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[Illustration: GENERAL GEORGE CROOK.]
ON THE BORDER WITH CROOK
BY
JOHN G. BOURKE
CAPTAIN THIRD CAVALRY, U. S. A.
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1891
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_TO FRANCIS PARKMAN,_
_whose learned and graceful pen has illustrated the History, Traditions,
Wonders and Resources of the Great West, this volume,—descriptive of the
trials and tribulations, hopes and fears of brave officers and enlisted
men of the regular Army, who did so much to conquer and develop the
empire beyond the Missouri,—is affectionately inscribed by his admirer
and friend,_
_JOHN G. BOURKE._
_Omaha, Nebraska,
August 12, 1891._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
There is an old saw in the army which teaches that you can never know a
man until after having made a scout with him in bad weather. All the
good qualities and bad in the human makeup force their way to the
surface under the stimulus of privation and danger, and it not
infrequently happens that the comrade who at the military post was most
popular, by reason of charm of manner and geniality, returns from this
trial sadly lowered in the estimation of his fellows, and that he who in
the garrison was most retiring, self-composed, and least anxious to make
a display of glittering uniform, has swept all before him by the
evidence he has given of fortitude, equanimity, courage, coolness, and
good judgment under circumstances of danger and distress. But, whether
the maxim be true or false, it is hardly too much for me to claim a
hearing while I recall all that I know of a man with whom for more than
fifteen years, it was my fortune to be intimately associated in all the
changing vicissitudes which constituted service on the “border” of
yesterday, which has vanished never to return.
It is not my purpose to write a biography of my late friend and
commander—such a task I leave for others to whom it may be more
congenial; speaking for myself, I am compelled to say that it is always
difficult for me to peruse biography of any kind, especially military,
and that which I do not care to read I do not care to ask others to
read. In the present volume, there will be found collected descriptions
of the regions in which the major portion of General Crook’s Indian work
was carried on; the people, both red and white, with whom he was brought
into contact; the difficulties with which he had to contend, and the
manner in which he overcame them; and a short sketch of the principles
guiding him in his justly famous intercourse with the various
tribes—from British America to Mexico, from the Missouri River to the
Pacific Ocean—subjugated by him and afterwards placed under his charge.
A military service of nearly forty consecutive years—all of which,
excepting the portion spent in the civil war, had been face to face with
the most difficult problems of the Indian question, and with the
fiercest and most astute of all the tribes of savages encountered by the
Caucasian in his conquering advance across the continent—made General
Crook in every way worthy of the eulogy pronounced upon him by the
grizzled old veteran, General William T. Sherman, upon hearing of his
death, that he was the greatest Indian-fighter and manager the army of
the United States ever had.
In all the campaigns which made the name of George Crook a beacon of
hope to the settler and a terror to the tribes in hostility, as well as
in all the efforts which he so successfully made for the elevation of
the red man in the path of civilization and which showed that Crook was
not a brutal soldier with no instincts save those for slaughter, but
possessed of wonderful tenderness and commiseration for the vanquished
as well as a most intelligent appreciation of the needs and capabilities
of the aborigines, I was by his side, a member of his military staff,
and thus obtained an insight into the charms and powers of a character
which equalled that of any of the noble sons of whom our country is so
justly proud.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
OLD CAMP GRANT ON THE RIO SAN PEDRO—DAILY ROUTINE OF 1
LIFE—ARCHITECTURE OF THE GILA—SOLDIERS AS LABORERS—THE
MESCAL AND ITS USES—DRINK AND GAMBLING—RATTLESNAKE BITES
AND THE GOLONDRINA WEED—SODA LAKE AND THE DEATH
VALLEY—FELMER AND HIS RANCH.
CHAPTER II.
STRANGE VISITORS—SOME APACHE CUSTOMS—MEXICAN CAPTIVES—SPEEDY 17
AND THE GHOST—THE ATTACK UPON KENNEDY AND ISRAEL’S
TRAIN—FINDING THE BODIES—THE DEAD APACHE—A FRONTIER
BURIAL—HOW LIEUTENANT YEATON RECEIVED HIS DEATH WOUND—ON
THE TRAIL WITH LIEUTENANT CUSHING—REVENGE IS SWEET.
CHAPTER III.
THE RETURN TO CAMP GRANT—LANCED TO DEATH BY APACHES—THE 34
KILLING OF MILLER AND TAPPAN—COMPANY QUARTERS—APACHE
CAPTIVES—THE CLOUD-BURST—APACHE CORN-FIELDS—MEETING
COLONEL SANFORD—ENTRAPPED IN AN APACHE AMBUSCADE—AN
OLD-TIMER’S REMINISCENCES OF TUCSON—FUNERAL CROSSES ON THE
ROADSIDE—PADRE EUSEBIO KINO—FIRST VIEW OF TUCSON—THE “SHOO
FLY” RESTAURANT.
CHAPTER IV.
SOME OF THE FRIENDS MET IN OLD TUCSON—JACK LONG—HIS 66
DIVORCE—MARSHAL DUFFIELD AND “WACO BILL”—“THEM ’ERE’S MEE
VISITIN’ KEE-YARD”—JUDGE TITUS AND CHARLES O. BROWN—HOW
DUFFIELD WAS KILLED—UNCLE BILLY N—— AND HIS THREE GLASS
EYES—AL. GARRETT—DOCTOR SEMIG AND LIEUTENANT SHERWOOD—DON
ESTEVAN OCHOA—BISHOP SALPOINTE—PETE KITCHEN AND HIS RANCH.
CHAPTER V.
THE DIVERSIONS OF TUCSON—THE GAMBLING SALOONS—BOB CRANDALL 80
AND HIS DIAMOND—“SLAP-JACK BILLY”—TIGHT-ROPE WALKERS—THE
THEATRE—THE DUEÑAS—BAILES—THE NEWSPAPERS—STAGE-DRIVERS.
CHAPTER VI.
TUCSON INCIDENTS—THE “FIESTAS”—THE RUINED MISSION CHURCH OF 96
SAN XAVIER DEL BAC—GOVERNOR SAFFORD—ARIZONA MINES—APACHE
RAIDS—CAMP GRANT MASSACRE—THE KILLING OF LIEUTENANT
CUSHING.
CHAPTER VII.
GENERAL CROOK AND THE APACHES—CROOK’S PERSONAL APPEARANCE 108
AND CHARACTERISTICS—POINTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE
APACHES—THEIR SKILL IN WAR—FOODS AND MODES OF
COOKING—MEDICINE MEN—THEIR POWER AND INFLUENCE.
CHAPTER VIII.
