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Title: The dread Apache: That early-day scourge of the Southwest

Author: Merrill Pingree Freeman

Release date: January 14, 2023 [eBook #69801]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: None listed, 1915

Credits: David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAD APACHE: THAT EARLY-DAY SCOURGE OF THE SOUTHWEST ***





  The Dread Apache--That
  Early-Day Scourge of
  the Southwest

  _By_
  DR. M. P. FREEMAN

  Tucson, Arizona
  November 14
  1915




The Dread Apache--That Early-Day Scourge of the Southwest

BY DR. M. P. FREEMAN


A short time ago, idling through a collection of early-day photographs,
I came across two that vividly recalled the closing scenes in that
bloody frontier drama in which the Apache was the chief actor. For many
years the relentless foe of the pioneer, wary, tireless, cowardly and
treacherous, he was the very incarnation of fiendishness, if possible,
more pronounced in the squaw than in the man. Never meeting you in
the open, always in ambush, concealed behind the big granite boulder,
the point of a hill or a clump of brush, he and his fellows patiently
awaited your solitary coming, all unconscious of danger, then--the
crack of the rifle and it is all over. Today he might be a “sniper”,
but in the days of his hellish activities the word had not yet been
given its more recently enlarged meaning.


2000 Pioneers Victims of Apaches.

How many breakers of the wilderness, hardy, fearless old-timers, were
sent to their final rest by this early scourge of the desert, who can
say! Some place their number at two thousand, some say more, others
less. This does not include the soldier boy, whose profession it is
to risk his life, and when necessary, his duty, its sacrifice. Of the
number of these there is probably a record somewhere, but of the old
pioneer, only an estimate. In the valley, on the mesa and the hillside,
on the mountain-top and in the deep shadows of the canyon, everywhere
this broad land is dotted with their unknown and unmarked graves.

Captain John G. Bourke, author of “On the Border with Crook,” and “An
Apache Campaign,” who was with Gen. Crook, tells us that the Apache “is
no coward, but that he has no false ideas about courage, that he would
prefer to skulk like a coyote for hours and then kill his enemy, rather
than by injudicious exposure receive a wound.” May we not attribute
to the chivalrous spirit of Capt. Bourke, not to criticize a foe, his
delicate way of putting this?

No, I do not recall that this early plague of the old pioneer ever
“injudiciously exposed” himself unless driven to it. “Skulking like the
coyote,” as Capt. Bourke so well expresses it, is my conception of his
bravery. If forced to the open he would undoubtedly make a brave fight,
but I have never heard of his voluntarily seeking that open, meeting
his enemy on anything approaching equal terms.


Paris Adopts Name of Apache

Being over in Paris a few years ago, a friend who had lived there a
number of years, and who was as familiar with Paris from basement to
roof-garden, as I am with Congress street of our good old town of
Tucson, suggested one evening that we visit the “Apaches”. Expressing
surprise that any of my people should have wandered so far from home, I
suggested as a substitute the Moulin Rouge. However, the Apaches were
agreed on, and in the evening, my friend, bringing a policeman with
him, called for me at my hotel.

Arriving at the door of the Apache rendezvous in due course, we
three--my friend, the policeman and myself--are readily admitted, the
presence of our policeman assuring that, and we find ourselves in an
underground dive, a large room with a low ceiling, barely furnished,
dimly lighted, and reeking with the sour odor of stale beer. Looking
about the room, by the dim light as it forces its way through the dense
gloom of tobacco smoke, we are enabled to see two other policemen
besides our own--there are two stationed there day and night--and a
score or more of the toughest-looking lot of cut-throats I had ever
had the pleasure of coming in contact with. This was the retreat, the
gathering place, of as bad a lot of thieves, thugs, robbers, burglars
and murderers as the world could boast of, and Paris, in seeking a name
for them that would embody all of these characteristics, had searched
the world over, and was almost in despair of finding a single word that
would express all that is mean, wantonly cruel, murderous and cowardly,
but at last attention was directed to the Apache of Arizona, and then
it was discovered that the word which would embody all that and more
had been found. And that was why I was enabled to find some of my own
home people away off there in the world’s center of fashion. Settling
for a few bottles of the vilest beer possible to brew, as a tip to the
house, I was soon ready to ask my friend to call his policeman and get
us away from this vile den.


Judge McComas and Wife Murdered.

It is scarcely more than a quarter of a century, March, 1883, since
Judge McComas, his wife and their little son Charlie, about seven
years of age, coming from Silver City, New Mexico, to Lordsburg, were
ambushed by a band of Apaches from San Carlos, the Judge and his wife
killed, and poor little Charlie carried off to the Sierra Madres in
Mexico, where, a few years later, an Apache squaw reported that on
their camp being attacked by United States troops, Charlie, being
frightened, ran off into the mountains, where he is supposed to have
died of hunger and exposure.

