SOME OF THE FRIENDS MET IN OLD TUCSON—JACK LONG—HIS 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.
“See yar, muchacho, move roun’ lively now, ’n’ git me a Jinny Lin’
steak.” It was a strong, hearty voice which sounded in my ears from the
table just behind me in the “Shoo Fly,” and made me mechanically turn
about, almost as much perplexed as was the waiter-boy, Miguel, by the
strange request.
“Would you have any objection, sir, to letting me know what you mean by
a Jenny Lind steak?”
“A Jinny Lin’ steak, mee son, ’s a steak cut from off a hoss’s upper
lip. I makes it a rule allers to git what I orders; ’n’ ez far’s I kin
see, I’ll get a Jinny Lin’ steak anyhow in this yere outfit, so I’m
kinder takin’ time by the fetlock, ’n’ orderin’ jes’ what I want. My
name’s Jack Long; what mout your’n be?”
It was apparent, at half a glance, that Jack Long was not “in sassiety,”
unless it might be a “sassiety” decidedly addicted to tobacco, given to
the use of flannel instead of “b’iled” shirts, never without six-shooter
on hip, and indulging in profanity by the wholesale.
A better acquaintance with old Jack showed that, like the chestnut, his
roughest part was on the outside. Courage, tenderness, truth, and other
manly attributes peered out from under roughness of garb and speech. He
was one of Gray’s “gems of purest ray serene,” born in “the dark,
unfathomed caves” of frontier isolation.
Jack Long had not always been “Jack” Long. Once, way back in the early
fifties, he and his “podners” had struck it rich on some “placer”
diggings which they had preëmpted on the Yuba, and in less than no time
my friend was heralded to the mountain communities as “Jedge” Long. This
title had never been sought, and, in justice to the recipient, it should
be made known that he discarded it at once, and would none of it. The
title “Jedge” on the frontier does not always imply respect, and Jack
would tolerate nothing ambiguous.
He was bound to be a gentleman or nothing. Before the week was half over
he was arrayed, not exactly like Solomon, but much more conspicuously,
in the whitest of “b’iled” shirts, in the bosom of which glistened the
most brilliant diamond cluster pin that money could procure from
Sacramento. On the warty red fingers of his right hand sparkled its
mate, and pendent from his waist a liberal handful of the old-fashioned
seals and keys of the time attracted attention to the ponderous gold
chain encircling his neck, and securing the biggest specimen of a watch
known to fact or fiction since the days of Captain Cuttle.
Carelessly strolling up to the bar of the “Quartz Rock,” the “Hanging
Wall,” or the “Golden West,” he would say, in the cheeriest way:
“Gents, what’ll yer all hev? It’s mine this time, barkeep.” And,
spurning the change obsequiously tendered by the officiating genius of
the gilded slaughter-house of morality, Jack would push back the
twenty-dollar gold piece with which he usually began his evenings with
“the boys,” and ask, in a tone of injured pride: “Is there any use in
insultin’ a man when he wants to treat his friends?” And barkeeper and
all in the den would voice the sentiment that a “gent” who was as
liberal with his double eagles as Colonel Long was a gent indeed, and a
man anybody could afford to tie to.
It was the local paper which gave Jack his military title, and alluded
to the growing demand that the colonel should accept the nomination for
Congress. And to Congress he would have gone, too, had not fickle
Fortune turned her back upon her whilom favorite.
Jack had the bad luck to fall in love and to be married—not for the
first time, as he had had previous experience in the same direction, his
first wife being the youngest daughter of the great Indian chief
“Cut-Mouth John,” of the Rogue River tribe, who ran away from Jack and
took to the mountains when her people went on the war-path. The then
wife was a white woman from Missouri, and, from all I can learn, a very
good mate for Jack, excepting that prosperity turned her head and made
her very extravagant. So long as Jack’s mine was panning out freely Jack
didn’t mind much what she spent, but when it petered, and economy became
necessary, dissensions soon arose between them, and it was agreed that
they were not compatible.
