CROOK’S FIRST MOVEMENTS AGAINST THE APACHES—THE 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.
How it all came about I never knew; no one ever knew. There were no
railroads and no telegraphs in those days, and there were no messages
flashed across the country telling just what was going to be done and
when and how. But be all that as it may, before any officer or man knew
what had happened, and while the good people in Tucson were still asking
each other whether the new commander had a “policy” or not—he had not,
but that’s neither here nor there—we were out on the road, five full
companies of cavalry, and a command of scouts and trailers gathered
together from the best available sources, and the campaign had begun.
Rumors had reached Tucson—from what source no one could tell—that the
Government would not permit Crook to carry on offensive operations
against the Apaches, and there were officers in the Department, some
even in our own command, who were inclined to lend an ear to them. They
were enthusiasts, however, who based their views upon the fact that
“Loco” and “Victorio,” prominent chiefs of the Warm Springs band over in
New Mexico, had been ever since September of the year 1869, a period of
not quite two years, encamped within sight of old Fort Craig, New
Mexico, on the Rio Grande, waiting to hear from the Great Father in
regard to having a Reservation established for them where they and their
children could live at peace.
The more conservative sadly shook their heads. They _knew_ that there
had not been time for the various documents and reports in the case to
make the round of the various bureaus in Washington, and lead to the
formulation of any scheme in the premises. It used to take from four to
six months for such a simple thing as a requisition for rations or
clothing to produce any effect, and, of course, it would seem that the
caring for a large body would consume still longer time for
deliberation. But, no matter what Washington officialism might do or not
do, General Crook was not the man to delay at his end of the line. We
were on our way to Fort Bowie, in the eastern section of Arizona,
leaving Tucson at six o’clock in the morning of July 11, 1871, and
filing out on the mail road where the heat before ten o’clock attained
110° Fahrenheit in the shade, as we learned from the party left behind
in Tucson to bring up the mail.
As it happened, Crook’s first movement was stopped; but not until it had
almost ended and been, what it was intended to be, a “practice march” of
the best kind, in which officers and men could get acquainted with each
other and with the country in which at a later moment they should have
to work in earnest. Our line of travel lay due east one hundred and ten
miles to old Fort Bowie, thence north through the mountains to Camp
Apache, thence across an unmapped region over and at the base of the
great Mogollon range to Camp Verde and Prescott on the west. In all,
some six hundred and seventy-five miles were travelled, and most of it
being in the presence of a tireless enemy, made it the best kind of a
school of instruction. The first man up in the morning, the first to be
saddled, the first ready for the road, was our indefatigable commander,
who, in a suit of canvas, and seated upon a good strong mule, with his
rifle carried across the pommel of his saddle, led the way.
With the exception of Colonel Guy V. Henry, Captain W. W. Robinson of
the Seventh Cavalry, and myself, none of the officers of that scout are
left in the army. Major Ross, our capable quartermaster, is still alive
and is now a citizen of Tucson. Crook, Stanwood, Smith, Meinhold,
Mullan, and Brent are dead, and Henry has had such a close call for his
life (at the Rosebud, June 17, 1876) that I am almost tempted to include
him in the list.
The detachment of scouts made a curious ethnographical collection. There
were Navajoes, Apaches, Opatas, Yaquis, Pueblos, Mexicans, Americans,
and half-breeds of any tribe one could name. It was an _omnium
gatherum_—the best that could be summoned together at the time; some
were good, and others were good for nothing. They were a fair sample of
the social driftwood of the Southwest, and several of them had been
concerned in every revolution or counter-revolution in northwestern
Mexico since the day that Maximilian landed. Manuel Duran, the old
Apache, whom by this time I knew very intimately, couldn’t quite make it
all out. He had never seen so many troops together before without
something being in the wind, and what it meant he set about unravelling.
He approached, the morning we arrived at Sulphur Springs, and in the
most confidential manner asked me to ride off to one side of the road
with him, which I, of course, did.
“You are a friend of the new Comandante,” he said, “and I am a friend of
yours. You must tell me _all_.”
“But, Manuel, I do not fully understand what you are driving at.”
“Ah, mi teniente, you cannot fool me. I am too old; I know all about
such things.”
“But, tell me, Manuel, what is this great mystery you wish to know?”
Manuel’s right eyelid dropped just a trifle, just enough to be called a
wink, and he pointed with his thumb at General Crook in advance. His
voice sank to a whisper, but it was still perfectly clear and plain, as
he asked: “When is the new Comandante going to pronounce?”
