day, which made the waiting disagreeable.
At night ice formed. In the morning a smoke signal was seen. The
general ordered that it be answered. “Peaches” guided to a better
camping-place, where there were grass and running water.

Another smoke signal was sent up, but only a few squaws and children
came in. The squaws said that some other squaws had Charley McComas.
One of the women was the sister of Chief Chihuahua (or Bonito). She
stated that all the Chihuahua band would surrender as soon as her
brother could get them together.

“The idee of the gen’ral is, not to do any more fightin’, if he can
help it, till that white kid is fetched along,” explained Martin, the
cook for the Monach pack-train and officers’ mess. “That’s what Cap’n
Bourke says. You see, the leetle fellow’s with the Chihuahua band.”

The next day Chihuahua (Bonito) himself came boldly in, to say that he
would surrender his people as soon as he could get word to them all.
They were tired of fighting and hiding.

“That is good,” answered the general. “I have soldiers and scouts
enough to fight the Chiricahuas as long as they wish to fight. Those I
do not kill or capture I will drive into the Mexican soldiers who are
coming up from the south.”

“I speak only for my own band,” answered Chihuahua. “They will make
peace, but I do not know what Geronimo and Whoa will do. If you will
let me take two of my young men and go out again, I can hurry my people
in faster.”

“They must bring the white boy.”

“I will tell them so,” said Chihuahua.

Chihuahua did good work, for the Chiricahuas kept gathering until there
were one hundred and twenty-one in camp. But they had not brought
Charley McComas, and none of the Geronimo men had turned up.

Then, at eight o’clock in the morning, a tremendous outburst of shouts
and screeches sounded from some high cliffs above the camp. More
Apaches were jumping about among the rocks there, as if much astonished.

“Geronimo!” exclaimed Micky, running.

The camp sprang to arms.

“What is the matter?” were yelling the Chiricahuas above, to the
Chiricahuas below.

“The white war-captain has us. We fight no more,” called the
Chiricahuas who had surrendered. “It is no use. Our own people fight
against us.”

Two old squaws clambered half-way down.

“Ask the white war-captain if we will be hurt?” they screamed.

The general sent out Micky and Scout To-klani (Plenty Water) and one of
the Chihuahua Chiricahuas. To-klani’s sisters belonged to the Chihuahua
band, and the Chiricahuas all knew him.

“The white war-captain says that he does not care whether you surrender
or not,” announced To-klani. “Chihuahua has surrendered. We are only
waiting till the rest of his people and the little white boy come in.
If you come you will not be harmed, but if you do not come you will be
killed.”

This set the Chiricahuas on the cliff to thinking. Evidently now that
they had found their best camping-place occupied, and so many of the
other Chiricahuas surrendered, they did not know quite what to do.
As Frank Monach remarked: “That’s a heap joke. Expect we look mighty
comfortable, at our little love-feast.”

Within about an hour, the Apaches came down. It was Geronimo, all
right――he, and Nah-che, and Chato, and thirty-three warriors. They all
carried the latest model repeating rifles, and the best nickle-plated
revolvers, and they stared about very uneasily.

They began to ask questions of the scouts; Nah-che sighted Jimmie, and
sidled over to him.

“Chi-kis-n,” he said.

“Chi-kis-n,” replied Jimmie.

“The last time I saw you I talked straight,” proceeded Nah-che. “Now I
ask you to talk straight, for we are men. I want to know how you came
in here, with so many soldiers and Apaches and mules, while we were out
hunting the Mexicans. What does Cluke intend to do?”

“We came in easily, because the White Mountain who was one of Chato’s
men showed us the road. But the Gray Fox would have brought us anyway.
The American soldiers can hunt Apaches in Mexico, and the Mexican
soldiers can hunt Apaches in the United States. That is arranged.
If Geronimo will not surrender, let him try to fight. The other
Chiricahuas are going back to the reservation. Geronimo will not last
long. His own people are against him, and he cannot hide any more in
Mexico.”

“That sounds bad,” uttered Nah-che; and he walked away very downcast.

The general was saying the same thing, and other things, to Geronimo.

“You should have had more sense than to leave because of a few
troubles,” he scolded severely. “There is always some trouble in a big
camp of Indians. I want to know what those troubles were, so that I may
correct them. I shall not talk long with you; you must make up your
mind for peace or war. You can see for yourself that I am not afraid of
you. I have come in here, where you thought I could not come, and I am
not even taking your arms from you. You are free to stay or go. If you
decide to stay and march with the other Chiricahua to the San Carlos,
you will not be harmed.

“You have done things for which you ought to be arrested; but if you
will promise to behave yourself and work, I will see to it that you are
placed wherever you choose, on the reservation. I will make soldiers
of your own men, to keep peace in your camp. The ugly long-nosed man
(who was Lieutenant Gatewood) shall select them, and he will be your
officer. He will see to it that you get whatever you are entitled to
get.

“But if you do not go back with me, then it will be war. I will cover
all this country with soldiers and scouts, and the Mexicans and the
Americans and the scouts will hunt you down without stopping. Now I
have spoken. I ask you to leave me and to think this over, and talk
with your men. Then you must tell me what you have decided, for I do
not want there to be any misunderstanding.”

The council broke up. Geronimo appeared rather downcast, too. The rest
of the day he and his people kept by themselves. Even Nah-che did not
come over again. It was an anxious period, for the Geronimo band were
able to put up a hard fight still, and the camp was full of Chiricahuas.

“What do you think Geronimo will do, Micky?” asked Jimmie.

“He is a smart man, and likes to talk,” answered Micky. “He is a
war-captain. But when he sees that he is talking alone, he will quit.
Cluke’s words stung him, for no chief likes to be talked at like
that. I looked for a fight right away, and so did Sibi. There was no
fight――it would have been a good fight, though, with so many Chiricahua
all around us. Now I think that if Geronimo is still here, in the
morning, it means peace.”

Everybody――soldiers, scouts and packers――slept with one eye and one ear
open, this night. But in the morning Geronimo asked the general for
another talk. It seemed as though the decision had been made.

“I have thought deeply, and have talked with my people,” said Geronimo.
“We were not well treated at San Carlos, but if you will be good to
us we will do as you tell us to do. The white man does not see as the
Apache sees, and yet you have made me feel that I have done wrong. I
will go with you to the San Carlos. But first I ask you to order me to
send out for the rest of my people. They are much scattered, and they
have many ponies and cattle which belong to them; but if they see only
signals they will think them to be signals set by your scouts, to fool
them. And if I go away and leave them, then the Mexicans will kill
them.”

“You must try to find the white boy,” reminded the general.

“I will do exactly as you say,” replied Geronimo.

“Is it peace, chi-kis-n?” inquired Jimmie, of Nah-che.

“It is peace,” answered Nah-che; but he did not smile.

“Hooray!” cheered Long Jim Cook. “That was a tall bluff on the
gen’ral’s part, I reckon; but it worked. For a while we were in a bad
box, with the camp runnin’ over with Chiricahua, an’ thirty or forty
fightin’ bronc’s up on those cliffs, ready to rake us. I wouldn’t trust
all these scouts, in a pinch, either. They’ve got too many kin, in the
hostiles.”

“D’you suppose Geronimo has somethin’ up his sleeve, still?” proposed
Martin the cook, to Frank Monach. “He acts awful agreeable.”




XXIII

GERONIMO PLAYS SMART


“To-morrow we go home,” declared Micky Free, to Jimmie and Nah-che.
They three had been messing together, as old friends.

It was the afternoon of May 23. Two days had passed since Geronimo
had decided upon peace. He had kept his word, for the Chiricahuas had
continued to come in――crippled old Nana himself had arrived this very
morning――all the chiefs and captains were here except Juh, and Juh, or
Whoa, need not be expected. He and his band of one man and two squaws
had gone farther south.

Even Ka-e-ten-na (The Looking-glass), who was a young war-captain
of the Mexican Chiricahuas, part of Whoa’s people, had come in. Now
rations were being issued by Lieutenant Gatewood to two hundred and
fifty extra persons, including a dozen Mexicans――forlorn women and
children whom the Chiricahuas had brought with them. But, alas――――

“Don’t we wait for Charley McComas?” demanded Jimmie.

“The white boy?” And Micky shook his red head. “No. It is too late. He
is lost. If we wait longer, there will be no food. Too many people eat.”

“Doesn’t Chato know where he is?”

“Chato says not,” answered Nah-che. “He was left with the women. We
have asked the women. They say that on the first day, when Chato’s
rancheria was attacked, the little white boy ran into the bushes.
Nobody has seen him again. He did not come out. Then there were rains
that washed his trail. It was eight days ago, and we think he is dead.”

The general had questioned the Chiricahuas closely. They all stuck
to the one story, and seemed to be speaking the truth. Six-year-old
Charley probably had been so frightened that he had run until exhausted
and lost in the dense brush. No trace of him was ever discovered.

When the general finally issued the order that camp should be broken in
the morning, and the start made for San Carlos, Geronimo was smiling
and ready. He asked only that the first marches be slow, so that the
Chiricahuas who were still out might catch up. There seemed to be no
end of those Chiricahuas who were still “out.”

“We expect you to protect us from the Mexican soldiers,” said Geronimo.
“My old men and women who are coming cannot fight.”

“I will protect you,” promised the general.

This appeared to make Geronimo happy and satisfied.

However, in the morning a sudden delay occurred. The pack-trains were
loaded and waiting, the cavalry had formed, all the Chiricahuas were
herded together, the scouts were on the flanks, but the general had
sent for Geronimo――was talking earnestly to him.