“If you don’t like me,” said Mrs. Long one day, “give me a divorce and
one-half of what you have, and I’ll leave you.”
“’Nuff sed,” was Jack’s reply, “’n’ here goes.”
The sum total in the Long exchequer was not quite $200. Of this, Jack
laid to one side a double eagle, for a purpose soon to be explained. The
remainder was divided into two even piles, one of which was handed over
to his spouse. The doors of the wardrobe stood open, disclosing all of
Jack’s regal raiment. He seized a pair of trousers, tore them leg from
leg, and then served in much the same way every coat, waistcoat, or
undergarment he owned. One pile of remnants was assigned to the
stupefied woman, who ten minutes previously had been demanding a
separation.
Before another ten had passed her own choicest treasures had shared the
same fate, and her ex-liege lord was devoting his attention to breaking
the cooking stove, with its superstructure of pots and pans and kettles,
into two little hillocks of battered fragments; and no sooner through
with that than at work sawing the tables and chairs in half and knocking
the solitary mirror into smithereens.
“Thar yer are,” said Jack. “Ye ’v’ got half th’ money, ’n’ yer kin now
tek yer pick o’ what’s left.”
The stage had come along on its way down to Sacramento, and Jack hailed
the driver. “Mrs. Long’s goin’ down th’ road a bit ter see some o’ her
kin, ’n’ ter get a breath o’ fresh air. Tek her ez fur ez this ’ll pay
fur, ’n’ then _she_’ll tell whar else she wants ter go.”
And that was Jack Long’s divorce and the reason why he left the mining
regions of California and wandered far and near, beginning the battle of
life anew as packer and prospector, and drifting down into the drainage
of the Gila and into the “Shoo Fly” restaurant, where we have just met
him.
There shall be many other opportunities of meeting and conversing with
old Jack before the campaigning against the Apaches is half through, so
we need not urge him to remain now that he has finished his meal and is
ready to sally forth. We return heartily the very cheery greeting
tendered by the gentleman who enters the dining-room in his place. It is
ex-Marshal Duffield, a very peculiar sort of a man, who stands credited
in public opinion with having killed thirteen persons. How much of this
is truth and how much is pure gossip, as meaningless as the chatter of
the “pechotas” which gather along the walls of the corral every evening
the moment the grain of the horses is dealt out to them, I cannot say;
but if the reader desire to learn of a unique character in our frontier
history he will kindly permit me to tell something of the only man in
the Territory of Arizona, and I may say of New Mexico and western Texas
as well, who dared wear a plug hat. There was nothing so obnoxious in
the sight of people living along the border as the black silk tile. The
ordinary man assuming such an addition to his attire would have done so
at the risk of his life, but Duffield was no ordinary individual. He
wore clothes to suit himself, and woe to the man who might fancy
otherwise.
Who Duffield was before coming out to Arizona I never could learn to my
own satisfaction. Indeed, I do not remember ever having any but the most
languid interest in that part of his career, because he kept us so fully
occupied in keeping track of his escapades in Arizona that there was
very little time left for investigations into his earlier movements. Yet
I do recall the whispered story that he had been one of President
Lincoln’s discoveries, and that the reason for his appointment lay in
the courage Duffield had displayed in the New York riots during the war.