I didn’t explode nor roll out of the saddle, although it was with the
greatest difficulty I kept from doing either; but the idea of General
Crook, with five companies of cavalry and one of scouts, revolting
against the general Government and issuing a “pronunciamiento,” was too
much for my gravity, and I yelled. Often in succeeding years I have
thought of that talk with poor Manuel, and never without a chuckle.
We learned to know each other, we learned to know Crook, we learned to
know the scouts and guides, and tell which of them were to be relied
upon, and which were not worth their salt; we learned to know a great
deal about packers, pack-mules and packing, which to my great surprise I
found to be a science and such a science that as great a soldier as
General Crook had not thought it beneath his genius to study it; and,
applying the principles of military discipline to the organization of
trains, make them as nearly perfect as they ever have been or can be in
our army history. Last, but not least, we learned the country—the
general direction of the rivers, mountains, passes, where was to be
found the best grazing, where the most fuel, where the securest shelter.
Some of the command had had a little experience of the same kind
previously, but now we were all in attendance at a perambulating
academy, and had to answer such questions as the general commanding
might wish to propound on the spot.
Side scouts were kept out constantly, and each officer, upon his return,
was made to tell all he had learned of the topography and of Indian
“sign.” There was a great plenty of the latter, but none of it very
fresh; in the dim distance, on the blue mountain-tops, we could discern
at frequent intervals the smoke sent up in signals by the Apaches;
often, we were at a loss to tell whether it was smoke or the
swift-whirling “trebillon” of dust, carrying off in its uncanny embrace
the spirit of some mighty chief. While we slowly marched over “playas”
of sand, without one drop of water for miles, we were tantalized by the
sight of cool, pellucid lakelets from which issued water whose gurgle
and ripple could almost be heard, but the illusion dissipated as we drew
nearer and saw that the mirage-fiend had been mocking our thirst with
spectral waters.
Our commanding general showed himself to be a man who took the deepest
interest in everything we had to tell, whether it was of peccaries
chased off on one side of the road, of quail flushed in great numbers,
of the swift-walking, long-tailed road-runner—the “paisano” or
“chapparal cock,” of which the Mexicans relate that it will imprison the
deadly rattler by constructing around its sleeping coils a fence of
cactus spines; of tarantulas and centipedes and snakes—possibly, some of
the snake-stories of Arizona may have been a trifle exaggerated, but
then we had no fish, and a man must have something upon which to let his
imagination have full swing; of badgers run to their holes; of coyotes
raced to death; of jackass-rabbits surrounded and captured; and all the
lore of plant and animal life in which the Mexican border is so rich.
Nothing was too insignificant to be noted, nothing too trivial to be
treasured up in our memories; such was the lesson taught during our
moments of conversation with General Crook. The guides and trailers soon
found that although they who had been born and brought up in that vast
region could tell Crook much, they could never tell him anything twice,
while as for reading signs on the trail there was none of them his
superior.
At times we would march for miles through a country in which grew only
the white-plumed yucca with trembling, serrated leaves; again, mescal
would fill the hillsides so thickly that one could almost imagine that
it had been planted purposely; or we passed along between masses of the
dust-laden, ghostly sage-brush, or close to the foul-smelling joints of
the “hediondilla.” The floral wealth of Arizona astonished us the moment
we had gained the higher elevations of the Mogollon and the other
ranges. Arizona will hold a high place in any list that may be prepared
in this connection; there are as many as twenty and thirty different
varieties of very lovely flowers and blossoms to be plucked within a
stone’s-throw of one’s saddle after reaching camp of an
evening,—phloxes, marguerites, chrysanthemums, verbenas, golden-rod,
sumach, columbines, delicate ferns, forget-me-nots, and many others for
which my very limited knowledge of botany furnishes no name. The flowers
of Arizona are delightful in color, but they yield no perfume, probably
on account of the great dryness of the atmosphere.
As for grasses one has only to say what kind he wants, and lo! it is at
his feet—from the coarse sacaton which is deadly to animals except when
it is very green and tender; the dainty mesquite, the bunch, and the
white and black grama, succulent and nutritious. But I am speaking of
the situations where we would make camp, because, as already stated,
there are miles and miles of land purely desert, and clothed only with
thorny cacti and others of that ilk. I must say, too, that the wild
grasses of Arizona always seemed to me to have but slight root in the
soil, and my observation is that the presence of herds of cattle soon
tears them up and leaves the land bare.