Presently Archie MacIntosh came trotting back, ahorse, as if with an
eye to seeing that everything was closed up.

“What’s the trouble ahead, Archie?” hailed Frank.

Archie grinned from his sun-burned face, and paused.

“Just been discovered we’re about a hundred bucks shy. They disappeared
between sunset and sunrise. Looks as though that old rascal of a
Geronimo had put one over on us.”

“Hi! I said he had somethin’ up his sleeve,” chuckled Long Jim Cook.
“Where they gone? After plunder, I bet you!”

“Of course,” declared Archie. “And the general’s raising Cain. He says
to Geronimo: ‘Those bucks of yours are riding south to steal horses and
cattle from the Mexicans.’ And Geronimo, he just smiles and says: ‘Oh,
they wouldn’t rob anybody. They’re looking for some of our own horses
and cattle that we’ve left.’ And the general says: ‘I won’t allow you
to take any stolen stock across the border. I’d be court-martialed for
it.’ And Geronimo says: ‘Don’t bother with that. All those Mexicans
are good for, is to grow horses and cattle for the Apaches. We will
ride on slowly. But if there is any trouble with the Mexicans, you have
promised to protect us. Besides, it will be several days before my men
come to join us.’ So the general, he’s regularly up a stump.”

And that was true. For the time being the wily Geronimo had outwitted
him. Without doubt most of the able-bodied warriors had ridden away for
the purpose of making one last raid, and returning to the reservation,
rich!

The march north was begun. The procession stretched for more than a
mile――the old men and old women, the wounded, and the little children
riding upon ponies, the women afoot packing great bundles, and many
carrying cottonwood boughs to shield their heads from the fierce sun.

Soon the Chiricahuas numbered three hundred, the majority women and old
men and children. The herd of horses and cattle steadily grew. Near the
border a dozen warriors caught up, at night; they brought fifty horses.
But at the camp across the border the warriors, driving herds of stock,
joined in streams, and the general found that he had three hundred and
sixty-three Chiricahuas and over one thousand horses and mules and cows
bearing Mexican brands!

“Every one of those must be turned back into Mexico,” he ordered.

“No,” replied Geronimo. “They belong to us. We bring them, so that we
can go to farming, as you ask us to do. Who cares what a lot of howling
Mexicans say?”

Mexicans, lawyers and angry ranchers claiming horses and cows were
threatening to sue the United States, and General Crook, for helping to
steal Mexican stock. But many of the brands had been changed over, and
there were disputes without end, the Mexicans and the Chiricahuas both
claiming all the cattle.

So the only way out of the muddle was, to drive the stock to San
Carlos, and sell it, and send the money to the United States treasury.
Then the Mexicans who could prove their claims should be paid.

This did not please Geronimo.

“The Chiricahua will not understand, and they will not forget,” said
Maria Jilda, who was at the border camp. “You will chase Geronimo and
Nah-che again, Jeemie.”

“Well, I shorely hope not,” quoth Frank Monach. “Hope we get a chance
to rest up, anyhow. The general and Sieber look about tuckered.”

And that was so. After five hundred miles of travel through the
roughest of mountain country, in heat and cold and dry and wet, even
General Crook seemed to be worn out.

He kept his word with the Chiricahuas. Geronimo and the other chiefs
were permitted to choose their own lands, and settled with their
people, five hundred and twelve in number, south of Fort Apache. It was
a fine country, too, on the head-waters of Turkey Creek.

The general obtained orders from Washington that all the Chiricahuas
should be placed under his control. This was thought by Arizona to be
a very good plan, because the Chiricahuas, like the other Apaches, had
much faith in “Cluke.”

As the governor said, in an annual message to the legislature: “The
Indians know General Crook and his methods, and respect both.”

Jimmie stuck at Fort Bowie. He had been appointed pack-master, there,
and this was quite a job for a boy scarcely twenty-one years old. But
he felt as though he had grown up in the service; and old Jack Long
had started him off well.

Captain Crawford was in military charge of the San Carlos reservation.
Micky Free was over there, too, as a sergeant of the Indian police.
Lieutenant Gatewood was stationed in the Chiricahua camp at Turkey
Creek, just as the general had promised. Maria Jilda took up a ranch;
he said that he was tired of scouting and interpreting. Al Sieber, as
chief of scouts, divided his time between San Carlos and Fort Apache;
and where Archie MacIntosh went, Jimmie did not know.

But there was no opportunity for being lonesome at Fort Bowie.
Pack-train duties kept a fellow hopping, if he tried to have a crack
outfit――and the only outfits tolerated by the quarter-master’s
department under General Crook were crack ones. Supplies had to be
packed in from the railroad, fifteen miles, and there were scoutings
and practice marches.

For the remainder of 1883 everything seemed to be quiet. Reports stated
that Geronimo and all the Chiricahuas were farming and doing famously,
and that the White Mountains, on the other side of Fort Apache, were
getting rich by selling their barley and hay to the post and to the
towns.

Then, as the months of 1884 rolled by, troubles appeared on the
surface. The military and the Indian Bureau employes did not agree. The
military officers, like Captain Crawford and Lieutenant Gatewood, had
charge of the Chiricahua prisoners, but the Indian agent had charge of
the other Indians. The military was obliged to keep order at San Carlos
and the Fort Apache reservation, both, but the Indian agent had the
authority to direct the farming. The Chiricahuas had been encouraged by
General Crook to mingle with the peaceful White Mountains, and all the
Indians preferred the soldiers to the civilians.

The White Mountains and Chiricahuas complained that they were not
getting their rightful amount of meat from the agent. The man sent out
to see, reported that they were getting everything.

Captain Crawford did not agree with the report. The Indian Bureau asked
that he be removed. He demanded a court-martial. The court-martial
found that he was honest and correct; and that the Apaches, instead
of getting one thousand cows, had been assigned only six hundred
poor ones, with the promise that the rest should be delivered “when
required.”

But Captain Crawford was powerless in the matter, and the Apaches could
not understand why there should be two fathers over them.

In May young chief Ka-e-ten-na went “bad.” He was the Mexican Apache
chief who had surrendered; now he made ready to run away, with a band
of other restless Chiricahuas, into Mexico again.

General Crook was at West Point, to address the graduating class there.
However, Ka-e-ten-na was arrested by his own people, and was tried
the same as a white man, and sentenced to be “shut up till he learned
sense.” He was sent to the United States military prison on Alcatraz
Island, in San Francisco Bay, for a year; and this proved a very
good plan, the same as the cases of Santos and Pedro and old Miguel;
because after he had seen how powerful the Americans were and what a
great city they had, he was cured of wishing to live wild.

“He is only one, though,” said Micky Free, this fall, while at Bowie on
a scouting trip with Tom Horn who was Al Sieber’s right-hand man. “Sibi
thinks that all the Chiricahua would better be sent to prison. So does
Tom. They have had a talk with Geronimo, and the only way to do is to
send all the Chiricahua out of Arizona, quick.”




XXIV

PACK-MASTER JIMMIE MEETS A SURPRISE


“Will there be trouble again, Micky?”

“Of course,” laughed Micky scornfully. “Everybody in Arizona knows
that. You see it yourself, Cheemie. You read the talking papers. The
talking papers of Mexico say that the Chiricahua from Arizona are
sneaking down there and stealing cattle. That is true. Even Gatewood is
getting afraid. He is losing Chiricahua all the time; they go somewhere
and his counts are always different. I think he will move to Fort
Apache. It is only twelve miles, and he will be safer.

“The Geronimo Chiricahua see that the San Carlos Apaches and the White
Mountains are unhappy, with two fathers bossing them. So they trade
their goods for whiskey and guns. Sibi went to Geronimo and asked him
what he was planning to do. Geronimo said: ‘It is no use to lie to
you, Sibi. You read my thoughts. The truth is this: When my men came
up with Cluke from Mexico they expected to go back every little while,
to get horses and cows. There is no harm in stealing cattle from those
Mexicans. Besides, Cluke took away the cattle that we first brought up.
If my men are not allowed to do that, they would rather live in Mexico
and act as they please. It is only my talk that holds them, and some
day they won’t listen.’

“To hear Geronimo pretend peace talk would make a mule laugh,”
concluded Micky. “Now because Cluke is in Washington we have come down
here with Tom Horn, and Sibi who has a lame leg is coming in a wagon.
They will talk with Bourke. Sibi says to capture all the Chiricahua and
send them far away. That will end war. But I guess it won’t be done.”

Captain Bourke――who had been promoted to major――was at Bowie, waiting
for the general to return from Washington. The general had gone to
Washington in the hopes of getting more authority to deal with the
Apaches.

He did not succeed. All this fall and winter of 1884 the War Department
and the Interior Department could not agree upon the control of the
reservations.

The officers at San Carlos staked out an irrigating ditch for the
Apaches to dig, and the agent declined to permit the digging. The
Indians believed nobody. Captain Crawford asked to be transferred to
his regiment, the Third Cavalry, and Captain F. E. Pierce, of the First
Infantry, was assigned to the military charge of San Carlos. He had
lost an eye in the Civil War.

In February of 1885 Major-General John Pope, who commanded the Military
Division of the Pacific, from San Francisco announced, to Washington:

    If General Crook’s authority over the Indians at San Carlos be
    curtailed or modified in any way, there are certain to follow
    very serious results, if not a renewal of Indian wars and
    depredations in Arizona.

Consequently, with matters at sixes and sevens, the outlook at Fort
Bowie was very gloomy.