It seems—and I tell the tale with many misgivings, as my memory does not
retain all the circumstances—that Duffield was passing along one of the
streets in which the rioters were having things their own way, and there
he saw a poor devil of a colored man fleeing from some drunken pursuers,
who were bent on hanging him to the nearest lamp-post. Duffield allowed
the black man to pass him, and then, as the mob approached on a hot
scent, he levelled his pistol—his constant companion—and blew out the
brains of the one in advance, and, as the story goes, hit two others, as
fast as he could draw bead on them, for I must take care to let my
readers know that my friend was one of the crack shots of America, and
was wont while he lived in Tucson to drive a ten-penny nail into an
adobe wall every day before he would go into the house to eat his
evening meal. At the present moment he was living at the “Shoo Fly,” and
was one of the most highly respected members of the mess that gathered
there. He stood not less than six feet three in his stockings, was
extremely broad-shouldered, powerful, muscular, and finely knit; dark
complexion, black hair, eyes keen as briars and black as jet, fists as
big as any two fists to be seen in the course of a day; disputatious,
somewhat quarrelsome, but not without very amiable qualities. His
bravery, at least, was never called in question. He was no longer United
States marshal, but was holding the position of Mail Inspector, and the
manner in which he discharged his delicate and dangerous duties was
always commendable and very often amusing.
“You see, it ’s jest like this,” he once remarked to the postmaster of
one of the smallest stations in his jurisdiction, and in speaking the
inspector’s voice did not show the slightest sign of anger or
excitement—“you see, the postmaster-general is growling at me because
there is so much thieving going on along this line, so that I’m gittin’
kind o’ tired ’n’ must git th’ whole bizz off mee mind; ’n’ ez I’ve
looked into the whole thing and feel satisfied that you’re the thief, I
think you’d better be pilin’ out o’ here without any more nonsense.”
The postmaster was gone inside of twelve hours, and there was no more
stealing on that line while Duffield held his position. Either the rest
of the twelve dollars per annum postmasters were an extremely honest
set, or else they were scared by the mere presence of Duffield. He used
to be very fond of showing his powerful muscle, and would often seize
one of the heavy oak chairs in the “Congress Hall” bar-room in one hand,
and lift it out at arm’s length; or take some of the people who stood
near him and lift them up, catching hold of the feet only.
How well I remember the excitement which arose in Tucson the day that
“Waco Bill” arrived in town with a wagon train on its way to Los
Angeles. Mr. “Waco Bill” was a “tough” in the truest sense of the term,
and being from half to three-quarters full of the worst liquor to be
found in Tucson—and I hope I am violating no confidence when I say that
some of the vilest coffin varnish on the mundane sphere was to be found
there by those who tried diligently—was anxious to meet and subdue this
Duffield, of whom such exaggerated praise was sounding in his ears.
“Whar’s Duffer?” he cried, or hiccoughed, as he approached the little
group of which Duffield was the central figure. “I want Duffer (_hic_);
he ’s my meat. Whoop!”
The words had hardly left his mouth before something shot out from
Duffield’s right shoulder. It was that awful fist, which could, upon
emergency, have felled an ox, and down went our Texan sprawling upon the
ground. No sooner had he touched Mother Earth than, true to his Texan
instincts, his hand sought his revolver, and partly drew it out of
holster. Duffield retained his preternatural calmness, and did not raise
his voice above a whisper the whole time that his drunken opponent was
hurling all kinds of anathemas at him; but now he saw that something
must be done. In Arizona it was not customary to pull a pistol upon a
man; that was regarded as an act both unchristian-like and wasteful of
time—Arizonanas nearly always shot out of the pocket without drawing
their weapons at all, and into Mr. “Waco Bill’s” groin went the sure
bullet of the man who, local wits used to say, wore crape upon his hat
in memory of his departed virtues.
The bullet struck, and Duffield bent over with a most Chesterfieldian
bow and wave of the hand: “My name’s Duffield, sir,” he said, “and them
’ere ’s mee visitin’ card.”
If there was one man in the world who despised another it was
Chief-Justice John Titus in his scorn for the ex-marshal, which found
open expression on every occasion. Titus was a gentleman of the old
school, educated in the City of Brotherly Love, and anxious to put down
the least semblance of lawlessness and disorder; yet here was an officer
of the Government whose quarrels were notorious and of every-day
occurrence.