It was during this same year that a band passing over the Whetstone
range of mountains killed a teamster and two of his men and a
wood-chopper, who were furnishing wood for the Total Wreck mine.

On July 3, 1885, Frank Peterson, who was carrying the United States
mail between Crittenden and Lochiel, was killed by the Indians while
returning from Lochiel to Crittenden. A sad feature in connection with
this killing was that he had just been married.


Dr. Davis Shot to Death.

On June 3, 1886, Dr. C. H. Davis, a brother of W. C. Davis, of Tucson,
coming from the San Pedro river over the pass between the Catalinas and
the Rincons, with a wagon and span of mules, was waylaid and killed by
a band of these outlaws. J. P. Hohusen and W. H. Wheaton, coming from
their homes on the San Pedro the day before, met Dr. Davis going out,
and warned him against the Indians, but having been in the country but
a short time, he failed to appreciate the danger and made light of the
warning.

It was subsequently learned that Hohusen and Wheaton narrowly escaped
this same band themselves as they were coming in to Tucson. When
Hohusen returned home he learned from his man that the Indians had been
at his place the night before the killing of Davis, and attempted to
drive off some of his horses from the pasture; but the man, seizing his
rifle, jumped into a well which was partly caved in and which naturally
furnished him an excellent defensive position, and from this he fired
at the Indians, but without apparent effect other than to force them
to leave the place. After the killing of Dr. Davis, the Indians,
taking the two mules, went to Walter Vail’s Happy Valley ranch, in the
Rincons, where they left the mules in exchange for a bunch of Vail’s
horses, shooting, but not killing, Cal Mathews, the herder. From Happy
Valley they passed south into the Whetstones, where they shot and
killed Marcus Goldbaum. Edward L. Vail, one of the party going out to
the scene of the killing, found that the Indians had been gone but a
few hours, having also killed a partner of Goldbaum as he was en route
to Benson.


Little Boy Taken From Gastelo Ranch.

It was not long prior to this that a band working back from the
Sierra Madres to the San Carlos reservation attacked the ranch of
Juan Gastelo, not over fifteen miles from Tucson, near Tanque Verde,
and carried off with them a little Mexican boy. The news coming to
town, a volunteer company was immediately formed by M. G. Samaniego
(now dead) and R. N. Leatherwood, our Bob. Samaniego, having had a
brother killed by the Apaches a few years before, was more than keen
for an opportunity to avenge his death. The volunteer company, led
by Leatherwood and Samaniego, came upon the band, encamped in the
neighborhood of Tanque Verde. The Indians, however, being alarmed by
the premature firing of a gun, scattered like a flock of quail and got
away, but the boy, escaping, was recovered by the volunteers.

On another occasion a band, killing a rancher named Lloyd, four miles
north of Pantano, stole the horses of Ed Vail and George Scholefield,
near Rosemont, and passing on south, killed a man named Wimple, near
Greaterville.


Mexicans Attack and Rob Wheaton.

A trying experience in the life of Wheaton, who narrowly escaped the
band that killed Dr. Davis, was when four Mexicans came to his ranch
on the San Pedro river one evening, he being entirely alone at the
time, and demanded his money, which they said they knew him to have
from the sale of some hogs. He, however, denying that he had any
money, they proceeded to put a rope round his neck, and strung him up
three or four times, each time demanding that he tell where the money
was concealed, and he still denying that he had any. During all this
time they were trying to find where the money was hidden, and finally
discovered it, about $60, in the window casing. Then the question was
debated as to what they should do with Wheaton; whether or not they
should kill him. This they evidently hesitated to do, but finally
decided to take him out and throw him into his well, probably having in
mind that this would not kill him, but would make him a close prisoner
for a time. On taking him to the well, however, they found it to be a
bored one and therefore only eight or ten inches in diameter. Of course
this frustrated that plan, and they returned him to the house, and
throwing him on his bed, proceeded to tie him, and after threatening to
kill him in case he at any time made them any trouble over the affair,
they left him. As soon as they were gone Wheaton succeeded in releasing
himself and went to the home of J. P. Hohusen, not far away, naturally
nearly prostrated from his fright and the terrible ordeal through which
he had just passed. The next day Wheaton, accompanied by Ira Davis, a
brother of Dr. Davis, came to Tucson and reported the case to Judge C.
H. Meyer, an old-time justice of the peace.


“Old Charley Meyer,” Law Unto Himself.