If the marching over the deserts had its unpleasant features, certainly
the compensation offered by the camping places in the cañons, by limpid
streams of rippling water, close to the grateful foliage of cottonwood,
sycamore, ash, or walnut; or, in the mountains, the pine and juniper,
and sheltered from the sun by walls of solid granite, porphyry or
basalt, was a most delightful antithesis, and one well worthy of the
sacrifices undergone to attain it. Strong pickets were invariably
posted, as no risks could be run in that region; we were fortunate to
have just enough evidence of the close proximity of the Apaches to
stimulate all to keep both eyes open.
“F” troop of the Third Cavalry, to which I belonged, had the misfortune
to give the alarm to a large band of Chiricahua Apaches coming down the
Sulphur Springs Valley from Sonora, with a herd of ponies or cattle; we
did not have the remotest idea that there were Indians in the country,
not having seen the faintest sign, when all of a sudden at the close of
a night march, very near where the new post of Camp Grant has since been
erected on the flank of the noble Sierra Bonita or Mount Graham, we came
upon their fires with the freshly slaughtered beeves undivided, and the
blood still warm; but our advance had alarmed the enemy, and they had
moved off, scattering as they departed.
Similarly, Robinson I think it was, came so close upon the heels of a
party of raiders that they dropped a herd of fifteen or twenty “burros”
with which they had just come up from the Mexican border. Our
pack-trains ran in upon a band of seven bears in the Aravaypa cañon
which scared the mules almost out of their senses, but the packers soon
laid five of the ursines low and wounded the other two which, however,
escaped over the rough, dangerous rocks.
There were sections of country passed over which fairly reeked with the
baleful malaria, like the junction of the San Carlos and the Gila. There
were others along which for miles and miles could be seen nothing but
lava, either in solid waves, or worse yet, in “nigger-head” lumps of all
sizes. There were mountain ranges with flanks hidden under a solid
matting of the scrub-oak, and others upon whose summits grew dense
forests of graceful pines, whose branches, redolent with balsamic odors,
screened from the too fierce glow of the noonday sun. There were broad
stretches of desert, where the slightest movement raised clouds of dust
which would almost stifle both men and beasts; and gloomy ravines and
startling cañons, in whose depths flowed waters as swift and clear and
cool as any that have ever rippled along the pages of poetry.
Camp Apache was reached after a march and scout of all the intermediate
country and a complete familiarization with the course of all the
streams passed over _en route_. Nature had been more than liberal in her
apportionment of attractions at this point, and there are truly few
fairer scenes in the length and breadth of our territory. The post,
still in the rawest possible state and not half-constructed, was
situated upon a gently sloping mesa, surrounded by higher hills running
back to the plateaux which formed the first line of the Mogollon range.
Grass was to be had in plenty, while, as for timber, the flanks of every
elevation, as well as the summits of the mountains themselves, were
covered with lofty pine, cedar, and oak, with a sprinkling of the
“madroño,” or mountain mahogany.
Two branches of the Sierra Blanca River unite almost in front of the
camp, and supply all the water needed for any purpose, besides being
stocked fairly well with trout, a fish which is rare in other sections
of the Territory. Hunting was very good, and the sportsman could find,
with very slight trouble, deer, bear, elk, and other varieties of
four-footed animals, with wild turkey and quail in abundance. In the
vicinity of this lovely site lived a large number of the Apaches, under
chiefs who were peaceably disposed towards the whites—men like the old
Miguel, Eskitistsla, Pedro, Pitone, Alchise, and others, who expressed
themselves as friendly, and showed by their actions the sincerity of
their avowals. They planted small farms with corn, gathered the wild
seeds, hunted, and were happy as savages are when unmolested. Colonel
John Green, of the First Cavalry, was in command, with two troops of his
own regiment and two companies of the Twenty-third Infantry. Good
feeling existed between the military and the Indians, and the latter
seemed anxious to put themselves in “the white man’s road.”
General Crook had several interviews with Miguel and the others who came
in to see him, and to them he explained his views. To my surprise he
didn’t have any “policy,” in which respect he differed from every other
man I have met, as all seem to have “policies” about the management of
Indians, and the less they know the more “policy” they seem to keep in
stock. Crook’s talk was very plain; a child could have understood every
word he said. He told the circle of listening Indians that he had not
come to make war, but to avoid it if possible. Peace was the best
condition in which to live, and he hoped that those who were around him
would see that peace was not only preferable, but essential, and not for
themselves alone, but for the rest of their people as well. The white
people were crowding in all over the Western country, and soon it would
be impossible for any one to live upon game; it would be driven away or
killed off. Far better for every one to make up his mind to plant and to
raise horses, cows, and sheep, and make his living in that way; his
animals would thrive and increase while he slept, and in less than no
time the Apache would be wealthier than the Mexican. So long as the
Apache behaved himself he should receive the fullest protection from the
troops, and no white man should be allowed to do him harm; but so long
as any fragment of the tribe kept out on the war-path, it would be
impossible to afford all the protection to the well-disposed that they
were entitled to receive, as bad men could say that it was not easy to
discriminate between those who were good and those who were bad.