Persuasion, kindly remonstrance, earnest warning were alike ineffectual,
and in time the relations between the two men became of the most formal,
not to say rancorous, character. Judge Titus at last made up his mind
that the very first excuse for so doing he would have Duffield hauled up
for carrying deadly weapons, and an occasion arose much sooner than he
imagined.
There was a “baile” given that same week, and Duffield was present with
many others. People usually went on a peace footing to these
assemblies—that is to say, all the heavy armament was left at home, and
nothing taken along but a few Derringers, which would come handy in case
of accident.
There were some five or six of us—all friends of Duffield—sitting in a
little back room away from the long saloon in which the dance was going
on, and we had Duffield in such good humor that he consented to produce
some if not all of the weapons with which he was loaded. He drew them
from the arm-holes of his waistcoat, from his boot-legs, from his
hip-pockets, from the back of his neck, and there they all were—eleven
lethal weapons, mostly small Derringers, with one knife. Comment was
useless; for my own part, I did not feel called upon to criticise my
friend’s eccentricities or amiable weaknesses, whatever they might be,
so I kept my mouth shut, and the others followed my example. I suppose
that on a war-footing nothing less than a couple of Gatling guns would
have served to round out the armament to be brought into play.
Whether it was a true alarm or a false one I couldn’t tell, but the next
day Judge Titus imagined that a movement of Duffield’s hand was intended
to bring to bear upon himself a portion of the Duffield ordnance, and he
had the old man arrested and brought before him on the charge of
carrying concealed deadly weapons.
The court-room was packed with a very orderly crowd, listening
attentively to a long exordium from the lips of the judge upon the
enormity and the uselessness of carrying concealed deadly weapons. The
judge forgot that men would carry arms so long as danger real or
imaginary encompassed them, and that the opinions prevailing upon that
subject in older communities could not be expected to obtain in the
wilder regions.
In Arizona, the reader should know, all the officers of the law were
Americans. In New Mexico, on the contrary, they were almost without
exception Mexicans, and the legal practice was entirely different from
our own, as were the usages and customs of various kinds. For example,
one could go before one of those Rio Grande alcaldes in Socorro, San
Antonio, or Sabinal, and wear just what clothes he pleased, or not wear
any if he didn’t please; it would be all right. He might wear a hat, or
go in his shirt sleeves, or go barefoot, or roll himself a cigarrito,
and it would be all right. But let him dare enter with spurs, and the
ushers would throw him out, and it was a matter of great good luck if he
did not find himself in the calaboose to boot, for contempt of court.
“Call the first witness; call Charles O. Brown.”
Mr. Charles O. Brown, under oath, stated his name, residence, and
occupation, and was then directed to show to the judge and jury how the
prisoner—Duffield—had drawn his revolver the day previous.
“Well, jedge, the way he drawed her was jest this.” And suiting the
action to the word, Mr. Charles O. Brown, the main witness for the
prosecution, drew a six-shooter, fully cocked, from the holster on his
hip. There was a ripple of laughter in the courtroom, as every one saw
at once the absurdity of trying to hold one man responsible for the
misdemeanor of which a whole community was guilty, and in a few minutes
the matter was _nolle prossed_.
I will end up the career of the marshal in this chapter, as we shall
have no further cause to introduce him in these pages. His courage was
soon put to the severest sort of a test when a party of desperadoes from
Sonora, who had been plundering in their own country until driven across
the line, began their operations in Arizona. At the dead of night they
entered Duffield’s house, and made a most desperate assault upon him
while asleep in his bed. By some sort of luck the blow aimed with a
hatchet failed to hit him on head or neck—probably his assailants were
too drunk to see what they were doing—and chopped out a frightful gash
in the shoulder, which would have killed the general run of men.
Duffield, as has been shown, was a giant in strength, and awakened by
the pain, and at once realizing what had happened, he sprang from his
couch and grappled with the nearest of the gang of burglars, choked him,
and proceeded to use him as a weapon with which to sweep out of the
premises the rest of the party, who, seeing that the household had been
alarmed, made good their escape.