CROOK’S FIRST MOVEMENTS AGAINST THE APACHES—THE 136
SCOUTS—MIRAGES—THE FLORAL WEALTH OF ARIZONA—RUNNING IN
UPON THE HOSTILE APACHES—AN ADVENTURE WITH BEARS—CROOK’S
TALK WITH THE APACHES—THE GREAT MOGOLLON PLATEAU—THE TONTO
BASIN—MONTEZUMA’S WELL—CLIFF DWELLINGS—THE PACK TRAINS.
CHAPTER IX.
THE PICTURESQUE TOWN OF PRESCOTT—THE APACHES ACTIVE NEAR 158
PRESCOTT—“TOMMY” BYRNE AND THE HUALPAIS—THIEVING INDIAN
AGENTS—THE MOJAVES, PI-UTES AND AVA-SUPAIS—THE TRAVELS OF
FATHERS ESCALANTE AND GARCES—THE GODS OF THE HUALPAIS—THE
LORING MASSACRE—HOW PHIL DWYER DIED AND WAS BURIED—THE
INDIAN MURDERERS AT CAMP DATE CREEK PLAN TO KILL
CROOK—MASON JUMPS THE RENEGADES AT THE “MUCHOS
CAÑONES”—DELT-CHE AND CHA-LIPUN GIVE TROUBLE—THE KILLING
OF BOB WHITNEY.
CHAPTER X.
CROOK BEGINS HIS CAMPAIGN—THE WINTER MARCH ACROSS THE 176
MOGOLLON PLATEAU—THE GREAT PINE BELT—BOBBY-DOKLINNY, THE
MEDICINE MAN—COOLEY AND HIS APACHE WIFE—THE APACHE CHIEF
ESQUINOS-QUIZN—THE APACHE GUIDE NANAAJE—THE FEAST OF
DEAD-MULE MEAT—THE FIGHT IN THE CAVE IN THE SALT RIVER
CAÑON—THE DEATH-CHANT—THE CHARGE—THE DYING MEDICINE
MAN—THE SCENE IN THE CAVE.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CAMPAIGN RESUMED—EFFICIENCY OF APACHE SCOUTS—JACK LONG 202
BREAKS DOWN—A BAND OF APACHES SURRENDER IN THE
MOUNTAINS—THE EPIZOOTIC—THE TAYLOR MASSACRE AND ITS
AVENGING—THE ARIZONA ROLL OF HONOR, OFFICERS, MEN,
SURGEONS, SCOUTS, GUIDES, AND PACKERS—THE STRANGE RUIN IN
THE VERDE VALLEY—DEATH OF PRESILIANO MONJE—THE APACHES
SURRENDER UNCONDITIONALLY TO CROOK AT CAMP VERDE.
CHAPTER XII.
THE PROBLEM OF CIVILIZING THE APACHES—THE WORK PERFORMED BY 215
MASON, SCHUYLER, RANDALL, RICE, AND BABCOCK—TUCSON RING
INFLUENCE AT WASHINGTON—THE WOUNDING OF LIEUTENANT CHARLES
KING—THE KILLING OF LIEUTENANT JACOB ALMY—THE SEVEN APACHE
HEADS LAID ON THE SAN CARLOS PARADE GROUND—CROOK’S CASH
MARKET FOR THE FRUITS OF APACHE INDUSTRY—HIS METHOD OF
DEALING WITH INDIANS.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CLOSING DAYS OF CROOK’S FIRST TOUR IN ARIZONA—VISIT TO 230
THE MOQUI VILLAGES—THE PAINTED DESERT—THE PETRIFIED
FORESTS—THE GRAND CAÑON—THE CATARACT CAÑON—BUILDING THE
TELEGRAPH LINE—THE APACHES USING THE TELEGRAPH
LINE—MAPPING ARIZONA—AN HONEST INDIAN AGENT—THE CHIRICAHUA
APACHE CHIEF, COCHEIS—THE “HANGING” IN TUCSON—A FRONTIER
DANIEL—CROOK’S DEPARTURE FROM ARIZONA—DEATH VALLEY—THE
FAIRY LAND OF LOS ANGELES—ARRIVAL AT OMAHA.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DEPARTMENT OF THE PLATTE—THE BLACK HILLS DIFFICULTY—THE 241
ALLISON COMMISSION—CRAZY HORSE AND SITTING BULL—THE FIRST
WINTER CAMPAIGN—CLOTHING WORN BY THE TROOPS—THE START FOR
THE BIG HORN—FRANK GRUARD, LOUIS RICHAUD, BIG BAT, LOUIS
CHANGRAU, AND OTHER GUIDES.
CHAPTER XV.
MOVING INTO THE BIG HORN COUNTRY IN WINTER—THE HERD 256
STAMPEDED—A NIGHT ATTACK—“JEFF’S” OOZING COURAGE—THE
GRAVE-YARD AT OLD FORT RENO—IN A MONTANA BLIZZARD—THE
MERCURY FROZEN IN THE BULB—KILLING BUFFALO—INDIAN
GRAVES—HOW CROOK LOOKED WHILE ON THIS CAMPAIGN—FINDING A
DEAD INDIAN’S ARM—INDIAN PICTURES.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE ATTACK UPON CRAZY HORSE’S VILLAGE—THE BLEAK NIGHT MARCH 270
ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS—EGAN’S CHARGE THROUGH THE
VILLAGE—STANTON AND MILLS AND SIBLEY TO THE RESCUE—THE
BURNING LODGES—MEN FROZEN—THE WEALTH OF THE
VILLAGE—RETREATING TO LODGE POLE CREEK—CROOK REJOINS
US—CUTTING THE THROATS OF CAPTURED PONIES.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SUMMER CAMPAIGN OF 1876—THE SIOUX AND CHEYENNES GETTING 283
UGLY—RAIDING THE SETTLEMENTS—ATTEMPT TO AMBUSCADE
CROOK—KILLING THE MAIL-RIDER—THE STORY OF THE FETTERMAN
MASSACRE—LAKE DE SMET—OUR FIRST THUNDERSTORM—A SOLDIER’S
BURIAL—THE SIOUX ATTACK OUR
CAMP—TROUT-FISHING—BEAR-HUNTING—CALAMITY JANE—THE CROW AND
SHOSHONE ALLIES JOIN THE COMMAND—THE WAR DANCE AND
MEDICINE SONG.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE COLUMN IN MOTION—RUNNING INTO A GREAT HERD OF 307
BUFFALOES—THE SIGNAL CRY OF THE SCOUTS—THE FIGHT ON THE
ROSEBUD—HOW THE KILLED WERE BURIED—SCALP DANCE—BUTCHERING
A CHEYENNE—LIEUTENANT SCHUYLER ARRIVES—SENDING BACK THE
WOUNDED.
CHAPTER XIX.