Old Charlie Meyer, as he was familiarly called, was indeed a character,
and had the well-earned reputation of meeting out justice with an
iron hand, and, due in a large measure to his eccentric methods of
administering justice, was quite popular with the well meaning, but
certainly a terror to the evil-doer. Judge Meyer’s conception of
justice and the language of the statutes frequently failed to be in
full harmony, but that, of course, was not a matter for which he was
responsible, and should not, and did not, interfere in the slightest
degree with the administration of justice in his court. Meyer recalled
that four Mexicans had that same day come into his court and, by the
deposit of $60 as bail, had secured the release of their friend, one El
Zorra, who was being held for some offense, having been unable until
then to secure bail. Three of these four men were immediately found and
arrested. The fourth, having started for Mexico, was followed by the
officers and overtaken at Boley’s Well, where, in resisting arrest, he
was shot and killed by Bob Cannon, one of the officers. On trial of the
other three, Hohusen was able to fully identify one of the bills in
the $60 turned in to Judge Meyer’s court as one that he had personally
paid to Wheaton a few days before. In addition to this, one of the
men, Pancho Gomez, having turned state’s evidence, they were all three
convicted and sentenced to the Territorial prison, Gomez, however, for
a shorter term than the others.


“Tommy Gates Displays Magnificent Nerve.”

While serving their terms, on October 27, 1887, in an attempted
outbreak at the prison, in which these men participated, the prisoners
succeeded in getting hold of the superintendent of the prison, Thomas
Gates, familiarly known as Tommy Gates, and threatened to take his
life if he permitted the guards to fire on them. Notwithstanding this,
he ordered the guards to fire, when one of the Wheaton convicts, one
Puebla, thrust a knife first into his shoulder and then into his back,
seriously but not fatally wounding him. Barney Riggs, a life-termer,
then succeeded in getting hold of a pistol, shot and killed Puebla,
and for this was subsequently pardoned out, in response to the almost
unanimous sentiment of the Territory. In the emeute four of the
prisoners were killed outright, and Tommy Gates’s display of nerve on
the occasion goes into history as a heroic example of self sacrifice in
the discharge of duty.


Brutal Murder of Mrs. Peck and Baby.

On April 27, 1886, a band of Indians appeared at the ranch of A. L.
Peck, about twenty miles from Oro Blanco, where they found Mrs. Peck,
her baby, about eleven months old, and her niece, Jenny, a young girl
of about 11 years. Killing Mrs. Peck and the baby, they took the young
girl away with them. It was asserted by some at the time, including
Peck himself, that the leader of this band was Geronimo, but I think
this could hardly have been possible, for the reason that the leader
was too young and spoke good English, whereas Geronimo did not speak
English. In giving the “Story of His Life” to S. M. Barrett, at Fort
Sill, not many years ago, it had to be done through an interpreter.
Besides, Geronimo had escaped from General Crook, sixty-five miles
south of Fort Bowie and 125 miles east of Oro Blanco, on the night
of March 29th, only a month previous, and gone into the Sierra Madre
mountains. It is my opinion that Geronimo was never seen in Arizona
subsequent to that time until he surrendered to General Miles and was
brought to Fort Bowie the following September.

At the time of the killing of Mrs. Peck, Peck and a young man by the
name of Charles Owen were a mile or two away from the house, both being
mounted but unarmed, and were in the act of catching a steer. The
Indians surprising them, Peck’s horse was shot from under him and he
was captured and held prisoner. Owen, being well mounted, made a dash
for his life, but ran into another part of the same band. His horse
was shot from under him, and Owen himself was shot through the neck and
arm, killing him instantly. Those that had Peck were apparently waiting
for their leader for instructions as to what to do with him. The leader
soon coming up, after taking from Peck his boots, knife and tobacco,
they released him, telling him, however, not to go home. Before
releasing him, one of the Indians, for some unexplainable reason, gave
him 65 cents in money. A squaw with this band had little Jenny on a
horse with her. Jenny was crying bitterly, and when Peck attempted
to talk with her the Indians intervened and prevented his doing so.
About six weeks later she was rescued from the Indians by some Mexican
cowboys, at a point about forty miles from Magdalena, Sonora, where she
was delivered to Peck, who had gone after her. As soon as released,
Peck went directly home, where he found his wife and baby lying dead.


Shanahan Killed, “Yank” Bartlett Wounded.