Duffield was too much exhausted from loss of blood to retain his hold
upon the rascal whom he had first seized, so that Justice did not
succeed in laying her hands upon any of the band. When Duffield
recovered sufficiently to be able to reappear on the streets, he did not
seem to be the same man. He no longer took pleasure in rows, but acted
like one who had had enough of battles, and was willing to live at peace
with his fellow-men. Unfortunately, if one acquire the reputation of
being “a bad man” on the frontier, it will stick to him for a generation
after he has sown his wild oats, and is trying to bring about a rotation
of crops.
Duffield was killed at Tombstone ten years since, not far from the
Contention Mine, by a young man named Holmes, who had taken up a claim
in which Duffield asserted an interest. The moment he saw Duffield
approaching he levelled a shot-gun upon him, and warned him not to move
a foot, and upon Duffield’s still advancing a few paces he filled him
full of buckshot, and the coroner’s jury, without leaving their seats,
returned a verdict of justifiable homicide, because the old, old
Duffield, who was “on the shoot,” was still remembered, and the new man,
who had turned over a new leaf and was trying to lead a new life, was
still a stranger in the land.
Peace to his ashes!
There were military as well as non-military men in Tucson, and although
the following incident did not occur under my personal observation, and
was one of those stories that “leak out,” I tell it as filling in a gap
in the description of life as it was in Arizona twenty and twenty-five
years ago. All the persons concerned were boarders at the “Shoo Fly,”
and all are now dead, or out of service years and years ago.
The first was the old field officer whom, for want of a better name,
every one called “Old Uncle Billy N——.” He had met with a grievous
misfortune, and lost one of his eyes, but bore his trouble with stoicism
and without complaint. During a brief visit to Boston, he had arranged
with an oculist and optician to have made for him three glass eyes. “But
I don’t clearly understand what you want with so many,” said the Boston
man.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” replied the son of Mars. “You see, I want one for
use when I’m sober, one when I’m drunk, and one when I’m p—— d—— drunk.”
The glass eyes were soon ready to meet the varying conditions of the
colonel’s life, and gave the old man the liveliest satisfaction. Not
long after his return to the bracing climate of Tucson he made the round
of the gaming-tables at the Feast of Saint Augustine, which was then in
full blast, and happened to “copper” the ace, when he should have bet
“straight,” and bet on the queen when that fickle lady was refusing the
smile of her countenance to all her admirers. It was a gloomy day for
the colonel when he awaked to find himself almost without a dollar, and
no paymaster to be expected from San Francisco for a couple of months. A
brilliant thought struck him; he would economize by sending back to
Boston two of his stock of glass eyes, which he did not really need, as
the “sober” and “tolerably drunk” ones had never been used, and ought to
fetch something of a price at second-hand.
The Boston dealer, however, curtly refused to negotiate a sale, saying
that he did not do business in that way, and, as if to add insult to
injury, enclosed the two eyes in a loose sheet of paper, which was
inscribed with a pathetic story about “The Drunkard Saved.” It took at
least a dozen rounds of drinks before the colonel could drown his wrath,
and satisfy the inquiries of condoling friends who had learned of the
brutal treatment to which he had been subjected.
A great friend of the colonel’s was Al. Garrett, who in stature was his
elder’s antithesis, being as short and wiry as the colonel was large and
heavy. Garrett was an extremely good-hearted youngster, and one of the
best horsemen in the whole army. His admirers used to claim that he
could ride anything with four legs to it, from a tarantula to a
megatherium. Semig, the third of the trio, was a Viennese, a very
cultivated man, a graduate in medicine, an excellent musician, a
graceful dancer, well versed in modern languages, and well educated in
every respect. He was the post surgeon at Camp Crittenden, sixty miles
to the south of Tucson, but was temporarily at the latter place.