In the middle of May Jimmie rode down toward the border, to see how
some of the pack-mules in pasture upon a ranch were getting along.
There was likely to be need of them soon, for the Indians certainly
were going to break out.

It was an all-day ride. The pasture was in some bottoms among the
hills, where there was good water and grass; so he cooked his own
supper and prepared to sleep out, beneath the stars.

He was just about to turn in, under his blanket, when he heard Chiquito
snort. Chiquito was his horse, picketed out to graze. The snort might
mean mountain lion, Mexican leopard, wolf, deer, or――――!

“What is it, Chiquito?”

Chiquito’s head was up, his ears pricked, he was staring into the
south. He knew a heap, Chiquito did.

Jimmie gazed, too, in the same direction. And there, far to the
southwest, across the Mexican line, he saw a red gleam on a high hill.
A signal fire, sure: Indian signal!

Jimmie scrambled to his feet and stood peering intent. Presently the
gleam was broken――and then repeated. Indians down there were signalling
for other Indians to answer. That was plain. Even Chiquito had known.
He was Indian wise.

Jimmie swept the dark horizon again and again, to catch the answer, but
none appeared. His view from the camp was not very good; but he must
find out what was going on; accordingly he snatched up his blanket and
ran through the brush to the crest of the slope above him.

Here he found the right spot, and squatted, with his blanket wrapped
around him, to wait. He did not dare to build a fire, lest it be seen.

This was a long, cold wait.

The fire in the southwest flared regularly at intervals of about an
hour. “Answer,” it kept saying. “Answer.” Jimmie eyed the north as well
as the south――and at midnight the expected happened. The signal in the
south had been answered, for it suddenly broke into a message.

There were one long flash and several shorter ones. Then, quickly
following, two flashes, and an interval, and two more.

As anybody ought to know, this spelled: “All right. We will wait two
days.”

The fire died. That was the end. Jimmie jumped to a conclusion. There
had been only the one fire in the south; so the answer had come from
the north, and he had somehow missed it. But the Indians in Mexico had
signalled to some Indians in Arizona, and were to wait two days!

The Chiricahuas had arranged to run away! Probably they already were
out, making for Mexico, to join runaways already there. Whew! Great
Scott!

Well, all that he could do was to wait until daylight, and then make
for Bowie. And the sooner the better, because he was right in the track
of runaways.

He went down to his camp, and got a half night’s sleep. In the morning
he did not wait to gather his mules; he saddled Chiquito at daylight
and struck out by the shortest way.

The country all seemed peaceful. Who might have foretold that he would
bump right into the hostiles? But that is precisely what happened. He
was loping up a shallow draw fringed by rocks and stunted pines――had
been riding two hours――when as he rounded a shoulder, on a sudden here
there came at headlong gallop a dozen steers.

He wheeled Chiquito to one side, quick; barely had time to get out of
their way――didn’t have time to get out of the way of the three young
bucks chasing them full tilt; and before he could spur Chiquito up the
flank of the draw, for cover, he was a “goner.”

With a yell and with guns leveled the three bronc’s had charged him; a
bullet sang by his ear; and he raised his hand for a talk. They arrived
instantly, reined short, around him. He didn’t know them, and they
appeared not to know him.

“Chi-kis-n,” he attempted. But they only scowled and talked among
themselves in Apache.

“Shall we kill him here?”

“That is best.”

“Stick him with your lance.”

“You talk foolish,” retorted Jimmie boldly, in good Apache. “There’s no
sense in killing me. You’ll only get in trouble by it. Take me to your
chief.”

“Who are you, that speaks Apache?”

“Never you mind who I am,” retorted Jimmie. “You take me to your chief.
If he says kill me, all right. But you’d better wait till he does say
so. You’re only warriors.”

“Where are the rest of your party, white man?”

“I’m alone.”

“What is your business?”

“I herd mules.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Fort Bowie.”

“We ought to kill him. He will tell on us if we let him go,” said one,
aside.

“No. We’ll have to take him back,” said the oldest boy. “There is
plenty of time to kill him later.”

They snatched his rifle and revolver from the holsters, and on either
side and behind jostling him along, drove him up the draw. For the next
five minutes Jimmie figured that his chances were about one in one
hundred.

They rounded the turn; and here, in a little hollow, was a group of
twelve or fifteen men and women kneeling over two cow carcasses, and
butchering them. Several of the figures looked to see who was coming.
One of them was Nah-che. Jimmie’s heart beat less rapidly. His chances
were increased.

However, Nah-che, standing erect, was not at all pleased to see him.

“Why are you in here?” demanded Nah-che.

“I came down from Bowie to look at some mules. Now I was going back to
Bowie.”

“Did you know that some of us are off the reservation?”

“Yes. I saw a signal fire last night, in Mexico, and I read what it
said.”

“What did it say?”

“It said that they would wait two days.”

“That is right,” replied Nah-che. “I am sorry we met you, chi-kis-n,
because now you will be killed.”

“That may be so. But why do you kill me, chi-kis-n?” challenged Jimmie.
“I have done you no harm.”

“No; we fought against each other, but that was understood. If you will
promise me not to say a word about us at Fort Bowie I will let you go.”

“You know very well that I would not be a man if I gave any such
promise,” retorted Jimmie. “I shall not lie to you.”

“If white men never lied to us, then everything would be all right,”
said Nah-che. “They do lie to us, so you must die. I am sorry, but――――”

“No! No!” One of the squaws had rushed up. She was Nah-da-ste! “This is
the Boy-who-sleeps. I remember him well. He has slept in my lodge and
eaten my food. I won’t have him killed. You had better let him go. He
cannot harm us.”

“No. Fort Bowie is a long way off,” reminded Jimmie. “Besides, if you
are off the reservation, that is known by this time.”

“Maybe not. We cut the talking wire,” answered Nah-che. “But it is true
that Fort Bowie is a long way off. Anyway,” he added, “I don’t want to
kill you, and I cannot argue with women. You can go, chi-kis-n. By the
time you tell what you know, we shall be far in the other direction. So
go as fast as you please, but keep going straight, for you might not
find a chi-kis-n among other Chiricahua.”

“Good,” grunted Jimmie, as his rifle and revolver were passed to him.
“I ask one word. Tell me why you are leaving the Fort Apache country. I
wish the truth.”

“Everybody but Cluke is our enemy. We are lied about. Even Chato tell
lies on us, and gives us a bad name, because he hates Geronimo. If we
stay we will be locked up. That is what is said. Now go, for I will
talk no more.”

Jimmie took the hint, and spurred away. He knew better than even to
look back.




XXV

ON THE JOB WITH CAPTAIN CRAWFORD


One hundred and twenty Chiricahuas under Geronimo, Chihuahua, old Nana
and Nah-che were the ones who had run away. Chato had persuaded the
three hundred other Chiricahuas to stay. He did not approve of Geronimo
and Nah-che, or of further war.

The outbreak had occurred on the night of May 17. The Chiricahuas had
left in parties of twenty or so, to meet again across the border.
Lieutenant Britton Davis, of the Third Cavalry, had been in charge at
the reservation. As soon as he had discovered the loss, he had tried
to telegraph General Crook; but the “talking wires” had been damaged.
Before the message got through, the Chiricahuas were beyond the
railroad, with a clear field ahead.

Nah-che had spoken truly when he said to Jimmie that they ran away
because they feared being locked up. They knew that they were
watched. And in defiance of the general’s complaints that liquor was
manufactured upon the reservation, they had obtained a quantity of it
and drunk it――which of course made them liable to punishment.

The general came over to the reservation too late; but flying columns
had been sent out at once, from Apache and Thomas and Grant and Bowie.
Two hundred scouts from all the reservation bands were enlisted for six
months. Chato himself volunteered.

The columns dispatched were mainly for the purpose of keeping the
Chiricahuas away from the border until it might be patrolled, and the
principal band located by either the American or the Mexican troops.

Meanwhile as a crack pack-master Jimmie was decidedly busy at Fort
Bowie. Bowie had waxed to a bustling supply depot, and was likely to be
headquarters field base.

Tom Moore, who had been up north in the Department of the Platte, was
sent for by the general to be chief packer again in the Department of
Arizona. He brought down from Cheyenne, Wyoming, the best of the Platte
pack-mules, and was given a great welcome at Bowie by Jimmie and the
other “old-timers.”

The country was being scoured for good mules. These had to be broken,
some of them, and distributed. Troops were pouring in, until the
general had at his disposal forty companies of infantry and the same of
cavalry.

He was planning surely. He directed that heliograph stations, for
the purpose of telegraphing by mirrored sun-flashes, be established
upon hill-tops all along on both sides of the border. Then he went to
Washington, to get a better agreement with Mexico regarding a joint
campaign against the Apaches.

There was a brief period of quiet, except for hard work that kept
Jimmie, as well as others, on the move. The final break came about the
middle of October.

Jimmie saw the heliostat flashes which spread the news. He was riding
back to Bowie from a long trip down to a supply camp at the border.
Chancing to turn his head, when only a little way out from the camp,
he caught the flash of a message from a station in the south.

The regulation Morse dots and dashes (long and short flashes) were used
by the stations. Now he paused, to read. The station was at least ten
miles distant. The air was very clear, and his eyes were good eyes.

What was that? No practice message, this, or ordinary routine. The
first word――even the first three letters――stiffened him intent.

  “H-o-s-t-i-l-e  b-a-n-d  h-e-a-d-g (heading) n-o-r-t-h  f-o-r
  D-r-a-g-o-o-n  c-o-u-n-t-r-y.  Q-u-i-c-k.” Signed.