KILLING DULL CARE IN CAMP—EXPLORING THE SNOW-CRESTED BIG 323
HORN MOUNTAINS—FINERTY KILLS HIS FIRST BUFFALO—THE
SWIMMING POOLS—A BIG TROUT—SIBLEY’S SCOUT—A NARROW
ESCAPE—NEWS OF THE CUSTER MASSACRE—THE SIOUX TRY TO BURN
US OUT—THE THREE MESSENGERS FROM TERRY—WASHAKIE DRILLS HIS
SHOSHONES—KELLY THE COURIER STARTS TO FIND TERRY—CROW
INDIANS BEARING DESPATCHES—THE SIGN-LANGUAGE—A PONY
RACE—INDIAN SERENADES—HOW THE SHOSHONES FISHED—A FIRE IN
CAMP—THE UTES JOIN US.
CHAPTER XX.
THE JUNCTION WITH MERRITT AND THE MARCH TO MEET TERRY—THE 344
COUNTRY ON FIRE—MERRITT AND HIS COMMAND—MR.
“GRAPHIC”—STANTON AND HIS “IRREGULARS”—“UTE JOHN”—THE SITE
OF THE HOSTILE CAMP—A SIOUX CEMETERY—MEETING TERRY’S
COMMAND—FINDING TWO SKELETONS—IN THE BAD LANDS—LANCING
RATTLESNAKES—BATHING IN THE YELLOWSTONE—MACKINAW BOATS AND
“BULL” BOATS—THE REES HAVE A PONY DANCE—SOME TERRIBLE
STORMS—LIEUTENANT WILLIAM P. CLARKE.
CHAPTER XXI.
CROOK AND TERRY SEPARATE—THE PICTURESQUE LITTLE MISSOURI—THE 362
“HORSE MEAT MARCH” FROM THE HEAD OF THE HEART RIVER TO
DEADWOOD—ON THE SIOUX TRAIL—MAKING COFFEE UNDER
DIFFICULTIES—SLAUGHTERING WORN-OUT CAVALRY HORSES FOR
FOOD—THE FIGHT AT SLIM BUTTES—LIEUTENANT VON LEUTTEWITZ
LOSES A LEG—THE DYING CHIEF, AMERICAN HORSE,
SURRENDERS—RELICS OF THE CUSTER MASSACRE—CRAZY HORSE
ATTACKS OUR LINES—SUNSHINE AND RATIONS.
CHAPTER XXII.
TO AND THROUGH THE BLACK HILLS—HOW DEADWOOD LOOKED IN 381
1876—THE DEADWOOD “ACADEMY OF MUSIC”—THE SECOND WINTER
CAMPAIGN—THE NAMES OF THE INDIAN SCOUTS—WIPING OUT THE
CHEYENNE VILLAGE—LIEUTENANT MCKINNEY KILLED—FOURTEEN
CHEYENNE BABIES FROZEN TO DEATH IN THEIR MOTHERS’ ARMS—THE
CUSTER MASSACRE AGAIN—THE TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE OF RANDALL
AND THE CROW SCOUTS.
CHAPTER XXIII.
STRANGE MESS-MATES—THE JOURNEY TO THE AGENCIES—GENERAL 397
SHERIDAN’S VISIT—SPOTTED TAIL—THE STORY OF HIS DEAD
DAUGHTER’S BONES—WHITE THUNDER—RED CLOUD—DULL KNIFE—BIG
WOLF—THE NECKLACE OF HUMAN FINGERS—THE MEDICINE MAN AND
THE ELECTRIC BATTERY—WASHINGTON—FRIDAY—INDIAN
BROTHERS—SORREL HORSE—THREE BEARS—YOUNG MAN AFRAID OF HIS
HORSES—ROCKY BEAR—RED CLOUD’S LETTER—INDIAN DANCES—THE BAD
LANDS—HOW THE CHEYENNES FIRST GOT HORSES.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SURRENDER OF CRAZY HORSE—SELLING AMMUNITION TO HOSTILE 412
INDIANS—PLUNDERING UNARMED, PEACEABLE INDIANS—SUPPER WITH
CRAZY HORSE—CHARACTER OF THIS CHIEF—HIS BRAVERY AND
GENEROSITY—THE STORY OF THE CUSTER MASSACRE AS TOLD BY
HORNY HORSE—LIEUTENANT REILLY’S RING—THE DEATH OF CRAZY
HORSE—LITTLE BIG MAN.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MANAGEMENT OF THE INDIAN AGENCIES—AGENT MACGILLICUDDY’S 424
WONDERFUL WORK—CROOK’S REMAINING DAYS IN THE DEPARTMENT OF
THE PLATTE—THE BANNOCK, UTE, NEZ PERCÉ, AND CHEYENNE
OUTBREAKS—THE KILLING OF MAJOR THORNBURGH AND CAPTAIN
WEIR—MERRITT’S FAMOUS MARCH AGAINST TIME—HOW THE DEAD CAME
TO LIFE AND WALKED—THE CASE OF THE PONCAS—CROOK’S HUNTS
AND EXPLORATIONS; NEARLY FROZEN TO DEATH IN A BLIZZARD—A
NARROW ESCAPE FROM AN ANGRY SHE-BEAR—CATCHING NEBRASKA
HORSE-THIEVES—“DOC” MIDDLETON’S GANG.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CROOK RE-ASSIGNED TO THE DEPARTMENT OF ARIZONA—ALL THE 433
APACHES ON THE WAR-PATH—LIEUTENANTS MORGAN AND CONVERSE
WOUNDED—CAPTAIN HENTIG KILLED—CROOK GOES ALONE TO SEE THE
HOSTILES—CONFERENCES WITH THE APACHES—WHAT THE ARIZONA
GRAND JURY SAID OF AN INDIAN AGENT—CONDITION OF AFFAIRS AT
THE SAN CARLOS AGENCY—WHISKEY SOLD TO THE CHIRICAHUA
APACHES—APACHE TRIALS BY JURY—ARIZONA IN 1882—PHŒNIX,
PRESCOTT, AND TUCSON—INDIAN SCHOOLS.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SIERRA MADRE CAMPAIGN AND THE CHIRICAHUAS—CHATO’S 452
RAID—CROOK’S EXPEDITION OF FORTY-SIX WHITE MEN AND ONE
HUNDRED AND NINETY-THREE INDIAN SCOUTS—THE SURPRISE OF THE
APACHE STRONGHOLD—THE “TOMBSTONE TOUGHS”—THE MANAGEMENT OF
THE CHIRICAHUAS—HOW INDIANS WILL WORK IF ENCOURAGED—GIVING
THE FRANCHISE TO INDIANS; CROOK’S VIEWS—THE CRAWFORD COURT
OF INQUIRY—KA-E-TEN-NA’S ARREST ORDERED BY MAJOR BARBER
—TROUBLE ARISES BETWEEN THE WAR AND INTERIOR
DEPARTMENTS—CROOK ASKS TO BE RELIEVED FROM THE
RESPONSIBILITY FOR INDIAN AFFAIRS—SOME OF THE CHIRICAHUAS
RETURN TO THE WAR-PATH.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE CAMPAIGN AGAINST GERONIMO—THE CROPS RAISED BY THE 465
APACHES—THE PURSUIT OF THE HOSTILES—THE HARD WORK OF THE
TROOPS—EFFICIENT AND FAITHFUL SERVICE OF THE CHIRICAHUA
SCOUTS—WAR DANCES AND SPIRIT DANCES—CAPTAIN CRAWFORD
KILLED—A VISIT TO THE HOSTILE STRONGHOLD—A “NERVY”
PHOTOGRAPHER—A WHITE BOY CAPTIVE AMONG THE
APACHES—ALCHISE’S AND KA-E-TEN-NA’S GOOD WORK—GERONIMO
SURRENDERS TO CROOK.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE EFFECTS OF BAD WHISKEY UPON SAVAGE INDIANS—THE WRETCH 480
TRIBOLLET—SOME OF THE CHIRICAHUAS SLIP AWAY FROM MAUS
DURING A RAINY NIGHT—THE BURIAL OF CAPTAIN
CRAWFORD—CROOK’S TERMS DISAPPROVED IN WASHINGTON—CROOK
ASKS TO BE RELIEVED FROM COMMAND IN ARIZONA—GERONIMO
INDUCED TO COME IN BY THE CHIRICAHUA AMBASSADORS, KI-E-TA
AND MARTINEZ—TREACHERY SHOWN IN THE TREATMENT OF THE
WELL-BEHAVED MEMBERS OF THE CHIRICAHUA APACHE BAND.