The day following the killing of Mrs. Peck and her baby, John Shanahan,
who was unarmed, left “Yank” Bartlett’s ranch in Bear Valley, about
eight miles from Oro Blanco, for his own place, about three miles
distant, leaving at the ranch with Bartlett his little son Phil, about
ten years of age, who was there visiting Johnnie Bartlett, of about
the same age. Shanahan had been gone but about ten minutes, when
Johnnie ran into the room where his father was, telling him that he
had just heard three shots, and that he thought maybe the Indians had
shot the “old man”. Bartlett, who had not heard of the Indians being
in the vicinity, scouted the idea, but on going outside saw Shanahan
approaching, and ran to him and assisted him into the house, Shanahan
telling him that the Indians had shot him. Bartlett immediately seized
his gun, and on going to the door a bullet fired by one of the Indians
whistled past his head. There were but three of the Indians, but having
placed themselves in different positions, it was hardly possible for
Bartlett to get a shot at them without exposing himself to their fire,
and one shot from them passing through his shoulder, only missed the
head of Johnnie by about an inch, blinding him from the dust of the
adobe wall as the bullet struck it. The fight between Bartlett and the
three Indians was kept up until dark. Shanahan, fatally wounded, was
constantly calling out for water. Bartlett thinks that in the fight he
wounded one of the Indians.


Little Phil Saves Mother and Sisters

Shanahan’s story is that a short time after leaving the house, being
totally unconscious of any danger, he was suddenly shot by an Indian,
whom he then saw only about thirty feet away. Picking up a rock and
starting for the Indian, Shanahan received another shot from behind
that knocked him down, but he was immediately up again and ran back
for the house, Bartlett meeting and assisting him in. Shanahan saw but
two Indians, and said he could have killed both if he had had a gun.
During the time Bartlett was keeping the Indians at bay, realizing the
danger of Mrs. Shanahan and her two young daughters, at their home
three miles away, he told Phil, Shanahan’s little son, to steal out of
the house by a back way and go to his home and notify his mother of
their danger and of the shooting of his father. Phil demurred at first,
wanting to stay with his father, who was suffering intensely, but being
told that unless he went his mother and little sisters would surely
be killed, the little fellow courageously said he would try to get to
them, and good fortune favoring him, he succeeded in doing so. Finding
them in the garden, they all, including Phil, immediately started for
the mountains, where they concealed themselves until the following
day. In the meantime the Indians had come to the house and carried off
or wrecked everything in it, and would undoubtedly have killed Mrs.
Shanahan and the two little girls had not brave little Phil, at the
risk of his life, warned them of the danger.


Brave Little Johnnie Bartlett.

Bartlett kept the Indians off until dark, when it is probable they
left, as they were not seen again. Soon after dark, Bartlett told
Johnnie that he must go to Oro Blanco and notify the people of the
shooting of Shanahan and himself, and that Shanahan was probably dying.
When little Johnnie was told that he must do this, like the little hero
he was, he simply said: “All right, papa,” and immediately started,
first taking off his shoes and going barefoot the first mile or two,
to avoid making any sound. Johnnie, on foot, reached Oro Blanco, eight
miles away, about two o’clock in the morning and gave the alarm.
A posse was immediately made up and started for the scene of the
troubles, where they found Shanahan dead and Bartlett wounded, and the
Indians evidently gone.


General Crook Relieved.

Gen. George Crook came to Arizona in 1870, remaining in command of the
department here until 1875, when he was transferred to the department
of the Platte, and was reassigned and returned to Arizona in 1882.
In 1886, evidently taking exception to an implied criticism from the
Department at Washington, and, as he expressed it, “having spent nearly
eight years of the hardest work of his life in this department”, he
asked to be relieved. Crook was criticized in Arizona at the time for
a too abiding faith in the loyalty of his Indian scouts, and many of
us believed this criticism to be fully justified. There is hardly a
doubt that much of the ammunition used by the renegades was supplied
them by these same scouts. It was but a few months prior to Crook’s
being relieved that Capt. Crawford, a zealous and gallant officer,
while engaged in his thankless task of ridding their own country of
these pests, was treacherously killed by Mexican irregular troops in
the Sierra Madre mountains. It is true that these irregular troops were
Tarahumari Indians, possibly as wild and uncontrollable as the Apaches
themselves, and that may extenuate the treachery to some extent, but
the fact remains that the officers in command were not Indians, but
Mexicans.


Geronimo Surrenders to General Miles.

On April 2, 1886, Gen. Miles, superseding Crook, took command of the
Department of Arizona, and in his “Personal Recollections” he speaks
of finding here, stationed at Fort Huachuca, a “fair-haired, blue-eyed
young man of great intellect, manly qualities and resolute spirit, a
splendid type of American manhood”. This “fair-haired, blue-eyed young
man” of 1886 was at the time Assistant Surgeon in the Army. He is now
Major General Leonard Wood, late Chief of Staff, U. S. Army.

On the 4th of September following Miles’s assuming command, Geronimo
and his band surrendered to him, and on September 8th they left Fort
Bowie for Fort Marion, Florida. The point of surrender to Miles was
at Skeleton canyon, in Mexico, about 65 miles south of Fort Bowie.
The surrender of Geronimo may be fixed as the date of the termination
of the many years of warfare between the whites and the Apaches as
a tribe, a warfare marked with a cruelty on the part of the Apaches
probably unparalleled in the history of the four hundred years of
strife between the whites on the one side and the redman on the other.