Hah! “Wake up, Chiquito! Gwan with you!” The message read like
business, and stirring business. Evidently the Chiricahuas were getting
bold. But it did not seem possible that with all these troops, and the
railroad, and the telegraph, and the helio stations, and the armed and
watchful settlers, a raid could amount to much.

The helio stations were twenty or twenty-five miles apart. A message
had been sent from Nacori, in the mountains of northern Mexico, two
hundred miles to Fort Bowie, in an hour. But so fast moved this band
of raiders, and so cleverly they chose their trail, that by the time
Jimmie arrived at Bowie they not only had crossed the line but had
disappeared somewhere in Arizona!

Already the troops were in motion, trying to close in and head the
raiders off. It was reported that there were eleven warriors. They
were not even sighted again, until, suddenly, they struck the White
Mountain reservation itself――surprised a camp of the White Mountains,
killed twelve and carried away six women and children.

That, then, had been the object of the raid: to take revenge upon the
reservation Apaches for sending scouts against the Chiricahuas!

The White Mountains succeeded in killing one raider, during the fight.
He was Hal-zay, Nah-che’s half-brother. They cut off his head, for a
trophy. But the ten others completed their bold circuit, and in spite
of soldiers, settlers, telegraph, heliostat and railroad escaped back
into Mexico.

“I never would have believed it!” declared Chief Packer Tom Moore, to
Jimmie at Bowie. “It beats the Dutch! The general’s got every waterhole
covered, and every pass watched. Anyhow, now there’s a fresh trail, for
back-tracking on, where they came up by the shortest way. Crawford and
Cap’n Davis are going right down after the bacon, to stay till they get
Geronimo or his scalp. I’ve picked you for assistant chief packer with
one of ’em. Which do you say? Chances are even. You’re the boss.”

“Guess I’ll throw in with Crawford, Tom, if you put it up to me,”
promptly said Jimmie. Assistant chief packer! Wow!

Captain Crawford and Captain Wirt Davis were both good men, but as Tom
Horn, acting chief of scouts, had remarked: “Crawford’s my style of
fighter: the go-get-’em kind with a wolf jaw!”

“You’d better be makin’ up your best trains, then,” counseled Tom,
to Jimmie. “Three, I reckon. Crawford won’t wait on sore backs or
sore feet; and he’d rather bust every man and every mule and go on by
himself, than let Davis outdo him.”

When Captain Crawford arrived with his column at Bowie, from Fort
Apache, on November 15, Jimmie the assistant chief packer was ready for
him. The Captain Wirt Davis column was to be composed of cavalry and
scouts both; but Captain Crawford was taking only scouts.

These were one hundred Chiricahuas, White Mountains and Warm Springs,
from the Fort Apache reservation; but mainly Chiricahuas, with Chato
as their chief, and Ka-e-ten-na the traveler included. Micky Free was
going with the San Carlos scouts and Captain Davis. Captain Crawford
had selected so many Chiricahuas because his goal was the Sierra Madre
Range again, and the Chiricahuas knew all that country well.

The scouts formed two companies, under command of First Lieutenant
Marion P. Maus, of the First Infantry, and a gallant young “shave
tail,” Second Lieutenant William Ewen Shipp, of the Tenth Cavalry, only
two years out of West Point.

Another “shave tail,” Second Lieutenant Sam Faison, of the First
Infantry, who had graduated in the same class with Lieutenant Shipp,
was the adjutant, quarter-master and commissary, all three. Dr. T. B.
Davis was the surgeon, Concepcion was the interpreter. Al Sieber, the
old war-horse, was retained to look after the reservations, but Tom
Horn was to be chief of scouts and had proved first-class.

Altogether, it was an honor to be in pack service with such an
expedition, especially as Captain Crawford had volunteered for the
Sierra Madre trip because it was the more dangerous of the two.

Lieutenant-General Phil Sheridan, commander of the United States Army,
had come out to Bowie from Washington, to see the columns off. He and
General Crook inspected the whole outfit, in a parade at the fort.

“Well,” reported Chief of Scouts Horn, after a conference in General
Crook’s quarters, “this is the idea: The general says we’re to go down
into Mexico and stay six months, if necessary, and when we strike a
trail we’re to follow it as long as it shows a single moccasin track or
pony track. Savvy? When we’ve killed all the bucks who don’t surrender,
and corralled all the women and children, we can come up home with our
batch. Then he’ll tell ’em what’ll happen next.”

The march veered west through the Dragoon Mountains, in the hope of
striking the up trail and following it down. But heavy rains had washed
out the signs, so the course was continued straight south, for the
Sierra Madre country again. The Chiricahuas were bound to be there, if
at any place.

Throughout the month of December the pack-train job was the same tough
job as that when General Crook led on, in 1883: up hill, down hill,
sliding, scrambling, falling, barking shins and bruising hoofs and
feet, amidst terrific canyons, thorny brush, sharp rocks, towering
cliffs, sun and rain, heat and cold. Tom Horn scouted far ahead with
a few picked scouts; the captain and his lieutenants and the plucky
doctor, and old Concepcion, rode keenly with the eager main body;
and Jimmie, assistant chief packer in place of Tom Moore, hustled his
toiling pack-trains of fifty mules each, so as to bring them into camp
on time every evening.

Now it was the first week in January. There was only one pack-train.
Captain Crawford had ordered that the two others be sent back to the
border, two hundred miles, with Lieutenant Faison, the commissary and
quarter-master, for supplies. So Jimmie had detached the trains of
“Chileno John” and Sam Wisser. He had stayed.

Chief Scout Horn had been gone two weeks; but he kept runners out with
news from him. He had discovered fresh sign: Indian and cattle trails;
cattle carcasses; and a recent camp. Ka-e-ten-na and Chato had just
come in. They brought word for Captain Crawford to push on, and join
the advance. Tom would be waiting――he knew that the Chiricahuas were
yonder before him.

The captain sent for Jimmie.

“We must reduce our packs again,” he said, “for a forced march. You
will pack four of your strongest mules with twelve days’ rations for
eighty men. The personal outfit will be cut down to one blanket for
each man. Take the shoes off the mules, to avoid noise. The rest of the
outfit will be left here, under guard of those men who are unable to
travel. Which of your packers have you in mind, to go on?”

“Jimmie Dunn, captain,” smiled Jimmie.

“It’s afoot, you know――and probably night marches. Will your leg stand
it?”

“Will we strike the hostiles, captain?”

“Sure.”

“That’s all my leg needs, to lengthen it out, then,” laughed Jimmie.

He felt that he was as fit as Captain Crawford. The captain looked
badly. So did the doctor; and old Concepcion the interpreter was about
done.

The scouts seemed unusually solemn, as if the report by Chato and
Ka-e-ten-na had much impressed them. They proceeded to make medicine.
In the light of a small fire old No-wa-ze-ta the medicine man unrolled
the strip of sacred buckskin that he carried; one by one the scouts
kneeled before him; he mumbled over them and held the sacred buckskin
to their lips. After that they held a council.

“Some of the soldiers chiefs at Bowie say maybe your Chiricahua will
not fight,” said Jimmie, sitting beside Chato, in a blanket, and
watching. “They say maybe you will pretend to fight, but all the time
you will be sending word to Geronimo to keep away.”

“That is not true,” declared Chato. “We will fight. We are ready.”

About midnight camp was broken. Through the cold and the darkness Chato
and Ka-e-ten-na guided. Each officer and man was in moccasins and
packed his own blanket. Jimmie drove the four mules.

About noon the signs mentioned by Tom Horn were found: a trail, and the
bodies of butchered cattle. That evening Ka-e-ten-na pointed ahead.

“Espinosa del Diablo,” he said. “Maybe we cross. Very bad country.”

Espinosa del Diablo was Spanish for Devil’s Backbone――a high mass of
jagged ridges.

Early in the morning two more of Tom Horn’s scouts came in. The light
of Indian camp-fires had been sighted, reflected in the sky, and Chief
Scout Horn urged the captain to hurry.

The command made a short march, rested until late afternoon, and
started on again, to march by night. The country steadily grew worse,
with deep, dark canyons, steep rocky hills, heavy brush, and a river
which was constantly being forded. Moccasins were soaked and soon cut
to bits.

From now on, the camps were not ordered until midnight. Only small
fires of dry wood were permitted; and under one thin blanket apiece
nobody was able to sleep, before the sun rose. In fact, it was as
miserable a time as Jimmie ever had experienced.

More messages arrived from Tom Horn. He had located the Chiricahuas――had
smelled the mescal steam, had seen the fires. “Hurry!” he bade. He had
only two scouts with him.

Captain Crawford lengthened the marches, to all night and half-day
stretches. Some of the Apache scouts, tough as they were, began to
straggle and limp. Doctor Davis and old Concepcion could barely hobble.

At sunset of January 9, “Dutchy,” another of the Horn scouts, appeared.
Dutchy said that the Chiricahua camp was but twelve miles away. He
and Tom and the other scout had reconnoitered it――had witnessed the
Chiricahuas moving about, herding their horses. They did not suspect
that any enemies were near.

Tom and the other scout had no blankets, and nothing to eat but a
little meat――the three of them had had nothing else for ten days; now
he, Dutchy, was to bring the captain on at once, while the two watched
the Chiricahua camp.

Hurrah! The news put vim into the command. The end of the marches was
at hand. Evidently Geronimo had no idea he could be found away in here.

Captain Crawford issued rapid orders.