CHAPTER XXX.
CROOK’S CLOSING YEARS—HE AVERTS A WAR WITH THE UTES—A MEMBER 486
OF THE COMMISSION WHICH SECURED A CESSION OF ELEVEN
MILLIONS OF ACRES FROM THE SIOUX—HIS INTEREST IN GAME
LAWS—HIS DEATH—WHAT THE APACHES DID—WHAT RED CLOUD
SAID—HIS FUNERAL IN CHICAGO—BURIAL IN OAKLAND,
MARYLAND—RE-INTERMENT IN ARLINGTON CEMETERY, VIRGINIA.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
GENERAL GEORGE CROOK _Frontispiece_
AN APACHE RANCHERIA _Face page_ 48
SPOTTED TAIL 96
SHARP NOSE 192
GENERAL CROOK AND THE FRIENDLY APACHE, ALCHISE 240
CHATO 304
CONFERENCE BETWEEN GENERAL CROOK AND GERONIMO 416
[Illustration: GRAVE OF CRAZY HORSE—“THE EBB-TIDE OF OUR INDIAN WARS.”]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ON THE BORDER WITH CROOK
CHAPTER I.
OLD CAMP GRANT ON THE RIO SAN PEDRO—DAILY ROUTINE OF LIFE—ARCHITECTURE
OF THE GILA—SOLDIERS AS LABORERS—THE MESCAL AND ITS USES—DRINK AND
GAMBLING—RATTLESNAKE BITES AND THE GOLONDRINA WEED—SODA LAKE AND THE
DEATH VALLEY—FELMER AND HIS RANCH.
Dante Alighieri, it has always seemed to me, made the mistake of his
life in dying when he did in the picturesque capital of the Exarchate
five hundred and fifty years ago. Had he held on to this mortal coil
until after Uncle Sam had perfected the “Gadsden Purchase,” he would
have found full scope for his genius in the description of a region in
which not only purgatory and hell, but heaven likewise, had combined to
produce a bewildering kaleidoscope of all that was wonderful, weird,
terrible, and awe-inspiring, with not a little that was beautiful and
romantic.
The vast region in the southwest corner of the United States, known on
the maps as the Territories of Arizona and New Mexico, may, with perfect
frankness, be claimed as the wonder-land of the northern part of
America, with the exception, perhaps, of the Republic of Mexico, of
which it was once a fragment, and to which, ethnographically, it has
never ceased to belong.
In no other section can there be found such extensive areas of desert
crossed in every direction by the most asperous mountains, whose
profound cañons are the wonder of the world, whose parched flanks are
matted with the thorny and leafless vegetation of the tropics, and whose
lofty summits are black with the foliage of pines whose graceful
branches bend in the welcome breezes from the temperate zone. Here one
stumbles at almost every step upon the traces of former populations, of
whom so little is known, or sees repeated from peak to peak the signal
smokes of the fierce Apaches, whose hostility to the white man dates
back to the time of Cortés.
I will begin my narrative by a brief reference to the condition of
affairs in Arizona prior to the arrival of General Crook, as by no other
means can the arduous nature of the work he accomplished be understood
and appreciated. It was a cold and cheerless day—March 10, 1870—when our
little troop, “F” of the Third Cavalry, than which a better never bore
guidon, marched down the vertical-walled cañon of the Santa Catalina,
crossed the insignificant sand-bed of the San Pedro, and came front into
line on the parade-ground of Old Camp Grant, at the mouth of the
Aravaypa. The sun was shining brightly, and where there was shelter to
be found in the foliage of mesquite or cottonwood, there was the merry
chatter of birds; but in the open spaces the fierce breath of the
norther, laden with dust and discomfort, made the new-comers imagine
that an old-fashioned home winter had pursued them into foreign
latitudes. A few military formalities hastily concluded, a few words of
kindly greeting between ourselves and the members of the First Cavalry
whom we met there, and ranks were broken, horses led to the stables, and
men filed off to quarters. We had become part and parcel of the garrison
of Old Camp Grant, the memory of which is still fragrant as that of the
most forlorn parody upon a military garrison in that most woe-begone of
military departments, Arizona.
Of our march over from the Rio Grande it is not worth while to speak; as
the reader advances in this book he will find references to other
military movements which may compensate for the omission, even when it
is admitted that our line of travel from Fort Craig lay through a region
but little known to people in the East, and but seldom described. For
those who may be sufficiently interested to follow our course, I will
say that we started from Craig, marched to the tumble-down village of
“Paraje de San Cristobal,” at the head of the “Jornada del Muerto” (The
Day’s Journey of the Dead Man), which is the Sahara of New Mexico, then
across to the long-since abandoned camp at what was called Fort MacRae,
where we forded the river to the west, and then kept along the eastern
rim of the timber-clad Mimbres Mountains, through Cow Springs to Fort
Cummings, and thence due west to Camp Bowie, situated in the “Apache
Pass” of the Chiricahua Mountains in Southeastern Arizona, a total
distance of some one hundred and seventy miles as we marched.
There were stretches of country picturesque to look upon and capable of
cultivation, especially with irrigation; and other expanses not a bit
more fertile than so many brick-yards, where all was desolation, the
home of the cactus and the coyote. Arizona was in those days separated
from “God’s country” by a space of more than fifteen hundred miles,
without a railroad, and the officer or soldier who once got out there
rarely returned for years.