Apache Kid Begins Bloody Career.

I have said that the surrender of Geronimo terminated the many years
of bloody warfare with the Apaches as a tribe, but the Indian tribes
may, and do, have outlaws in their own tribe, outlaws for whom as a
tribe they are in no way responsible, and for whose acts the individual
and not the tribe should alone be held amenable. Even the white tribe
is not altogether immune from this infliction. In this class, among
others, was the “Apache Kid”, who, following the surrender of Geronimo,
with a few lawless followers made independent warfare on isolated,
helpless settlers, leaving the footprints of his bloody work wherever
he went. The Kid, sometimes called the Apache Kid, and at others simply
Kid, was an Apache scout occupying the position of sergeant under Al
Sieber, chief of scouts. On June 1, 1887, the Kid shot Sieber on the
San Carlos reservation, wounding but not killing him, and this marks
the beginning of Kid’s series of bloody crimes.

Immediately following the shooting of Sieber, Kid, his squaw and
sixteen other Indians, left the reservation.


Capt. Burgess, Old-Time Scout

An interesting old-time scout is Captain John D. Burgess, who came
to Arizona in 1873 to look after some mining interests for General
Kautz and Colonel Biddle of the army, subsequently becoming a guide
and scout for the government, and in 1882 was chief of Indian police
at San Carlos. At the time the Kid started out on his career, Captain
Burgess was working some mines of his own at Table Mountain, in the
Galiura mountains. The officer in command of the troops sent out from
San Carlos in pursuit of the Kid and his followers, knowing Burgess,
immediately secured his services as guide and trailer. Following the
Kid and his band, they trailed them through to Pantano, where they had
crossed the railroad, and going up Davidson’s canyon, and passing E.
L. Vail’s ranch had accommodated themselves to a bunch of his horses.
Passing down the east side of the Santa Ritas, they killed Mike
Grace, an old miner, near old Camp Crittenden. Here Captain Lawton,
with a troop of the 4th Cavalry, heading them off and forcing them
to turn back, they passed by Mountain Springs, near the present Vail
station, and were run over the Rincon mountains, where they were so
closely pursued that while in camp they lost all the horses they had
stolen. They now headed for the reservation, which they succeeded in
reaching before Lieutenant Carter Johnson, who was immediately behind,
could overtake them, and here they surrendered, and in due course were
tried and sent first to San Diego barracks, passing through Tucson on
September 3rd, and subsequently, in February, 1888, were transferred to
Fort Alcatraz, in the bay of San Francisco. Subsequently, the United
States Supreme Court, having decided that the trial of an Indian
devolved on the county in which the crime was committed, ordered that
all Indians sentenced by other than the territorial courts should be
returned to the Territory and tried by such courts. Under this order
the Kid and several others were returned and tried by Judge Kibbey, at
Globe, and on October 30, 1889, sentenced to imprisonment at Yuma, and
were being taken there by Sheriff Reynolds and his Deputy, “Hunky-Dory”
Holmes. They were being conveyed by stage over the Pinal mountains, via
Riverside and Florence. In the stage were Reynolds, Holmes, a Mexican
who was also being taken to Yuma, the Kid and seven other Indians, and
Eugene Middleton the driver of the stage, making twelve in all.


Killing of Sheriff and Deputy and Escape of Kid

The Indians were handcuffed together, two and two, and had shackles
on their ankles. They stopped over night at Riverside, about half-way
between Globe and Florence. Leaving Riverside early on the morning of
November 2nd, while passing up a heavy sand-wash, the pulling being
quite heavy, in order to relieve the team, the two officers and six
of the Indians got out to walk, the Indians probably having had their
shackles loosened from at least one ankle to enable them to do so;
the Kid and one of the Indians still remaining in the stage. Suddenly
the six Indians that were walking seized the two officers, whom they
overpowered and killed with their own guns. As soon as Middleton
discovered what was taking place, drawing his own revolver and covering
the Kid and the other Indian still in the stage, he kept them quiet
until, on standing up to look back, he was shot through the face by one
of the other Indians. In the meantime the Mexican, taking advantage of
the opportunity, escaped. Middleton, although badly wounded, was not
killed; the Indians, however, evidently thought he was dead. He was,
however, sufficiently conscious to realize what was taking place and
avoided disabusing their minds of their belief, and in due course was
rescued and taken to Globe, where he finally fully recovered.