“Twenty minutes’ halt. No fires. Let the men eat bread and raw bacon.
Examine arms carefully. Pack-mules to remain here, with the packer,
Doctor Davis and the interpreter. All available men to be ready for a
night march, and attack at daylight.”

That was hard luck for Jimmie――but Doctor Davis and Concepcion were
completely exhausted, and somebody had to stay with the mules, to move
them on in a jiffy when sent for.

In precisely twenty minutes the command set out, guided by Dutchy. It
had been the first halt in six hours! As in the twilight they clambered
up a rocky, narrow trail, Jimmie saw that Lieutenant Maus was helping
Captain Crawford. Even at that, the captain was obliged to pause, once
or twice, and lean upon his carbine. He used his carbine as a staff.

“His indomitable will is all that keeps the captain going,” remarked
Doctor Davis.

“Muy hombre (Much man),” groaned old Concepcion.

The darkness closed in quickly. It was a bitter cold night. Concepcion
and the mules moaned, the doctor’s teeth chattered, and wrapped in his
single blanket Jimmie shivered. The brush stirred with the stealthy
tread of prowling animals, a leopard shrieked, at intervals, and the
still air stung.

With the first grayness Jimmie was up, to unlimber, and listen. The
attack upon the Chiricahua camp was due. The moments dragged. The
doctor and Concepcion seemed to have dropped asleep at last, but they,
also, shivered in their uneasy slumber. This was the coldest period of
the night――just at dawn.




XXVI

FOES OR FRIENDS?


Gradually the shadows upon the rocks and timber paled; and then,
suddenly――hark!

Rifle-shots! A spatter――a volley――more and faster, rolling and
echoing among the crags! The attack had been made. Throwing aside
their blankets, up sprang the doctor and Concepcion, bewildered and
staggering, but awake.

“Fighting!” exclaimed the doctor. “They’ve struck the hostiles! Good!”

“Much shooting, much shooting,” stammered old Concepcion.

For fifteen minutes the rapid firing continued. It lessened, to
dropping, scattered shots, and in about an hour ceased altogether. The
sun rose.

“What’ll we do now?” demanded the doctor, of Jimmie. “Crawford’s licked
them, don’t you think?”

“Sounded like it, doctor. But we’d better be watching sharp. Some of
the bronc’s are liable to come this way.”

There was another period of anxious waiting. They took turns doing
look-out duty from a high rock. With Concepcion’s aid, Jimmie packed
the mules. About ten o’clock he could stand the suspense no longer.

“If we moved on we probably would meet the word from the captain, and
get there all the sooner with the packs, doctor,” he proposed.

“All right. But Concepcion and I can’t move fast.”

They toiled on, following the trail. At noon they met Dutchy.

“The soldier-captain says to come, with mules and medicine-man and
Concepcion.”

“Did you whip the Chiricahua?” queried Jimmie.

“Yes. We ran them like turkeys. Capture everything――many horses.
Chiricahua get away, but they send word they will talk to-morrow.”

The doctor, who had been outstepped by Jimmie and the mules, limped
eagerly in, with poor old Concepcion in his wake.

“What’s the news? Have they got Geronimo?”

“Not yet; but they captured the camp. We’re to come on at once, doctor.”

“How far? Any of our men hurt?”

Jimmie asked Dutchy.

“Ten miles. Only Chiricahua hurt.”

“I’ve got to rest,” panted the doctor. “Go ahead with your mules. We’ll
follow. Any danger?”

“No danger,” said Dutchy, answering Jimmie. “Chiricahua hide till
to-morrow.”

Dutchy plainly was in a great hurry to get back――probably to share in
the plunder. Jimmie left the doctor and Concepcion to come as best they
could, and again hustled his mules to keep up with Dutchy. But that
proved impossible. The trail was a corker! How in the world Captain
Crawford and men ever had traveled it in the darkness was a wonder.

Dutchy disappeared. Only the trail remained, as guide. It dipped
into canyons, and wound over rocks and steep ridges. Jimmie wheezed
and puffed and sweat. He was empty from chin to knees, his legs were
leaden, he ached in every muscle. His mules repeatedly halted, and
stood heaving and straddled. But he pushed on. The captain had sent for
the packs, and orders were orders.

The sun set. He had been half a day covering these few miles! A damp
fog was descending, cloaking the mountains. If he missed the trail――――!
No! Good! He saw camp-fire light, glowing on the low clouds. At last,
in the gathering dark, he labored into the camp, to report.

Everybody there was asleep, utterly worn out. Jimmie peered about, and
wakened Chato and got a small chunk of pony meat from him; unpacked his
mules and went to sleep himself, in defiance of the cold rain that was
falling. He had done his stint. The doctor and Concepcion hardly could
arrive before morning.

It seemed to him that he scarcely had closed his throbbing eyes ere
he was aroused by excited cries and loud shouts. But he had slept,
for dawn was here――a wet, foggy dawn. Amidst the fog the scouts were
yelling shrilly; upon every side men were jumping up, grabbing guns,
and staring into the mist before.

“Look out! Somebody comes! Many come!” were shouting the scouts.

Tom Horn was up; so was Lieutenant Maus, and Lieutenant Shipp. From
where he lay exhausted, by his fire, Captain Crawford directed the
defense.

“Be careful! They may be some of Captain Davis’s men,” he warned.
“Don’t fire on them till you see who it is.”

“Wait for me to tell you, before you begin shooting,” repeated Tom
Horn, to the scouts.

He started to climb higher, for a better view. Lieutenant Maus and
Lieutenant Shipp were running to right and left, to take command of
their companies. Down below, beyond a little basin, forms were dimly
visible. They acted like soldiers.

On a sudden there was a resounding crash――the red flare of a volley
lighted the fog, and a storm of bullets pelted the camp. Jimmie,
wriggling for cover, leveled his gun, for the scouts were replying.

“Follow me, valientes (braves),” clearly called a voice, in good
Spanish, from the basin in front; and a line of figures moved swiftly
forward.

“Wait! Wait! Cease that firing! Stop your scouts, Horn!” shouted
Captain Crawford, on his feet. “It’s a mistake. Those are Mexicans!”

And so they were.

Captain Crawford leaped upon a rock, to wave a white handkerchief, in
signal, and call.

“No tiras! Amigos, amigos! Americanos! (Don’t fire! Friends, friends!
Americans!),” chimed in Lieutenant Maus, who spoke Spanish.

He ran down, into the open. The captain followed him. Under the lifting
mist they met four of the Mexicans. One was a strapping big officer,
evidently the commander; another was a slender young lieutenant; the
two others were officers, also. The line of men behind them had
halted, and stood uneasily. They looked like a wild lot, too.

Chief of Scouts Horn advanced. Lieutenant Maus talked earnestly with
the big officer, and interpreted to Captain Crawford. Tom Horn joined
them, to assist.

On either side of Jimmie the scouts were poking their heads above the
rocks, and cramming fresh cartridges into their Springfields. The
carbine breech-locks snapped briskly.

“Mexicanos!” hissed Chato, with avid face. “Kill them all.”

“You and I will kill that big man, first,” answered Ka-e-ten-na.

“See!” bade Dutchy.

A file of other Mexican soldiers were sneaking through a ravine, to
flank the camp.

Lieutenant Maus had seen; he pointed, and protested to the big officer.

“Watch those Mexicans, Shipp!” shouted the captain.

“No tiras, no tiras!” again appealed Lieutenant Maus, this time to the
scouts.

“No tiras!” boomed the big officer, as if in much alarm.

“Bang!” From the Mexicans at the rear sounded a single shot. Instantly
the group in the basin scattered, each man for his own place. The
Mexican line came on at a trot, firing, loading and firing. Tom Horn
was left for a moment alone, as the captain and the lieutenant scurried
for the rocks.

“The captain, is killed!” shrieked Chato, at him. “Come back!” He and
Ka-e-ten-na fired together, and the big Mexican officer, running, threw
up his arm, and hurling his rifle far, plunged headlong.

“Give it to ’em,” yelled Tom, running also.

“Whang-g-g-g!” Everybody shot. The slender Mexican lieutenant fell
riddled. He had been hit thirteen times! The two other Mexicans were
behind a tree; the scouts’ bullets cut the tree almost down and the
twain crumpled in a heap. The whole Mexican line melted into sprawled
figures, some lax and motionless, some squirming for safety.

Lieutenant Maus arrived, panting.

“Head off those fellows on the right,” he rasped, to Lieutenant Shipp.
Away darted stripling Shipp, to prevent the flank attack.

“Crawford’s dead――shot in the brain!” gasped the lieutenant to Jimmie.
“He’s yonder, behind a rock. Horn’s shot in the arm. Those are Mexican
irregulars. What are they up to? But they began it.”

The scouts were still firing rapidly on every moving form. The Mexicans
were now hard to see.

“Give me orders to send out my men into the trees and rocks and we will
kill every Mexican!” shouted Chato, to Tom Horn.

“Don’t waste bullets,” cautioned Tom, in Apache. “Be careful. We are
many miles from more.”

“We will use the Mexicans’ guns,” retorted Chato.

“Give me the dead captain’s gun and belt and I will help you kill
Mexicans,” spoke a new voice. “Make me your prisoner and tell me to
fight.”

It was old Nana the Chiricahua chief. He had somehow tottered in, from
the rear――he was ninety years of age and lame from a broken hip.

“I fight the Americans no more,” he cackled. “But I will fight the
Mexicans any time. And so will all my people.”

He nodded backward; they looked, and there were many more of the
Chiricahua hostiles, at a short distance, peering and waiting. Geronimo
mounted upon a boulder and yelled across.