He and Garrett and Uncle Billy were making the best of their way home
from supper at the “Shoo Fly” late one evening, and had started to cut
across lots after passing the “Plaza.”
There were no fences, no covers—nothing at all to prevent pedestrians
from falling into some one of the innumerable abandoned wells which were
to be met with in every block, and it need surprise no one to be told
that in the heat of argument about some trivial matter the worthy
medical officer, who was walking in the middle, fell down plump some
fifteen or twenty feet, landing in a more or less bruised condition upon
a pile of adobes and pieces of rock at the bottom.
Garrett and his elderly companion lurched against each other and
continued the discussion, oblivious of the withdrawal of their
companion, who from his station at the bottom of the pit, like another
Joseph, was bawling for his heartless brothers to return and take him
out. After his voice failed he bethought him of his revolver, which he
drew from hip, and with which he blazed away, attracting the attention
of a party of Mexicans returning from a dance, who too hastily concluded
that Semig was a “Gringo” spoiling for a fight, whereupon they gave him
their best services in rolling down upon him great pieces of adobe,
which imparted renewed vigor to Semig’s vocalization and finally
awakened the Mexicans to a suspicion of the true state of the case.
The poor doctor never heard the last of his mishap, and very likely was
glad to receive the order which transferred him to the Modoc War,
wherein he received the wounds of which he afterward died. He showed
wonderful coolness in the Lava Beds, and even after the Indians had
wounded him in the shoulder and he had been ordered off the field, he
refused to leave the wounded under fire until a second shot broke his
leg and knocked him senseless.
Associated with Semig in my recollection is the name of young Sherwood,
a First Lieutenant in the Twenty-first Infantry, who met his death in
the same campaign. He was a man of the best impulses, bright, brave, and
generous, and a general favorite.
This rather undersized gentleman coming down the street is a man with a
history—perhaps it might be perfectly correct to say with two or three
histories. He is Don Estevan Ochoa, one of the most enterprising
merchants, as he is admitted to be one of the coolest and bravest men,
in all the southwestern country. He has a handsome face, a keen black
eye, a quick, business-like air, with very polished and courteous
manners.
During the war the Southern leaders thought they would establish a chain
of posts across the continent from Texas to California, and one of their
first movements was to send a brigade of Texans to occupy Tucson. The
commanding general—Turner by name—sent for Don Estevan and told him that
he had been informed that he was an outspoken sympathizer with the cause
of the Union, but he hoped that Ochoa would see that the Union was a
thing of the past, and reconcile himself to the new state of affairs,
and take the oath to the Confederacy, and thus relieve the new commander
from the disagreeable responsibility of confiscating his property and
setting him adrift outside his lines.
Don Estevan never hesitated a moment. He was not that kind of a man. His
reply was perfectly courteous, as I am told all the talk on the part of
the Confederate officer had been. Ochoa owed all he had in the world to
the Government of the United States, and it would be impossible for him
to take an oath of fidelity to any hostile power or party. When would
General Turner wish him to leave?
He was allowed to select one of his many horses, and to take a pair of
saddle-bags filled with such clothing and food as he could get together
on short notice, and then, with a rifle and twenty rounds of ammunition,
was led outside the lines and started for the Rio Grande. How he ever
made his way across those two hundred and fifty miles of desert and
mountains which intervened between the town of Tucson and the Union
outposts nearer to the Rio Grande, I do not know—nobody knows. The
country was infested by the Apaches, and no one of those upon whom he
turned his back expected to hear of his getting through alive. But he
did succeed, and here he is, a proof of devotion to the cause of the
nation for which it would be hard to find a parallel. When the Union
troops reoccupied Tucson Don Estevan resumed business and was soon
wealthy again, in spite of the tribute levied by the raiding Apaches,
who once ran off every head of draught oxen the firm of Tully, Ochoa &
De Long possessed, and never stopped until they had crossed the Rio
Salado, or Salt River, where they killed and “jerked” the meat on the
slope of that high mesa which to this day bears the name of “Jerked Beef
Butte.”