The eight Indians, now armed with a shot-gun, a Winchester rifle, and
three revolvers, partly stripping Middleton and the two officers,
hastened to get away. Stories of the manner of their relieving
themselves of their shackles do not agree. One story is that, finding a
blacksmith-shop near the mouth of the San Pedro river, they succeeded
in cutting the shackles loose. Middleton’s statement is that, finding
the keys in the pockets of the Sheriff, they easily freed themselves
of their irons, and the plausibility of this is quite evident, as the
officers must necessarily have had the keys with them. After their
escape the Indians are supposed to have come along the west side of the
Catalina mountains, and passed near the Half-way House, between Tucson
and Fort Lowell, as their tracks were seen there crossing the road,
going south.


Sword Presented to General Miles.

The people of Arizona, having been finally and, it was felt,
permanently relieved of this black incubus that had been hanging over
them for the many years dating back to their early coming to the
Territory, and General Miles having contributed so largely to the
result, decided to do something marking their appreciation of the
services rendered them, and this found expression in the presentation
of a sword. Through a popular subscription a magnificent sword costing
$1000 was procured through Tiffany & Company of New York, the blade
being of the finest steel, beautifully etched, and the hilt of solid
gold. The presentation took place on November 8th, 1887, at Levin’s
Park, at the foot of Pennington street. It was originally intended that
the ceremony should take place on September 4th, the anniversary of the
surrender of Geronimo, but that day falling on a Sunday, it was fixed
for Monday the 5th. General Miles, however, having been injured by the
overturning of the carriage in which he was out riding at Santa Monica,
California, on August 8th, the presentation was delayed until the date
named. Many notables in our country, also the Governors of neighboring
Mexican States, were invited to be present. A distinguishing feature
in the very long procession leading to the Park was three hundred
mounted Papagos, under their chief, Asuncion Ruiz, in all their
barbaric splendor of feathers and paint. The Papagos had always been
the consistent friends of the whites and the inveterate foes of the
Apaches, so they were more than glad to participate in this event. In
addition to the conventional combination usually found in parades,
there were the 4th U. S. cavalry band and a platoon of United States
artillery, William Zeckendorf, one of the very early pioneers, acting
as grand marshal. One of the photographs suggesting this article is of
this procession, evidently taken from the roof of one of the buildings
on the west side of Main street, looking up Pennington street, and
shows the parade the full length of the street, the head not having
quite reached Main street. The presentation was made on a platform
erected for the purpose in the Park. Royal A. Johnson was president of
the day, I having the honor of acting as secretary, and Judge W. H.
Barnes making the presentation address. One of my duties as secretary
was to read the letters of regret from those who had been invited
but were unable to be present. Among these I now recall letters from
Secretary of War Wm. C. Endicott, Gen. Sherman, and R. G. Ingersoll.
Among those present were Major Chaffee, subsequently Lieutenant
General, and Lieutenant Wood, now Major General. The other of the two
photographs is of General Miles and those on the platform with him,
taken as the general was delivering his address accepting the sword.
In the evening, following the presentation, there was a reception and
ball at the San Xavier hotel, since burned down, near the station; this
hotel at the time was kept by Wheeler and Perry.


Johnny Greenleaf Mistakes Scouts for Kid.

As illustrating the trying experiences that one might be subject to
during these troublous times when the fear of the Kid was in the very
air, I may relate one of a friend of mine, Johnny Greenleaf. Johnny
was sinking a well on his ranch, some distance from the house, and had
just ridden to where his two men were at work, one in the well and the
other on top. Suddenly a number of Indians came in sight, approaching
the well. Recognizing them as Apaches, he naturally assumed them to
be the Kid and some of his followers, and obeying the instinct of
human nature, that of self-preservation, cried out, “Here comes the
Kid!” quickly mounted his horse and started to escape. He had gone but
a short distance, however, till that chivalrous spirit which makes
one sacrifice his own life rather than cowardly desert his comrade,
asserted itself, and he immediately turned and rode back to his men,
both of whom were now on top, realizing at the same time that there
was absolutely nothing that he could do, neither he nor his men having
a shooting-iron of any kind, all of their weapons having been left at
the house. The Indians now approaching the well, Johnny asked them in
English what they were hunting and where they were going. One of them,
speaking English very poorly, in trying to make himself understood
mentioned the Kid in such a way that Johnny understood him to say that
he was the Apache Kid. This simply confirmed what Johnny had thought,
but it so startled him that for a while he could barely speak; for if
this were the Kid, there was little chance for the lives of either
Johnny or his men. Finally, recovering his nerve and asking something
else, the Indian succeeded in making it understood that they were
scouts from San Carlos and were seeking the Kid. You can well imagine
the relief of the three men when they realized that they were in no
danger.


What Would You Do?