Therefore, he wished to ascertain for himself just who were disposed to
remain at peace permanently and who preferred to continue in hostility.
He had no desire to punish any man or woman for any acts of the past. He
would blot them all out and begin over again. It was no use to try to
explain how the war with the whites had begun. All that he cared to say
was, that it must end, and end at once. He would send out to all the
bands still in the mountains, and tell them just the same thing. He did
not intend to tell one story to one band and another to another; but to
all the same words, and it would be well for all to listen with both
ears. If every one came in without necessitating a resort to bloodshed
he should be very glad; but, if any refused, then he should expect the
good men to aid him in running down the bad ones. That was the way the
white people did; if there were bad men in a certain neighborhood, all
the law-abiding citizens turned out to assist the officers of the law in
arresting and punishing those who would not behave themselves. He hoped
that the Apaches would see that it was their duty to do the same. He
hoped to be able to find work for them all. It was by work, and by work
only, that they could hope to advance and become rich.
He wanted them always to tell him the exact truth, as he should never
say anything to them which was not true; and he hoped that as they
became better acquainted, they would always feel that his word could be
relied on. He would do all in his power for them, but would never make
them a promise he could not carry out. There was no good in such a
manner of doing, and bad feeling often grew up between good friends
through misunderstandings in regard to promises not kept. He would make
no such promises; and as the way in which they might remember a thing
might happen to be different from the way in which he remembered it, he
would do all he could to prevent misunderstandings, by having every word
he said to them put down in black and white on paper, of which, if they
so desired, they could keep a copy. When men were afraid to put their
words on paper, it looked as if they did not mean half what they said.
He wanted to treat the Apache just the same as he would treat any other
man—as a man. He did not believe in one kind of treatment for the white
and another for the Indian. All should fare alike; but so long as the
Indian remained ignorant of our laws and language it was for his own
good that the troops remained with him, and he must keep within the
limits of the Reservations set apart for him. He hoped the time would
soon come when the children of the Apaches would be going to school,
learning all the white men had to teach to their own children, and all
of them, young or old, free to travel as they pleased all over the
country, able to work anywhere, and not in fear of the white men or the
white men of them. Finally, he repeated his urgent request that every
effort should be made to spread these views among all the others who
might still be out in the mountains, and to convince them that the
safest and best course for all to adopt was that of peace with all
mankind. After a reasonable time had been given for all to come in, he
intended to start out in person and see to it that the last man returned
to the Reservations or died in the mountains.
To all this the Apaches listened with deep attention, at intervals
expressing approbation after their manner by heavy grunts and the
utterance of the monosyllable “Inju” (good).
The Apaches living in the vicinity of Camp Apache are of purer Tinneh
blood than those bands which occupied the western crest of the long
Mogollon plateau, or the summits of the lofty Matitzal. The latter have
very appreciably intermixed with the conquered people of the same stock
as the Mojaves and Yumas of the Colorado valley, and the consequence is
that the two languages are, in many cases, spoken interchangeably, and
not a few of the chiefs and head men possess two names—one in the
Apache, the other in the Mojave tongue.
After leaving Camp Apache, the command was greatly reduced by the
departure of three of the companies in as many directions; one of
these—Guy V. Henry’s—ran in on a party of hostile Apaches and exchanged
shots, killing one warrior whose body fell into our hands. The course of
those who were to accompany General Crook was nearly due west, along the
rim of what is called the Mogollon Mountain or plateau, a range of very
large size and great elevation, covered on its summits with a forest of
large pine-trees. It is a strange upheaval, a strange freak of nature, a
mountain canted up on one side; one rides along the edge and looks down
two and three thousand feet into what is termed the “Tonto Basin,” a
weird scene of grandeur and rugged beauty. The “Basin” is a basin only
in the sense that it is all lower than the ranges enclosing it—the
Mogollon, the Matitzal and the Sierra Ancha—but its whole triangular
area is so cut up by ravines, arroyos, small stream beds and hills of
very good height, that it may safely be pronounced one of the roughest
spots on the globe. It is plentifully watered by the affluents of the
Rio Verde and its East Fork, and by the Tonto and the Little Tonto;
since the subjugation of the Apaches it has produced abundantly of
peaches and strawberries, and potatoes have done wonderfully on the
summit of the Mogollon itself in the sheltered swales in the pine
forest. At the date of our march all this section of Arizona was still
unmapped, and we had to depend upon Apache guides to conduct us until
within sight of the Matitzal range, four or five days out from Camp
Apache.