“If you are fighting the Mexicans, tell us what to do.”

That was an odd situation. If the Chiricahuas had attacked the camp
from the one side and the Mexicans from the other――――!

The Mexicans called, where they were concealed.

“Send somebody to talk with us.”

Lieutenant Maus and Tom Horn advanced again. Four of the Mexicans met
them half-way. One of the Mexicans was crying. His brother was the
slender young lieutenant who had been riddled.

Lieutenant Maus returned and talked with Lieutenant Shipp. The
Mexicans claimed that they had made a mistake. They had lost all their
officers――among them Major Corredor, who was the big man, and, they
declared, “the bravest man that ever lived.” They asked permission to
remove their dead.

Lieutenant Maus accompanied each body into the Mexican lines. The
Mexicans seemed to be afraid of the scouts.

Now noon was at hand, but instead of withdrawing, the Mexicans had
taken a strong position that threatened the camp. Many of them were
Tarahumari Indians, a Mexican tribe hostile to all Americans and
Apaches.

The camp was short of food and ammunition. Several of the scouts had
been wounded, one of them severely. Tom Horn’s arm hung useless.
Captain Crawford lay underneath a blanket, with a bandanna handkerchief
spread over his face. A piece of his forehead and a portion of his
brain had been shot out, but he still breathed.

Jimmie at last reported his arrival to Lieutenant Shipp.

“Yes, I’ve seen you,” answered the lieutenant. “You did well, but,”
he frankly added, “we’re all in a bad fix. If there’s war between the
United States and Mexico, our pack-trains are likely to be captured;
and while we’re fighting our way north, carrying Captain Crawford,
there’ll be nothing to prevent the scouts from joining the other
Chiricahuas and all together making off to do as they please. Where’s
the doctor? Lieutenant Maus has been asking for him.”

Doctor Davis and Concepcion came in, agog to know what had occurred.
They had heard the firing, again, and had hidden until it had stopped.

The doctor attended to the captain, and reported that he could not live
long. The other wounded were patched up. The Mexicans needed a doctor,
and he went over to them, as was his duty.

He was gone some time. On his return he said that the Mexicans had many
killed and wounded, but that he had been badly treated, with scowls
and insulting language.

Some of the Geronimo Chiricahuas were in sight, waiting. The officers
did not think it advisable to hold a council with them until the
Mexicans had been disposed of. Only old Nana was still tottering about,
cackling among the scouts. He was harmless.

“Give us the orders, and we will clean the earth of those Mexicans,”
implored Chato and Ka-e-ten-na, of Tom Horn. “Then we will all have
plenty of pinole (which was meal) and bullets.”

Another cold, rainy night settled down early. Lieutenant Maus directed
that camp be broken at daylight, for the march north. Captain Crawford
should be moved at once, and the pack-train that had been left must be
protected. After that, the Chiricahuas who did not surrender would be
hunted again.

In the morning, while a litter of reeds from the river was being made,
for carrying the captain, old Concepcion, who had been rounding up some
ponies, called that the Mexicans had him and demanded a talk with the
commanding officer.

Lieutenant Maus again met a squad. They led him aside, behind some
rocks, as if to get shelter from the rain――and presently a Mexican
brought a note from him. The note stated that he, too, was a prisoner,
until he could show papers to prove that he had permission to “invade”
Mexico. The Mexicans insisted also upon a supply of food, and mules for
their wounded.

Lieutenant Shipp and Chief Scout Horn conferred together. The Mexican
messenger was told to get four or five men and return for the mules
and rations. Lieutenant Shipp slipped around with his company of
scouts, to a position where he might pour a deadly fire into the
Mexican lines. When the five Mexicans returned to the camp, for the
mules and rations, they were suddenly ringed about with carbine muzzles.

“Now,” spoke Chief Scout Horn, “you call to your comrades. Tell them
that if our lieutenant is not released immediately, you will all be
killed!”

“Hi!” cackled old Nana. “That is good. Yes, you will be killed. But we
will not kill you quick. We will shoot you in many places, first.”

Carbine hammers clicked. Young Lieutenant Shipp’s scouts were crouched
and aiming, ready. All the scouts were yelling, while the five
Mexicans, calling piteously, pleaded that the lieutenant be released.

That, as Tom Horn said, “ended the row.” Here came the lieutenant,
angry but safe. The five prisoners were allowed to scuttle back.

“They’re an ugly lot,” announced the lieutenant. “They have over thirty
dead and a dozen wounded. Concepcion is still held. I’ve agreed to let
them have six mules in exchange, so they can pull out.”

The mules were Mexican mules, but the lieutenant required a receipt for
them, and the Mexican government paid the value of them to the United
States.

The Mexicans finally withdrew. Scouts were sent out, on their trail, to
watch them to a safe distance. The next morning, January 13, camp was
broken.

Captain Crawford was living, but unconscious. Four of the scouts
carried him in the litter. The trail was too rough and narrow for
any other method. The Geronimo Chiricahuas had disappeared, but they
stayed near. This evening Geronimo sent an old squaw into the new camp.
He requested the talk that had been agreed upon for the day when the
Mexicans had interrupted.

In the morning Lieutenant Maus took Tom Horn, Ka-e-ten-na, Dutchy, and
two or three other scouts, and, all unarmed, met Geronimo in council.

“Why did you come down in here, where I thought white men could not
come?” demanded Geronimo, direct.

“I came down to capture or destroy you and your band,” answered the
weary Lieutenant Maus, just as direct.

“I see you speak the truth,” replied Geronimo. He shook hands, sent a
long talk, of various complaints, to “Cluke,” and engaged to meet the
general at the border when the March moon was full.

“Do you think he will do it, Chato?” queried Jimmie.

“Yes. Ka-e-ten-na has told him what a big people the Americans are.
Besides, Geronimo is sending in old Nana, and some women. Chihuahua
wants to come in. Juh has been killed by the Mexicans. Pretty soon
Geronimo will have no one left.”

Nana arrived, again, and Geronimo’s wife, and one of Nah-che’s wives,
and another Chiricahua, and several children. Lieutenant Maus divided
his few rations with the Geronimo band, and proceeded. Matters looked
better.

But that was a long, sorrowful march, carrying Captain Crawford through
the three hundred miles of mountains and rain. He lived, unconscious,
for five days――he had an “indomitable will,” as had said Doctor Davis.
Without having spoken a word he died on January 17. Of course there was
no thought of leaving him behind, in the wilds, so his body was still
carried on, in the litter.

He was buried at the little Mexican town of Nacori, near the border,
until he might be reburied in the United States. The mayor of the town
promised to have the grave guarded.

The news of the expedition was telegraphed by helio to Bowie. Scout
runners already had been dispatched ahead.

Almost the first person encountered by Jimmie, when he rode stiffly
into Bowie, on the third of February, was Micky the Red-head, as lively
as ever, after his own long trip with the Captain Davis column.

“Where is Geronimo, Cheemie?” hailed Micky.

“He will come.”

“Well, if he doesn’t, we will go get him,” asserted Micky. “We will
bring him back little by little. You look as though you had been a long
way, Cheemie.”

“More than a thousand miles,” laughed Jimmie. And he felt it.

“That’s enough for _you_,” declared Chief Packer Tom Moore, when Jimmie
reported. “You stick around, now, and take things easy.”

The post was still talking of Captain Crawford’s one march of eighteen
hours with only the twenty minutes’ halt; and of his tragic death, at
the end, when he had won his goal.

Lieutenant Maus, with Lieutenant Faison and Lieutenant Shipp, Tom Horn
and the scouts, was ordered back below the border, to camp until the
Chiricahuas signalled for the talk.

Jimmie was laid up with his leg, for several weeks. And at Bowie the
general waited impatiently for the news from the lieutenant’s camp.




XXVII

THE WORST ENEMY OF ALL


The last week of March had opened. The moon was near the full. Tom
Moore, walking briskly, caught Jimmie bossing the repairs on some
aparejos, out at the Bowie mule sheds.

“Word’s come,” rapped Tom. “I’m to take a pack-train down to Maus
to-morrow, and the general will follow.”

“Is Geronimo there, Tom?”

“I don’t know; but he’s promised to be there in four days. Anyhow,
we’re to pack a lot of rations; and looks like we’re to feed some
Injuns and fetch ’em back. Do you want to go ’long and see the finish?”

“Sure thing, Tom.”

“Bueno! I thought you would, but I can use somebody else if you’re not
fit. All right, then. We’ll pull out at eight o’clock.”

The Lieutenant Maus command had been camped one hundred miles south of
Bowie, or ten miles below the border. But Geronimo had refused to meet
the general there, and had appointed the Cañon de los Embudos (Funnels
Canyon), twelve miles below the border and twenty miles west, where the
country was rougher.

Alchisé, Ka-e-ten-na, and Tony Besias and another official interpreter
went with the pack outfit. There were two old Chiricahua squaws, also,
from the bunch who had been taken prisoners at the Geronimo rancheria
last January. They, and Alchisé and Ka-e-ten-na were counted upon to
spread “good talk” among the Chiricahuas. Mayor Strauss, of Tucson,
who had been at Bowie discussing affairs with the general, joined by
special permission.

The general overhauled the pack-train on the second day out. He and
his staff, including Major Bourke and Captain C. S. Roberts, of the
Judge-Advocate Department, were in an ambulance. Captain Roberts had
brought his ten-year-old son, Charley, who was seeing army life in the
Southwest; and there was an escort of scouts, with the inevitable Micky
as scout sergeant.