I think I hear one of my readers saying that Johnny’s attempt to
escape was a cowardly thing to do. Yes? What would you have done, and
what would I, under the same circumstances? Unless idiotic, or too
frightened to mount the horse, we would have done just what Johnny did.
Assuming that this had been the Kid, as Johnny firmly believed, his
escape meant the loss of but two lives, instead of the loss of the same
two and the sacrifice of a third--his own--if he remained. But no man
knows just exactly what he would do under a certain trying condition
until he has been subjected to the test of that very condition. He may
think he does, but he doesn’t. But having gone less than 100 yards,
Johnny’s mind has had time to react, and the chivalrous spirit asserts
itself, and he turns and rides back--to what? To his death, he has
every reason to believe. But having gotten the 100 yards away, would
you or I have turned and ridden back to our own certain death? Is there
not a possibility that were the world wide enough and the horse strong
enough we might still be going? In your imagination don’t place the
standard too high for the nerve you think you possess, if at the time
you are absolutely in no danger.


Stoicism of Indian

The following incident shows something of the character of these
Ishmaelites of the desert. On one occasion five of them had been tried
at Florence for the killing of someone in the Superstition mountains,
and sentenced to be hanged. The night previous to the day of the
hanging, while in their cells, with the death-watch outside, three of
them, to avoid the ignominy of death by hanging, committed suicide by
self-strangulation. This they could do only by each putting a cord
around his neck and deliberately choking himself to death. The three
were found dead in the morning when the guards entered their cells.

Of course it is not possible to recall the names of all of the many
whose lives were a sacrifice to the safety and prosperity of the great
commonwealth that was to follow, but I have in mind that on June 7,
1886, Thos. Hunt, a prospector, was killed near Harshaw, and on June 9
of the same year Henry Baston was killed near Arivaca. On September 22,
1888, W. B. Horton, post trader at San Carlos, was killed by one of the
Indians on the reservation. But in this case punishment was swift, as
the Indian police almost immediately killed the murderer while he was
attempting to escape from the reservation.


“Walapai” Clark and the Kid

One of our early frontier characters was E. A. Clark, familiarly known
as “Walapai”, having gained the title years ago when in the government
service as chief of the Hualapai scouts. Clark was a giant in stature,
measuring six feet three, absolutely fearless and in those olden
times equally tireless. Coming to the Territory in ’69, his life and
experiences here would fill a volume of intensely interesting reading,
but in this limited article I can mention only a few of his closing
Indian experiences, the culminating one--the one of the greatest
service to the Territory--resulting in the death of that outlaw and
terror of the border, this same Apache Kid. Clark’s first experience
with the Kid was on June 3, 1887, two days after his shooting of Al
Sieber. At the time, Clark was living at his ranch, the Oak Grove, in
the Galiura mountains, about twelve miles east of the San Pedro river,
but was absent, his two partners, John Scanlan and William Diehl, being
at home. The Kid and his followers coming across the country from San
Carlos, stole fifteen horses from William Atchley, then came on to
Clark’s place, three miles further on. At the time, Diehl was about 150
yards from the house, cutting some poles for a corral, when Scanlan,
who was in the house, heard three shots, and, seizing his gun, ran
out, and as he did so saw three Indians coming towards the house, and
firing at them, they immediately sought shelter. When Scanlan fired
at the Indians one of them lost a big sombrero which he was wearing,
and which, probably very much to his regret, he was unable to recover.
They then rounded up a number of Scanlan’s horses, not far away, and
seemingly tried to get Scanlan to come out to protect his horses, and
thus enable them to get a shot at him; but being unable to do this,
they left, taking the horses with them. As soon as they had gone,
Scanlan went to where Diehl was and found him dead, the Indians having
shot him.


Clark Vows Vengeance

Clark, returning home a day or two later and finding his partner dead,
vowed vengeance on the Kid, and this, several years later, he found
opportunity to gratify. A few months later, Clark and Scanlan having
occasion to be away, left a young engineer, J. A. Mercer, at the house,
with a caution to be on the lookout for the Indians. Soon after, Mercer
discovered three of them crawling up towards the house, but was in time
to seize a rifle and fire at them, and as he did so they broke and ran.
However, they took five of Clark’s horses in exchange for three of
their own, which they killed before leaving.

For several years Clark impatiently bided his time. To him the mills
of the gods were, indeed, grinding slowly, but they were grinding, and
the time was approaching when the grist should be delivered. In the
meantime the Kid was continuing to lengthen his trail of blood. Now
here, now there, the wily outlaw was ever at his work. A murder here
today, he is heard of one hundred miles away tomorrow, leaving a trail
behind him marked by where he had changed his mount by the stealing of
a new one at some ranch, leaving his old one dead, in exchange. This
was his practice, killing the animal he might leave by stabbing in the
side, thus avoiding the sacrifice of any of his ammunition, which he
could ill afford to lose. Being an outlaw with his own people, he found
it difficult to replenish his belt.