The most singular thing to note about the Mogollon was the fact that the
streams which flowed upon its surface in almost every case made their
way to the north and east into Shevlon’s Fork, even where they had their
origin in springs almost upon the crest itself. One exception is the
spring named after General Crook (General’s Springs), which he
discovered, and near which he had such a narrow escape from being killed
by Apaches—that makes into the East Fork of the Verde. It is an
awe-inspiring sensation to be able to sit or stand upon the edge of such
a precipice and look down upon a broad expanse mantled with juicy
grasses, the paradise of live stock. There is no finer grazing section
anywhere than the Tonto Basin, and cattle, sheep, and horses all now do
well in it. It is from its ruggedness eminently suited for the purpose,
and in this respect differs from the Sulphur Springs valley which has
been occupied by cattlemen to the exclusion of the farmer, despite the
fact that all along its length one can find water by digging a few feet
beneath the surface. Such land as the Sulphur Springs valley would be
more profitably employed in the cultivation of the grape and cereals
than as a range for a few thousand head of cattle as is now the case.
The Tonto Basin was well supplied with deer and other wild animals, as
well as with mescal, Spanish bayonet, acorn-bearing oak, walnuts, and
other favorite foods of the Apaches, while the higher levels of the
Mogollon and the other ranges were at one and the same time pleasant
abiding-places during the heats of summer, and ramparts of protection
against the sudden incursion of an enemy. I have already spoken of the
wealth of flowers to be seen in these high places; I can only add that
throughout our march across the Mogollon range—some eleven days in
time—we saw spread out before us a carpet of colors which would rival
the best examples of the looms of Turkey or Persia.
Approaching the western edge of the plateau, we entered the country
occupied by the Tonto Apaches, the fiercest band of this wild and
apparently incorrigible family. We were riding along in a very lovely
stretch of pine forest one sunny afternoon, admiring the wealth of
timber which would one day be made tributary to the world’s commerce,
looking down upon the ever-varying colors of the wild flowers which
spangled the ground for leagues (because in these forests upon the
summits of all of Arizona’s great mountain ranges there is never any
underbrush, as is the case in countries where there is a greater amount
of humidity in the atmosphere), and ever and anon exchanging expressions
of pleasure and wonder at the vista spread out beneath us in the immense
Basin to the left and front, bounded by the lofty ridges of the Sierra
Ancha and the Matitzal; each one was talking pleasantly to his neighbor,
and as it happened the road we were pursuing—to call it road where human
being had never before passed—was so even and clear that we were riding
five and six abreast, General Crook, Lieutenant Ross, Captain Brent, Mr.
Thomas Moore, and myself a short distance in advance of the cavalry, and
the pack-train whose tinkling bells sounded lazily among the trees—and
were all delighted to be able to go into camp in such a romantic
spot—when “whiz! whiz!” sounded the arrows of a small party of Tontos
who had been watching our advance and determined to try the effects of a
brisk attack, not knowing that we were merely the advance of a larger
command.
The Apaches could not, in so dense a forest, see any distance ahead; but
did not hesitate to do the best they could to stampede us, and
consequently attacked boldly with arrows which made no noise to arouse
the suspicions of the white men in rear. The arrows were discharged with
such force that one of them entered a pine-tree as far as the feathers,
and another not quite so far, but still too far to allow of its
extraction. There was a trifle of excitement until we could get our
bearings and see just what was the matter, and in the mean time every
man had found his tree without waiting for any command. The Apaches—of
the Tonto band—did not number more than fifteen or twenty at most and
were already in retreat, as they saw the companies coming up at a brisk
trot, the commanders having noticed the confusion in the advance. Two of
the Apaches were cut off from their comrades, and as we supposed were
certain to fall into our hands as prisoners. This would have been
exactly what General Crook desired, because he could then have the means
of opening communication with the band in question, which had refused to
respond to any and all overtures for the cessation of hostilities.