Another important factor in the formative period of Arizona’s growth is
this figure walking briskly by, clad in the cassock of an ecclesiastic.
It is Bishop Salpointe, a man of learning, great administrative
capacity, and devoted to the interests of his people. He preaches
little, but practises much. In many ways unknown to his flock he is busy
with plans for their spiritual and worldly advancement, and the work he
accomplishes in establishing schools, both in Tucson and in the Papago
village of San Xavier, is something which should not soon be forgotten
by the people benefited. He is very poor. All that one can see in his
house is a crucifix and a volume of precious manuscript notes upon the
Apaches and Papagoes. He seems to be always cheerful. His poverty he
freely shares with his flock, and I have often thought that if he ever
had any wealth he would share that too.
This one whom we meet upon the street as we leave to visit one of the
gambling saloons is Pete Kitchen. We shall be in luck if he invite us to
visit him at his “ranch,” which has all the airs of a feudal castle in
the days of chivalry. Peter Kitchen has probably had more contests with
Indians than any other settler in America. He comes from the same stock
which sent out from the lovely vales and swales in the Tennessee
Mountains the contingent of riflemen who were to cut such a conspicuous
figure at the battle of New Orleans, and Peter finds just as steady
employment for his trusty rifle as ever was essential in the Delta.
Approaching Pete Kitchen’s ranch, one finds himself in a fertile valley,
with a small hillock near one extremity. Upon the summit of this has
been built the house from which no effort of the Apaches has ever
succeeded in driving our friend. There is a sentinel posted on the roof,
there is another out in the “cienaga” with the stock, and the men
ploughing in the bottom are obliged to carry rifles, cocked and loaded,
swung to the plough handle. Every man and boy is armed with one or two
revolvers on hip. There are revolvers and rifles and shotguns along the
walls and in every corner. Everything speaks of a land of warfare and
bloodshed. The title of “Dark and Bloody Ground” never fairly belonged
to Kentucky. Kentucky never was anything except a Sunday-school
convention in comparison with Arizona, every mile of whose surface could
tell its tale of horror were the stones and gravel, the sage-brush and
mescal, the mesquite and the yucca, only endowed with speech for one
brief hour.
Within the hospitable walls of the Kitchen home the traveller was made
to feel perfectly at ease. If food were not already on the fire, some of
the women set about the preparation of the savory and spicy stews for
which the Mexicans are deservedly famous, and others kneaded the dough
and patted into shape the paper-like tortillas with which to eat the
juicy frijoles or dip up the tempting chile colorado. There were women
carding, spinning, sewing—doing the thousand and one duties of domestic
life in a great ranch, which had its own blacksmith, saddler, and
wagonmaker, and all other officials needed to keep the machinery running
smoothly.
Between Pete Kitchen and the Apaches a ceaseless war was waged, with the
advantages not all on the side of Kitchen. His employees were killed and
wounded, his stock driven away, his pigs filled with arrows, making the
suffering quadrupeds look like perambulating pin-cushions—everything
that could be thought of to drive him away; but there he stayed,
unconquered and unconquerable.
Men like Estevan Ochoa and Pete Kitchen merit a volume by themselves.
Arizona and New Mexico were full of such people, not all as determined
and resolute as Pete; not all, nor nearly all, so patriotic and
self-denying as Don Estevan, but all with histories full of romance and
excitement. Few of them yet remain, and their deeds of heroism will soon
be forgotten, or, worse luck yet, some of the people who never dreamed
of going down there until they could do so in a Pullman car will be
setting themselves up as heroes, and having their puny biographies
written for the benefit of the coming generations.
Strangest recollection of all that I have of those persons is the
quietness of their manner and the low tone in which they usually spoke
to their neighbors. They were quiet in dress, in speech, and in
conduct—a marked difference from the more thoroughly dramatized border
characters of later days.