Our battalion slowly crawled from camp to camp, with no incident to
break the dull monotony beyond the ever-recurring signal smokes of the
Apaches, to show that our progress was duly watched from the peaks on
each flank; or the occasional breaking down of some of the wagons and
the accompanying despair of the quartermaster, with whose afflictions I
sympathized sincerely, as that quartermaster was myself.
I used to think that there never had been such a wagon-train, and that
there never could again be assembled by the Government mules of whose
achievements more could be written—whose necks seemed to be ever
slipping through their collars, and whose heels never remained on _terra
firma_ while there was anything in sight at which to kick. Increasing
years and added experience have made me more conservative, and I am now
free to admit that there have been other mules as thoroughly saturated
with depravity as “Blinky Jim,” the lop-eared dun “wheeler” in the
water-wagon team; other artists whose attainments in profanity would put
the blush upon the expletives which waked the echoes of the
mirage-haunted San Simon, and other drivers who could get as quickly,
unmistakably, emphatically, and undeniably drunk as Mullan, who was down
on the official papers as the driver of the leading ambulance, but,
instead of driving, was generally driven.
There would be very little use in attempting to describe Old Fort Grant,
Arizona, partly because there was really no fort to describe, and partly
because few of my readers would be sufficiently interested in the matter
to follow me to the end. It was, as I have already said, recognized from
the tide-waters of the Hudson to those of the Columbia as the most
thoroughly Godforsaken post of all those supposed to be included in the
annual Congressional appropriations. Beauty of situation or of
construction it had none; its site was the supposed junction of the
sand-bed of the Aravaypa with the sand-bed of the San Pedro, which
complacently figured on the topographical charts of the time as creek
and river respectively, but generally were dry as a lime-burner’s hat
excepting during the “rainy season.” Let the reader figure to himself a
rectangle whose four sides were the row of officers’ “quarters,” the
adjutant’s office, post bakery, and guard house, the commissary and
quartermaster’s storehouses, and the men’s quarters and sutler’s store,
and the “plan,” if there was any “plan,” can be at once understood. Back
of the quartermaster’s and commissary storehouses, some little distance,
were the blacksmith’s forge, the butcher’s “corral,” and the cavalry
stables, while in the rear of the men’s quarters, on the banks of the
San Pedro, and not far from the traces of the ruins of a prehistoric
village or pueblo of stone, was the loose, sandy spot upon which the
bucking “bronco” horses were broken to the saddle. Such squealing and
struggling and biting and kicking, and rolling in the dust and getting
up again, only to introduce some entirely original combination of a hop,
skip, and jump, and a double back somersault, never could be seen
outside of a herd of California “broncos.” The animal was first thrown,
blindfolded, and then the bridle and saddle were put on, the latter
girthed so tightly that the horse’s eyes would start from their sockets.
Then, armed with a pair of spurs of the diameter of a soup-plate and a
mesquite club big enough to fell an ox, the Mexican “vaquero” would get
into the saddle, the blinds would be cast off, and the circus begin.
There would be one moment of sweet doubt as to what the “bronco” was
going to do, and now and then there would be aroused expectancy that a
really mild-mannered steed had been sent to the post by some mistake of
the quartermaster’s department. But this doubt never lasted very long;
the genuine “bronco” can always be known from the spurious one by the
fact that when he makes up his mind to “buck” he sets out upon his work
without delay, and with a vim that means business. If there were many
horses arriving in a “bunch,” there would be lots of fun and no little
danger and excitement. The men would mount, and amid the encouraging
comments of the on-lookers begin the task of subjugation. The bronco, as
I have said, or should have said, nearly always looked around and up at
his rider with an expression of countenance that was really benignant,
and then he would roach his back, get his four feet bunched together,
and await developments. These always came in a way productive of the
best results; if the rider foolishly listened to the suggestions of his
critics, he would almost always mistake this temporary paroxysm of
docility for fear or lack of spirit.
And then would come the counsel, inspired by the Evil One himself:
“Arrah, thin, shtick yer sphurs int’ him, Moriarty.”
This was just the kind of advice that best suited the “bronco’s”
feelings, because no sooner would the rowels strike his flanks than the
air would seem to be filled with a mass of mane and tail rapidly
revolving, and of hoofs flying out in defiance of all the laws of
gravity, while a descendant of the kings of Ireland, describing a
parabolic orbit through space, would shoot like a meteor into the sand,
and plough it up with his chin and the usual elocutionary effects to be
looked for under such circumstances.
Yes, those were happy, happy days—for the “broncos” and the by-standers.
There were three kinds of quarters at Old Camp Grant, and he who was
reckless enough to make a choice of one passed the rest of his existence
while at the post in growling at the better luck of the comrades who had
selected either one of the others.
There was the adobe house, built originally for the kitchens of the post
at the date of its first establishment, some time in 1857; there were
the “jacal” sheds, built of upright logs, chinked with mud and roofed
with smaller branches and more mud; and the tents, long since
“condemned” and forgotten by the quartermaster to whom they had
originally been invoiced. Each and all of these examples of the
Renaissance style of architecture, as it found expression in the valley
of the Gila, was provided with a “ramada” in front, which, at a small
expenditure of labor in erecting a few additional upright saplings and
cross-pieces, and a covering of cottonwood foliage, secured a modicum of
shelter from the fierce shafts of a sun which shone not to warm and
enlighten, but to enervate and kill.
The occupants of the ragged tentage found solace in the pure air which
merrily tossed the flaps and flies, even if it brought with it rather
more than a fair share of heat and alkali dust from the deserts of
Sonora. Furthermore, there were few insects to bother, a pleasing
contrast to the fate of those living in the houses, which were veritable
museums of entomology, with the choicest specimens of centipedes,
scorpions, “vinagrones,” and, occasionally, tarantulas, which the
Southwest could produce.
On the other hand, the denizens of the adobe and the “jacal outfits”
became inured to insect pests and felicitated themselves as best they
could upon being free from the merciless glare of the sun and wind,
which latter, with its hot breath, seemed to take delight in peeling
the skin from the necks and faces of all upon whom it could exert its
nefarious powers. My assignment was to one of the rooms in the adobe
house, an apartment some fourteen by nine feet in area, by seven and a
half or eight in height. There was not enough furniture to occasion
any anxiety in case of fire: nothing but a single cot, one
rocking-chair—visitors, when they came, generally sat on the side of
the cot—a trunk, a shelf of books, a small pine wash-stand, over which
hung a mirror of greenish hue, sold to me by the post trader with the
assurance that it was French plate. I found out afterward that the
trader could not always be relied upon, but I’ll speak of him at
another time. There were two window-curtains, both of chintz; one
concealed the dust and fly specks on the only window, and the other
covered the row of pegs upon which hung sabre, forage cap, and
uniform.