Kid Nears End of His Trail of Blood

But at last the end of his career of robbery and bloodshed is
approaching. The opportunity that Clark has been waiting all these
years is nigh at hand. The Apache Kid’s race is about run. Clark had
been away from home, and when returning, on February 4, 1894, passing
by the house of Emmerson, a neighbor, about a mile from his own home,
he noticed the tracks of three Indians about the house, and going
inside, found they had robbed it of its contents. Going on home, he
found his partner, Scanlan, whom the Indians had not disturbed, and
said to him, “Scanlan, your old friend the Kid has been around again.”

Soon after, Clark, taking his gun, went out of the house for the
purpose of “scouting the country around” and seeing whether he might
get sight of the Indians. Going to the top of a peak near by, where he
could overlook the surrounding country without unduly exposing himself,
he awaited events, not realizing what an approaching one should mean
to himself, and to an old enemy on whom he had vowed vengeance for
the death of his old-time partner, and that this event would mark an
era in a life ever filled with its dangers, not one of which had ever
been shirked, but always bravely met. The opportunity for which he
had waited, and in his way--a way probably familiar only to the “old
scout”--had prayed for, was but a few short hours away. The language
of his prayers, except for its fervency, may not have been up to the
orthodox standard, but he knew what he wanted, and in asking for it
used the language with which he was familiar--the language of the
desert and the mountain, the camp-fire and the trail.


Closing Act in Great Drama

Clark had been there for probably twenty minutes, when, looking off
across an intervening canyon, he noticed three Indians approaching his
horse where it was grazing, about 1500 yards away. The Indians not
having discovered Clark, who, knowing it would be impossible to get
across the canyon in time to save his horse, raised the sights of his
gun, and fired at them, not expecting, however, to hit any one of them
at that distance, but hoping to frighten them away from his horse. On
firing, Clark immediately ducked into the canyon, out of sight of the
Indians, who were evidently frightened by the shot. Waiting there until
dusk, he cautiously crawled towards his horse for the purpose of taking
him to the house, and was within about seventy-five yards of him, it
being too dark to see an object distinctly at any distance, when he
saw two Indians approaching the horse, and only a few steps from the
animal and about 50 yards from where Clark was. Owing to the darkness
it was impossible to more than distinguish the two Indians, who were
but a few feet apart, one ahead of the other. These were subsequently
found to be the Kid and his squaw, the squaw in front and nearest to
Clark, but owing to the darkness it was impossible to distinguish one
from the other. Clark instantly raised his gun and fired at the one
nearest to him, but, being unable to see the sights, could only take a
quick aim along the barrel. By his long experience with a gun he knew
the danger of overshooting in the dark, and made allowance accordingly.
As Clark fired there came a simultaneous report from the Kid’s rifle
and an outcry from the squaw, and from the character of this outcry,
Clark knew that he had made the mistake of firing at the wrong Indian.
The ball from the Kid’s gun whistled alarmingly close to Clark’s head,
but fortunately did no harm. Following the shots, the two Indians
immediately dropped to the ground, and as fast as the old scout could
work his rifle he “pumped the lead” into where they had dropped, firing
several shots. The Indian, however, fired but the one shot. Clark then
made a run for his horse, but the animal being frightened, he was
unable to catch him.

Not knowing how many of the Indians there might be about, Clark
immediately set out for Mammoth, on the San Pedro, where he procured
a small posse, and was back at the scene of the shooting by morning,
finding the squaw dead a short distance from where she had been shot.
Following the Kid’s trail, they found that he had hopped on one foot to
where he had left his horse, one of his legs evidently being broken.
Scouts from San Carlos, following his trail, found some bloody rags
where he had built a little fire, and probably dressed his wounds.


Kid’s Career Ended

Thus ended the murderous career of the Kid, the terror of the
Southwest. Clark had undoubtedly hit him with one or more of his shots.
Where or how soon after he may have died, no white man knows, Clark
being the last one to see him, as the two shots simultaneously rang out
on the silence of that night. Had it been the Kid instead of the squaw,
Clark would have earned the large reward that was offered for him dead
or alive. Tom Horn, an old scout, who spoke the Apache language like a
native, came from Denver subsequently, hoping that by some chance the
Kid might still be living somewhere and that he might earn the reward.
The mother and the sister, however, both assured him that the Kid was
dead, but beyond this would say nothing.

It would seem that there could be no more fitting ending to this little
sketch than its dedication to the memory of those old-timers, makers of
early-day history, the old pioneers. Each well played his individual
part in that great border drama. On them the curtain has rung down for
the last time. To them the succeeding generations owe much.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



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