Before the Lieutenant Maus camp was reached, the company had grown
larger. Two photographers named Fly and Chase had joined; and a
Mexican, José Maria Yaskes, who had lived with the Chiricahuas; and
several ranchers and cow-boys.

“All want to see Geronimo――but I guess the Gray Fox wants to see him
worst of anybody,” laughed Micky.

On the morning of March 25 Alchisé and Ka-e-ten-na sent up a smoke
signal, to tell the camp and Geronimo that the general was near.
Lieutenant Shipp, Chato and two others rode out to guide the detachment
in.

The Maus camp was well located, upon a mesa commanding water and grass,
in the canyon. Geronimo’s camp was just as strongly located, a half
mile away――on the top of a lava cone surrounded by bristly gulches.

The packers already in camp thought that there would be no trouble.
Geronimo had been over every day, to ask when the general was expected
for the talk; Chihuahua had sent word that he was prepared to surrender
at any time, and do exactly as the general told him to do.

“Chihuahua will leave Geronimo; Nana has left Geronimo; soon he will
have nobody,” Chato repeated. “Geronimo and Chihuahua are living
separate now. Nana is too old to run any more.”

After the general had lunched, there was sudden exclaiming and
pointing. A large party of Chiricahuas were descending from their cone.

“Geronimo!”

“Here comes the old rascal!”

The Chiricahuas rode on, up the canyon, and Chief of Scouts Horn met
them. He returned, and reported.

“Geronimo says he will talk with the general.”

Still, Geronimo did not enter the camp. He halted a short distance
out, amid some white-barked sycamores and shaggy cottonwoods, near the
river. The general and officers advanced, to hold the talk, and a crowd
followed, eager to hear.

There were the general, Lieutenant Maus, Lieutenant Shipp and
Lieutenant Faison; Surgeon Davis (who had recovered from his hard
trip); Captain Roberts and young Charley Roberts; Major Bourke; Chief
Packer Tom Moore, ex-Assistant Jimmie, Pack-masters H. W. Daly and
Harvey Carlisle, Packers Shaw and Foster; Mayor Strauss, of Tucson;
Photographers Fly and Chase; Tony Besias, old Concepcion, José Maria
Yaskes, and other interpreters; Chief Scout Tom Horn, Sergeant Micky
Free, Alchisé, Ka-e-ten-na, Chato, and others of the scout companies;
and even a little boy named Howell who had traveled along from a ranch
thirty miles away.

Chihuahua was here, smiling and good-natured. So was Nah-che――not
smiling, but on the contrary looking grim and anxious. Jimmie saw
Porico, or White Horse, Geronimo’s brother. No squaws had come over,
and only a few of the warriors sat together; the majority were
scattered, well armed, wearing two cartridge-belts, and prepared to
fight and flee, if an attempt were made to seize them.

Everybody except the general, Chihuahua and Micky appeared to be rather
on edge. And no wonder. After all these months of worry and work,
growing old chasing Geronimo on the heart-breaking trails, was this the
end at last? Jimmie suddenly felt old, himself. How far had he trailed
the fighting Apaches? Two thousand miles, at least!

“Ka-e-ten-na says the Chiricahua will shoot if we try to hold
Geronimo,” whispered Micky. “They made Maus promise that the Gray Fox
would bring no soldiers down. That is bad.”

“But the scouts will fight.”

“Yes, they will fight,” nodded Micky.

Geronimo was speaking, as he sat twisting a strand of buckskin in his
nervous hands.

“Everybody on the reservation was unfriendly to me. Chato and Micky
Free stirred up trouble against me; they lied about me to the
soldier-captain Davis, and he spread the lies. The papers told bad
stories on me. They said that I ought to be arrested and hung up. I
don’t want any more of that talk. Why don’t you speak to me and look
with a pleasant face? What is the matter, that you don’t smile on me?
Why did you give orders to have me put in prison? I had tried to do
right. Remember that I sent you word I would come from a long distance
to speak with you here, and you see me now. If I thought bad or had
done bad, I would not have come.”

[Illustration: “WHY DON’T YOU SPEAK TO ME AND LOOK WITH A PLEASANT
FACE?”]

General Crook made no bones about answering.

“I gave no orders to have you arrested. If you left the reservation
because you were afraid, why did you sneak all over the country killing
innocent people and stealing horses? Your story is all bosh. You sent
up your people to kill Chato and Lieutenant Davis. Everything that you
did on the reservation is known. There is no use in your trying to
talk nonsense. I am no child. You promised me in the Sierra Madre that
the peace should last, and you have lied. How do I know but that you
are lying now, when you say you want peace? Have I ever lied to you?
You must make up your mind either to surrender or to stay out on the
warpath. If you stay out, I will keep after you and kill every one of
you if it takes fifty years. I have said all I have to say. You had
better think, to-night, and let me know in the morning.”

The perspiration had burst out upon Geronimo’s face and hands. He would
have said more, but the general arose, as signal that the talk was at
an end. Only the two photographers were happy; they had taken a number
of excellent pictures.

This evening and night the two camps remained apart. In the Maus
camp there was a great deal of discussion. Nobody might yet foresee
what the Chiricahuas under Geronimo would do.

“A thousand troops couldn’t get those bronc’s, where they’re located,”
asserted Tom Moore. “They’d scatter like quail and be off into Mexico,
at first sign of trouble. Anyhow, Maus agreed not to attack ’em, and
while the general mightn’t have made any such agreement himself, he’s
bound to stick by it.”

“You and I will go over in the morning, Cheemie,” said Micky. “We will
see for ourselves.”

So they did. Major Bourke, Mayor Strauss, of Tucson, Pack-master
Carlisle and others likewise went. It was indeed a strong position,
well up among broken lava, with every jacal or hut defended by a cactus
fence. A number of jagged rifts had to be crossed, and there were
ravines leading away.

No army officer, Major Bourke alleged, could have chosen a better
situation or made more of it.

Geronimo and his warriors were in council, and could not be approached.
None of the Chiricahuas would talk; even Nah-da-ste declined to speak
to Jimmie, but hid her face.

Young Charley Roberts was the only visitor who could attract attention.
The little girls followed him around, giggling, and passing compliments
upon him. It reminded Jimmie of the time, long ago, when he had been
giggled at in a Chiricahua camp.

Nothing happened this day. Matters looked bad. In the morning Alchisé
and Ka-e-ten-na came into camp. They had been spending their time in
the Geronimo camp, to spread peace talk. Ka-e-ten-na was to tell the
Chiricahuas of the sights that he had seen in San Francisco.

They brought word from Chihuahua that whether Geronimo decided to
surrender, or not, he himself would appear with all his band at noon,
and do as “Cluke” said to do.

At noon Chihuahua appeared. Geronimo and Nah-che and old Nana were with
him. Geronimo’s face was blackened, as sign of mourning. The general
talked with them, again, at the same place as before.

“I am glad to see you, Cluke,” said Chihuahua. “I am now in your hands.
You may do as you please with me. I am going over to stay with you in
your camp.”

“What have you decided?” asked the general, of Geronimo.

“My people are afraid to go with you, for fear they will be punished.
They do not want to be punished. We will go with you if we are allowed
to live as before.”

“That is all nonsense,” retorted the general. “I do not trust you any
more. If you go with me, you must understand that you all will be put
in the guard-house until Washington tells me what to do with you.”

“How long will we be kept prisoners?”

“You will be sent away, like Ka-e-ten-na was. That cured Ka-e-ten-na
and made him good. It will make you good, because it will change your
hearts. You say that lies are told about you on the reservation. If you
are sent away, there will be no lies.”

“How long will we be sent away?”

“Maybe one year, maybe two years. You may take your families with you.
Only Nana shall stay; he is too old to make trouble.”

Geronimo shifted uneasily, and gazed appealingly around.

“I will talk no more,” stated the general. “To-morrow morning I shall
go back to Fort Bowie. If you decide to stay away, you will not be safe
anywhere in Mexico. You cannot hide from me. This you already know.”

“We will march to Fort Bowie, and there you may send us away, as
you say,” spoke Geronimo desperately. “But we must march freely, by
ourselves. I cannot make my men give up their guns, until they are in
the fort where you will protect them. There are bad people along the
way who would kill us. Your young soldier-captains might not be able
to control their scouts, and the scouts would kill us. I want you to
promise that we shall not be made prisoners until we arrive at Fort
Bowie. Otherwise, I cannot persuade my men, and there will be war.”

The general eyed him fixedly.

“It is agreed,” he said.

Geronimo was much relieved, and shook hands with him.

“Geronimo speaks the truth,” declared Ka-e-ten-na, that evening. “If
the general had not agreed, there would have been war. The Chiricahua
were ready to fight and run away. But they would rather be put in
prison a little while, and see such things as I have seen.”

Orders were given to be prepared to move in the morning. The general
was going on ahead, to Bowie, and get instructions from General
Sheridan at Washington; Lieutenant Maus was to follow, with the
Chiricahuas.

That night there seemed to be a wild time in the Geronimo camp, half
a mile distant. Gun shots could be heard, and shrill whoops. During
breakfast in the morning there were many rumors. Jimmie got the truth
from Micky.

“Much whiskey in the Chiricahua camp,” said Micky, with shrug of
shoulders. “Ranch man send it in, and sell at one dollar a gallon.
Geronimo drunk, many others drunk.”

The general, when he rode by, looked worried. But he had to reach the
telegraph at Fort Bowie as quickly as possible. It was understood that
he had ordered Lieutenant Maus to destroy all the whiskey that could be
found, and to hasten on with the Chiricahuas.