In that part of Arizona fires were needed only at intervals, and, as a
consequence, the fireplaces were of insignificant dimensions, although
they were placed, in the American fashion, on the side of the rooms, and
not, as among the Mexicans, in the corners. There was one important
article of furniture connected with the fireplace of which I must make
mention—the long iron poker with which, on occasion, I was wont to stir
up the embers, and also to stir up the Mexican boy Esperidion, to whom,
in the wilder freaks of my imagination, I was in the habit of alluding
as my “valet.”
The quartermaster had recently received permission to expend “a
reasonable amount” of paint upon the officers’ quarters, provided the
same could be done “by the labor of the troops.” This “labor of the
troops” was a great thing. It made the poor wretch who enlisted under
the vague notion that his admiring country needed his services to quell
hostile Indians, suddenly find himself a brevet architect, carrying a
hod and doing odd jobs of plastering and kalsomining. It was an idea
which never fully commended itself to my mind, and I have always thought
that the Government might have been better served had such work, and all
other not strictly military and necessary for the proper police and
cleanliness of the posts, been assigned to civilians just as soon as
representatives of the different trades could be attracted to the
frontier. It would have cost a little more in the beginning, but it
would have had the effect of helping to settle up our waste land on the
frontier, and that, I believe, was the principal reason why we had a
standing army at all.
The soldier felt discontented because no mention had been made in the
recruiting officer’s posters, or in the contract of enlistment, that he
was to do such work, and he not unusually solved the problem by
“skipping out” the first pay-day that found him with enough money ahead
to risk the venture. It goes without saying that the work was never any
too well done, and in the present case there seemed to be more paint
scattered round about my room than would have given it another coat. But
the floor was of rammed earth and not to be spoiled, and the general
effect was certainly in the line of improvement. Colonel Dubois, our
commanding officer, at least thought so, and warmly congratulated me
upon the snug look of everything, and added a very acceptable present of
a picture—one of Prang’s framed chromos, a view of the Hudson near the
mouth of Esopus Creek—which gave a luxurious finish to the whole
business. Later on, after I had added an Apache bow and quiver, with its
complement of arrows, one or two of the bright, cheery Navajo rugs, a
row of bottles filled with select specimens of tarantulas, spiders,
scorpions, rattlesnakes, and others of the fauna of the country, and
hung upon the walls a suit of armor which had belonged to some Spanish
foot-soldier of the sixteenth century, there was a sybaritic
suggestiveness which made all that has been related of the splendors of
Solomon and Sardanapalus seem commonplace.
Of that suit of armor I should like to say a word: it was found by
Surgeon Steyer, of the army, enclosing the bones of a man, in the arid
country between the waters of the Rio Grande and the Pecos, in the
extreme southwestern corner of the State of Texas, more than twenty
years ago. Various conjectures were advanced and all sorts of theories
advocated as to its exact age, some people thinking that it belonged
originally to Coronado’s expedition, which entered New Mexico in 1541.
My personal belief is that it belonged to the expedition of Don Antonio
Espejo, or that of Don Juan de Oñate, both of whom came into New Mexico
about the same date—1581-1592—and travelled down the Concho to its
confluence with the Rio Grande, which would have been just on the line
where the skeleton in armor was discovered. There is no authentic report
to show that Coronado swung so far to the south; his line of operations
took in the country farther to the north and east, and there are the
best of reasons for believing that he was the first white man to enter
the fertile valley of the Platte, not far from Plum Creek, Nebraska.
But, be that as it may, the suit of armor—breast and back plates, gorget
and helmet—nicely painted and varnished, and with every tiny brass
button duly cleaned and polished with acid and ashes, added not a little
to the looks of a den which without them would have been much more
dismal.
For such of my readers as may not be up in these matters, I may say that
iron armor was abandoned very soon after the Conquest, as the Spaniards
found the heat of these dry regions too great to admit of their wearing
anything so heavy; and they also found that the light cotton-batting
“escaupiles” of the Aztecs served every purpose as a protection against
the arrows of the naked savages by whom they were now surrounded.
There was not much to do in the post itself, although there was a
sufficiency of good, healthy exercise to be counted upon at all times
outside of it. I may be pardoned for dwelling upon trivial matters such
as were those entering into the sum total of our lives in the post, but,
under the hope that it and all in the remotest degree like it have
disappeared from the face of the earth never to return, I will say a few
words.
In the first place, Camp Grant was a hot-bed of the worst kind of fever
and ague, the disease which made many portions of Southern Arizona
almost uninhabitable during the summer and fall months of the year.
There was nothing whatever to do except scout after hostile Apaches, who
were very bold and kept the garrison fully occupied. What with sickness,
heat, bad water, flies, sand-storms, and utter isolation, life would
have been dreary and dismal were it not for the novelty which helped out
the determination to make the best of everything. First of all, there
was the vegetation, different from anything to be seen east of the
Missouri: the statuesque “pitahayas,” with luscious fruit; the massive
biznagas, whose juice is made into very palatable candy by the Mexicans;
the bear’s grass, or palmilla; the Spanish bayonet, the palo verde, the
various varieties of cactus, principal among them being the nopal, or
plate, and the cholla, or nodular, which possesses the decidedly
objectionable quality of separating upon the slightest provocation, and
sticking to whatever may be nearest; the mesquite, with palatable gum
and nourishing beans; the mescal, beautiful to look upon and grateful to
the Apaches, of whom it is the main food-supply; the scrub oak, the
juniper, cottonwood, ash, sycamore, and, lastly, the pine growing on the
higher points of the environing mountains, were all noted, examined, and
studied, so far as opportunity would admit.
And so with the animal life: the deer, of the strange variety called
“the mule”; the coyotes, badgers, pole-cats, rabbits, gophers—but not
the prairie-dog, which, for some reason never understood by me, does not
cross into Arizona; or, to be more accurate, does just cross over the
New Mexican boundary at Fort Bowie in the southeast, and at Tom Keam’s
ranch in the Moqui country in the extreme northeast.
Strangest of all was the uncouth, horrible “escorpion,” or “Gila
monster,” which here found its favorite habitat and attained its
greatest dimensions. We used to have them not less than three feet long,
black, venomous, and deadly, if half the stories told were true. The
Mexicans time and time again asserted that the escorpion would kill
chickens, and that it would eject a poisonous venom upon them, but, in
my own experience, I have to say that the old hen which we tied in front
of one for a whole day was not molested, and that no harm of any sort
came to her beyond being scared out of a year’s growth. Scientists were
wont to ridicule the idea of the Gila monster being venomous, upon what
ground I do not now remember, beyond the fact that it was a lizard, and
all lizards were harmless. But I believe it is now well established that
the monster is not to be handled with impunity although, like many other
animals, it may lie torpid and inoffensive for weeks, and even months,
at a time. It is a noteworthy fact that the Gila monster is the only
reptile on earth to-day that exactly fills the description of the
basilisk or cockatrice of mediæval fable, which, being familiar to the
first-comers among the Castilians, could hardly have added much to its
popularity among them.
It may not be amiss to say of the vegetation that the mescal was to the
aborigines of that region much what the palm is to the nomads of Syria.
Baked in ovens of hot stone covered with earth, it supplied a sweet,
delicious, and nutritive food; its juice could be fermented into an
alcoholic drink very acceptable to the palate, even if it threw into the
shade the best record ever made by “Jersey lightning” as a stimulant.
Tear out one of the thorns and the adhering filament, and you had a very
fair article of needle and thread; if a lance staff was needed, the
sapling mescal stood ready at hand to be so utilized; the stalk, cut
into sections of proper length, and provided with strings of sinew,
became the Apache fiddle—I do not care to be interrupted by questions as
to the quality of the music emitted by these fiddles, as I am now trying
to give my readers some notion of the economic value of the several
plants of the Territory, and am not ready to enter into a disquisition
upon melody and such matters, in which, perhaps, the poor little Apache
fiddle would cut but a slim figure—and in various other ways this
strange, thorny-leafed plant seemed anxious to show its friendship for
man. And I for one am not at all surprised that the Aztecs reverenced it
as one of their gods, under the name of Quetzalcoatl.[A]
-----
Footnote A:
Quetzalcoatl is identified with the maguey in Kingsborough, vol. vi.,
107.
-----
The “mesquite” is a member of the acacia family, and from its bark
annually, each October, exudes a gum equal to the best Arabic that ever
descended the Nile from Khartoum. There are three varieties of the
plant, two of them edible and one not. One of the edible kinds—the
“tornillo,” or screw—grows luxuriantly in the hot, sandy valley of the
Colorado, and forms the main vegetable food of the Mojave Indians; the
other, with pods shaped much like those of the string-bean of our own
markets, is equally good, and has a sweet and pleasantly acidulated
taste. The squaws take these beans, put them in mortars, and pound them
into meal, of which bread is made, in shape and size and weight not
unlike the elongated projectiles of the three-inch rifled cannon.
Alarcon, who ascended the Colorado River in 1541, describes such bread
as in use among the tribes along its banks; and Cabeza de Vaca and his
wretched companions, sole survivors of the doomed expedition of Panfilo
de Narvaez, which went to pieces near the mouth of the Suwanee River, in
Florida, found this bread in use among the natives along the western
part of their line of march, after they had succeeded in escaping from
the Indians who had made them slaves, and had, in the guise of
medicine-men, tramped across the continent until they struck the Spanish
settlements near Culiacan, on the Pacific coast, in 1536. But Vaca calls
it “mizquiquiz.” Castaneda relates that in his day (1541) the people of
Sonora (which then included Arizona) made a bread of the mesquite,
shaping it like a cheese; it had the property of keeping for a whole
year.
There was so little hunting in the immediate vicinity of the post, and
so much danger attending the visits of small parties to the higher hills
a few miles off, in which deer, and even bear, were to be encountered,
that nothing in that line was attempted except when on scout; all our
recreation had to be sought within the limits of the garrison, and
evolved from our own personal resources. The deficiency of hunting did
not imply that there was any lack of shooting about the post; all that
any one could desire could be had for the asking, and that, too, without
moving from under the “ramadas” back of the quarters. Many and many a
good line shot we used to make at the coyotes and skunks which with the
going down of the sun made their appearance in the garbage piles in the
ravines to the north of us.
There was considerable to be done in the ordinary troop duties, which
began at reveille with the “stables,” lasting half an hour, after which
the horses and mules not needed for the current tasks of the day were
sent out to seek such nibbles of pasturage as they might find under the
shade of the mesquite. A strong guard, mounted and fully armed,
accompanied the herd, and a number of horses, saddled but loosely
cinched, remained behind under the grooming-sheds, ready to be pushed
out after any raiding party of Apaches which might take a notion to
sneak up and stampede the herd at pasture.
Guard mounting took place either before or after breakfast, according to
season, and then followed the routine of the day: inspecting the men’s
mess at breakfast, dinner, and supper; a small amount of drill,
afternoon stables, dress or undress parade at retreat or sundown, and
such other occupation as might suggest itself in the usual visit to the
herd to see that the pasturage selected was good, and that the guards
were vigilant; some absorption in the recording of the proceedings of
garrison courts-martial and boards of survey, and then general _ennui_,
unless the individual possessed enough force to make work for himself.
This, however, was more often the case than many of my readers would
imagine, and I can certify to no inconsiderable amount of reading and
study of Spanish language and literature, of mineralogy, of botany, of
history, of constitutional or of international law, and of the
belles-lettres, by officers of the army with whom I became acquainted at
Old Camp Grant; Fort Craig, New Mexico, and other dismal holes—more than
I have ever known among gentlemen of leisure anywhere else. It was no
easy matter to study with ink drying into gum almost as soon as dipped
out by the pen, and paper cracking at the edges when folded or bent.
The newspapers of the day were eagerly perused—when they came; but those
from San Francisco were always from ten to fifteen days old, those from
New York about five to six weeks, and other cities any intermediate age
you please. The mail at first came every second Tuesday, but this was
increased soon to a weekly service, and on occasion, when chance
visitors reported some happening of importance, the commanding officer
would send a courier party to Tucson with instructions to the postmaster
there to deliver.
The temptations to drink and to gamble were indeed great, and those who
yielded and fell by the way-side numbered many of the most promising
youngsters in the army. Many a brilliant and noble fellow has succumbed
to the _ennui_ and gone down, wrecking a life full of promise for
himself and the service. It was hard for a man to study night and day
with the thermometer rarely under the nineties even in winter at noon,
and often climbing up to and over the 120 notch on the Fahrenheit scale
before the meridian of days between April 1st and October 15th; it was
hard to organize riding or hunting parties when all the horses had just
returned worn out by some rough scouting in the Pinal or Sierra Ancha.
There in the trader’s store was a pleasant, cool room, with a minimum of
flies, the latest papers, perfect quiet, genial companionship, cool
water in “ollas” swinging from the rafters, and covered by boards upon
which, in a thin layer of soil, grew a picturesque mantle of green
barley, and, on a table conveniently near, cans of lemon-sugar, tumblers
and spoons, and one or two packs of cards. My readers must not expect me
to mention ice or fruits. I am not describing Delmonico’s; I am writing
of Old Camp Grant, and I am painting the old hole in the most rosy
colors I can employ. Ice was unheard of, and no matter how high the
mercury climbed or how stifling might be the sirocco from Sonora, the
best we could do was to cool water by evaporation in “ollas” of
earthenware, manufactured by the Papago Indians living at the ruined
mission of San Xavier, above Tucson.