So the camp was broken, and moved on the back trail, with directions
to halt at ten miles, and wait. The lieutenant stayed behind with
Concepcion the interpreter, to wait for the Geronimo camp to move.

In the afternoon he arrived at the halting place. The Chiricahuas were
following, but Geronimo had told him not to hang around or he might be
killed by some of the drunken warriors.

Chihuahua sent for Chief of Scouts Horn, and asked that he and all his
band be put under guard.

“I don’t like that, Cheemie,” uttered Micky. “When Chihuahua does such
a thing, he sees ahead. He is afraid of what will happen if his people
get the whiskey, too.”

Geronimo made camp again about half a mile away, as before, and in a
strong position. Everybody was ordered to keep away from it, so as to
avoid trouble; but the lieutenant took Ka-e-ten-na and rode over.

When they returned, Ka-e-ten-na reported that Geronimo was still drunk,
and he and another chief were riding around on one mule; and that
Nah-che had shot his wife.

Now the ranch which had supplied the whiskey was near. Lieutenant Shipp
took a detail over, to search the ranch and destroy the liquor.

Tom Moore, the old frontiersman, swore vigorously.

“It’s sure a dog-gone shame that for a few dirty dollars any man will
throw the whole country open again to an Injun war. For that’s what it
means, if those Chiricahuas lose their heads. When whiskey gets in, the
brains go out.”

Concepcion said that the whiskey seller had been filling the
Chiricahuas with lies also: he had told them that they were to be
killed as soon as they reached Bowie. He did this, so that they would
stay out and he might sell them more whiskey.

However, the night quieted the Chiricahuas in their camp. The
lieutenant sent over, once, to investigate. The warriors were said to
be sleeping.

But in the morning, which was March 29, while Jimmie was pulling
on his boots before breakfast, he saw the lieutenant dash away,
with Ka-e-ten-na, in the direction of Geronimo’s camp. In about an
hour they returned. The lieutenant stopped here where Tom Moore was
overseeing the unpacking of the pack-trains, for the day’s march. He
looked oddly haggard, but spoke with a hard, quick accent.

“Geronimo, Nah-che and twenty men and thirteen women are gone. I’ll
require a pack-train and several of your best men, to follow them with.
You can report to Shipp. Faison will go on to Bowie.”

Tom’s jaw dropped, and for a moment he acted as if too full for
utterance. This, then, was the outcome of all those other bitter
pursuits――poor Captain Crawford’s death――the general’s painstaking
methods!

“That dog-gone liquor!” he growled.

Jimmie sprang forward, and saluted the lieutenant.

“I’d like to go with the packs, sir.”

“You would? Why? You’ve been once, and you know what it means?”

“Well, I’d like to try again, sir. I won’t get enough till Geronimo
gets enough.”

The lieutenant’s face lighted up.

“If that’s your spirit, there’s no man I’d rather have with me. So you
and Moore settle it between you.”

And he galloped on.

“Gosh, but this will break the general all up,” muttered Tom. “All
right,” he added. “You get your outfit together and go along with Maus.”

Chihuahua, Nana, and sixty or seventy others of the Chiricahuas
still remained. Lieutenant Faison was to take them on, up to Bowie.
Lieutenant Maus and Lieutenant Shipp, with a company of the scouts and
Jimmie’s pack-train, set out in the opposite direction.

But it was no use. Geronimo had been thoroughly frightened by the
stories told him. Now his party traveled afoot, over country where
horses and mules could not travel. In three days the trails had split
and had become impossible, and the scouts had to give up.

So the command turned back. When they arrived at Bowie on April 3, this
1886, they learned that General Crook was no longer the commander in
Arizona!




XXVIII

THE END OF THE TRAIL


That was a stunning blow to the Crook men. The general had been
relieved of his command on April 2, at his own request.

As far as might be learned by the rank and file, and the pack service,
the President had not approved of the terms upon which Geronimo had
surrendered; but by this time Geronimo had fled again. Then the
dispatches from General Sheridan, commanding the Army, to General
Crook, had somewhat questioned the wisdom of the general’s methods
in depending upon the scouts, and suggested that he now make no more
campaigns for a while, but try to protect the border with his troops.

The general had replied that he still believed his methods were the
best, under the conditions; that he had been using the troops, to
protect the border; and that it had been impossible to hold Geronimo as
a prisoner and not break the promise given him.

To attack Geronimo in camp had likewise been impossible of success.

“It may be, however, that I am too much wedded to my own views in this
matter,” the general was said to have added, “and as I have spent
nearly eight years of the hardest work of my life in this department, I
respectfully request that I may now be relieved from its command.”

The Apache medicine-men at Fort Bowie made more medicine, and insisted
that if Ka-e-ten-na and other runners were sent after Geronimo, as soon
as the whiskey left him he would keep his word and come in peaceably.

This was not done, because Brigadier General Nelson A. Miles, of the
Fifth Infantry, commanding at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, had been
directed to take command of the Department of Arizona. This of course
meant new methods, and a shake-up all ’round.

Not knowing exactly what was ahead, Jimmie left the pack service and
became a railroad telegraph operator.

At any rate, General Crook had not failed. Eighty of the Chiricahuas,
including Chihuahua and Nana, had been brought in. Only Geronimo and
Nah-che and their twenty men and boys and thirteen women, were out. And
the Mangas squad of six men, who had not been with Geronimo for almost
a year.

General Miles arrived at Fort Bowie on April 12. He immediately
organized things for a campaign with the regular troops. The War
Department did not favor trusting in the scouts as fighters――especially
in the scouts from the White Mountain and Chiricahua friendlies.

The General Crook scouts had been discharged, and so were many of the
interpreters. Tom Horn left. Yes, there was a decided shake-up.

But the new general seemed to be a good man, all right, and the Arizona
newspapers put much faith in him. He extended the heliograph service,
until a perfect network of stations had been established; and he
injected fresh vim into the officers.

Suspecting that they were to get no terms at all, now, and to show
that they despised the soldiers, Geronimo and Nah-che went thoroughly
bad. Perhaps General Crook’s methods might have been better; perhaps
not; but toward the last of April Geronimo and Nah-che led their few
warriors straight up past Tucson itself; the troops had not been able
to protect the border, and Nah-che penetrated clear to Fort Apache.

They lost only one man. He was a deserter, and volunteered to follow
them, as “Peaches” had. The troops did heroic work. Lieutenant Lloyd
Brett, of the Second Cavalry, marched twenty-six hours without a halt;
his troopers were forced to drink their own blood, to quench thirst.

Captain Henry W. Lawton, of the Fourth Cavalry, and Captain Leonard
Wood, assistant surgeon in the army, were selected to push the pursuit
through Mexico, with a picked command of the Eighth Infantry and Fourth
and Tenth Cavalry. Surgeon Wood was instructed to see if the men could
not outdo even the Apaches.

Tom Horn went in charge of some Tonto and Yuma trailers. The Lawton and
Wood column made terrific marches; altogether, fourteen hundred miles.
On July 13, three hundred miles into Mexico they surprised the Geronimo
and Nah-che camp, as Captain Crawford had surprised it, the January
before.

Nah-che had been wounded; he and Geronimo and their band barely
escaped. They sent word to a Mexican woman (the wife of the interpreter
José Maria Yaskes) that they desired to surrender.

It was a Crook man, after all――Lieutenant George Gatewood――who
performed the bravest act; and a General Crook method that clinched the
surrender. From Fort Apache the lieutenant, under orders by General
Miles, traveled down with only Kah-yee-ta, the deserter, and Martinez,
another Chiricahua, to find the hostile camp and talk with Geronimo.
This was done. Lieutenant Gatewood’s life hung by a hair; but his talk
had effect, for in the morning Geronimo, Nah-che, and their warriors
surrendered to Captain Lawton.

Lieutenant Gatewood had been instructed to offer them no terms
whatsoever, except that their lives would be spared; the captain
offered the same terms.

Geronimo agreed to march along with the column, just as before. He and
his men were still very suspicious, but he sent Porico up to General
Miles as a pledge of good faith.

The general met him at the border, on September 3. Geronimo did
not know that while he had been out, all the Chiricahuas upon the
reservation――Chato, Ka-e-ten-na, and all――had been moved, and were
started for Florida.

“This,” as Tom Moore explained to Jimmie, “took the sap out of him.
He had no base of trouble, any more. Nah-che hadn’t come in with him,
but he sent out after him, and the whole band――what there was left
of them――were packed aboard the cars on September 8, and now they’re
on their way, too. Let’s see――this is 1886. How long have you known
Geronimo, anyhow?”

“Sixteen years,” said Jimmie.

“Well, you’ll never see him again.”

And Jimmie never did.

He never saw General Crook again, either. The general had resumed
command of the Department of the Platte; and as major-general was
assigned to the command of the Division of the Missouri, with
headquarters in Chicago.

But he was not forgotten in Arizona. The Indians at the San Carlos and
the Fort Apache reservations continued to hold him in their hearts.
Jimmie happened to be at Fort Apache, on business, when in the spring
of 1890 the news of the general’s death was received.

The old men and women, and all the White Mountain scouts, “sat down
in a great circle, let down their hair, bent their heads forward upon
their bosoms, and wept and wailed like children.” And in the far north
the Sioux also lamented the passing of their conqueror but friend, the
Gray Fox.




 Transcriber’s Notes:

 ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

 ――Obvious printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were
   silently corrected.

 ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

 ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.