To revert to the matter of drinking and gambling. There is scarcely any
of either at the present day in the regular army. Many things have
combined to bring about such a desirable change, the principal, in my
opinion, being the railroads which have penetrated and transformed the
great American continent, placing comforts and luxuries within reach of
officers and men, and absorbing more of their pay as well as bringing
them within touch of civilization and its attendant restraints. Of the
two vices, drunkenness was by all odds the preferable one. For a
drunkard, one can have some pity, because he is his own worst enemy,
and, at the worst, there is hope for his regeneration, while there is
absolutely none for the gambler, who lives upon the misfortunes and lack
of shrewdness of his comrades. There are many who believe, or affect to
believe, in gaming for the excitement of the thing and not for the money
involved. There may be such a thing, but I do not credit its existence.
However, the greatest danger in gambling lay in the waste of time rather
than in the loss of money, which loss rarely amounted to very great
sums, although officers could not well afford to lose anything.
I well remember one great game, played by a party of my friends—but at
Fort Laramie, Wyoming, and not in Arizona—which illustrates this better
than I can describe. It was an all-night game—ten cents to come in and a
quarter limit—and there was no small amount of engineering skill shown
before the first call for reveille separated the party. “Fellows,” said
one of the quartette, in speaking of it some days afterward, “I tell you
it was a struggle of the giants, and when the smoke of battle cleared
away, I found I’d lost two dollars and seventy-five cents.”
As it presents itself to my recollection now, our life wasn’t so very
monotonous; there was always something going on to interest and
instruct, even if it didn’t amuse or enliven.
“Corporal Dile’s har-r-r-se’s bit by a ratthler ’n th’ aff hind leg”;
and, of course, everybody turns out and gets down to the stables as fast
as possible, each with his own prescription, which are one and all
discarded for the great Mexican panacea of a poultice of the
“golondrina” weed. Several times I have seen this used, successfully and
unsuccessfully, and I do not believe in its vaunted efficacy by any
means.
“Oscar Hutton’s bin kicked ’n th’ jaw by a mewel.” Hutton was one of the
post guides, a very good and brave man. His jaw was hopelessly crushed
by a blow from the lightning hoofs of a miserable “bronco” mule, and
poor Hutton never recovered from the shock. He died not long after, and,
in my opinion, quite as much from chagrin at being outwitted as from the
injury inflicted.
Hutton had had a wonderful experience in the meanest parts of our great
country—and be it known that Uncle Sam can hold his own with any prince
or potentate on God’s footstool in the matter of mean desert land. All
over the great interior basin west of the Rockies Hutton had wandered in
the employ of the United States with some of the Government surveying
parties. Now he was at the mouth of the Virgin, where there is a salt
mine with slabs two and three feet thick, as clear as crystal; next he
was a wanderer in the dreaded “Death Valley,” below the sea-level, where
there is no sign of animal life save the quickly darting lizard, or the
vagrant duck whose flesh is bitter from the water of “soda” lakes, which
offer to the wanderer all the comforts of a Chinese laundry, but not one
of those of a home. At that time I only knew of these dismal places from
the relation of Hutton, to which I listened open-mouthed, but since then
I have had some personal acquaintance, and can aver that in naught did
he overlap the truth. The ground is covered for miles with pure
baking-soda—I decline to specify what brand, as I am not writing this as
an advertisement, and my readers can consult individual preference if
they feel so disposed—which rises in a cloud of dry, irritating dust
above the horse’s houghs, and if agitated by the hot winds, excoriates
the eyes, throat, nostrils, and ears of the unfortunate who may find
himself there. Now and then one discerns in the dim distance such a
deceiving body of water as the “Soda Lake,” which tastes like soapsuds,
and nourishes no living thing save the worthless ducks spoken of, whose
flesh is uneatable except to save one from starvation.
Hutton had seen so much hardship that it was natural to expect him to be
meek and modest in his ideas and demeanor, but he was, on the contrary,
decidedly vain and conceited, and upon such a small matter that it ought
not really to count against him. He had six toes on each foot, a fact to
which he adverted with pride. “Bee gosh,” he would say, “there hain’t
ennuther man ’n th’ hull dog-goned outfit’s got ez menny toes’s me.”
Then there was the excitement at Felmer’s ranch, three miles above the
post. Felmer was the post blacksmith, and lived in a little ranch in the
fertile “bottom” of the San Pedro, where he raised a “patch” of barley
and garden-truck for sale to the garrison. He was a Russian or a
Polynesian or a Turk or a Theosophist or something—he had lived in so
many portions of the world’s surface that I never could keep track of
him. I distinctly remember that he was born in Germany, had lived in
Russia or in the German provinces close to Poland, and had thence
travelled everywhere. He had married an Apache squaw, and from her
learned the language of her people. She was now dead, but Joe was quite
proud of his ability to cope with all the Apaches in Arizona, and in
being a match for them in every wile. One hot day—all the days were
comfortably warm, but this was a “scorcher”—there was a sale of
condemned Government stock, and Joe bought a mule, which the auctioneer
facetiously suggested should be called “Lazarus,” he had so many sores
all over his body. But Joe bought him, perfectly indifferent to the
scoffs and sneers of the by-standers. “Don’t you think the Apaches may
get him?” I ventured to inquire. “That’s jest what I’m keeping him fur;
_bait_—unnerstan’? ’N Apache ’ll come down ’n my alfalfy field ’n git
thet mewel, ’n fust thing you know thar’ll be a joke on _somebody_.”
Felmer was a first-class shot, and we naturally supposed that the joke
would be on the deluded savage who might sneak down to ride away with
such a crow-bait, and would become the mark for an unerring rifle. But
it was not so to be. The wretched quadruped had his shoes pulled off,
and was then turned loose in alfalfa and young barley, to his evident
enjoyment and benefit. Some time had passed, and we had almost forgotten
to twit Felmer about his bargain. It’s a very thin joke that cannot be
made to last five or six weeks in such a secluded spot as Old Camp
Grant, and, for that reason, at least a month must have elapsed when,
one bright Sunday afternoon, Felmer was rudely aroused from his siesta
by the noise of guns and the voices of his Mexican herders crying:
“Apaches! Apaches!” And there they were, sure enough, and on top of that
sick, broken-down cast-off of the quartermaster’s department—three of
them, each as big as the side of a house, and poor Joe so dazed that for
several minutes he couldn’t fire a shot.
The two bucks in front were kicking their heels into the mule’s ribs,
and the man in rear had passed a hair lariat under the mule’s tail, and
was sawing away for dear life. And the mule? Well, the mule wasn’t idle
by any means, but putting in his best licks in getting over the ground,
jumping “arroyos” and rocks, charging into and over nopals and chollas
and mesquite, and fast leaving behind him the valley of the San Pedro,
and getting into the foot-hills of the Pinaleno Range.