There they stood; almost entirely concealed behind great boulders on the
very edge of the precipice, their bows drawn to a semi-circle, eyes
gleaming with a snaky black fire, long unkempt hair flowing down over
their shoulders, bodies almost completely naked, faces streaked with the
juice of the baked mescal and the blood of the deer or antelope—a most
repulsive picture and yet one in which there was not the slightest
suggestion of cowardice. They seemed to know their doom, but not to fear
it in the slightest degree. The tinkling of the pack-train bells showed
that all our command had arrived, and then the Apaches, realizing that
it was useless to delay further, fired their arrows more in bravado than
with the hope of inflicting injury, as our men were all well covered by
the trees, and then over the precipice they went, as we supposed, to
certain death and destruction. We were all so horrified at the sight,
that for a moment or more it did not occur to any one to look over the
crest, but when we did it was seen that the two savages were rapidly
following down the merest thread of a trail outlined in the vertical
face of the basalt, and jumping from rock to rock like mountain sheep.
General Crook drew bead, aimed quickly and fired; the arm of one of the
fugitives hung limp by his side, and the red stream gushing out showed
that he had been badly hurt; but he did not relax his speed a particle,
but kept up with his comrade in a headlong dash down the precipice, and
escaped into the scrub-oak on the lower flanks although the evening air
resounded with the noise of carbines reverberating from peak to peak. It
was so hard to believe that any human beings could escape down such a
terrible place, that every one was rather in expectation of seeing the
Apaches dashed to pieces, and for that reason no one could do his best
shooting.
At this time we had neither the detachment of scouts with which we had
left Tucson—they had been discharged at Camp Apache the moment that
General Crook received word that the authorities in Washington were
about to make the trial of sending commissioners to treat with the
Apaches—nor the small party of five Apaches who had conducted us out
from Camp Apache until we had reached the centre of the Mogollon; and,
as the country was unmapped and unknown, we had to depend upon ourselves
for reaching Camp Verde, which no one in the party had ever visited.
We had reached the eastern extremity of the plateau, and could see the
Bradshaw and other ranges to the west and south, and the sky-piercing
cone of the San Francisco to the northwest, but were afraid to trust
ourselves in the dark and forbidding mass of brakes and cañons of great
depth which filled the country immediately in our front. It was the
vicinity of the Fossil Creek cañon, some fifteen hundred to two thousand
feet deep, which we deemed it best to avoid, although had we known it we
might have crossed in safety by an excellent, although precipitous,
trail. Our only guide was Archie Macintosh, who belonged up in the
Hudson’s Bay Company’s territory, and was totally unacquainted with
Arizona, but a wonderful man in any country. He and General Crook and
Tom Moore conferred together, and concluded it was best to strike due
north and head all the cañons spoken of. This we did, but the result was
no improvement, as we got into the Clear Creek cañon, which is one of
the deepest and most beautiful to look upon in all the Southwest, but
one very hard upon all who must descend and ascend. When we descended we
found plenty of cold, clear water, and the banks of the stream lined
with the wild hop, which loaded the atmosphere with a heavy perfume of
lupulin.
Still heading due north, we struck the cañon of Beaver Creek, and were
compelled to march along its vertical walls of basalt, unable to reach
the water in the tiny, entrancing rivulet below, but at last ran in upon
the wagon-road from the Little Colorado to Camp Verde. We were getting
rapidly down from the summit of the Mogollon, and entering a country
exactly similar to that of the major portion of Southern Arizona. There
was the same vegetation of yucca, mescal, nopal, Spanish bayonet, giant
cactus, palo verde, hediondilla, mesquite, and sage-brush, laden with
the dust of summer, but there was also a considerable sprinkling of the
cedar, scrub-pine, scrub-oak, madroño, or mountain mahogany, and some
little mulberry.
Near this trail there are to be seen several archæological curiosities
worthy of a visit from the students of any part of the world. There is
the wonderful “Montezuma’s Well,” a lakelet of eighty or ninety feet in
depth, situated in the centre of a subsidence of rock, in which is a
cave once inhabited by a prehistoric people, while around the
circumference of the pool itself are the cliff-dwellings, of which so
many examples are to be encountered in the vicinity. One of these
cliff-dwellings, in excellent preservation when I last visited it, is
the six-story house of stone on the Beaver Creek, which issues from the
cave at Montezuma’s Wells, and flows into the Verde River, near the post
of the same name. We came upon the trails of scouting parties descending
the Mogollon, and learned soon after that they had been made by the
commands of Lieutenants Crawford and Morton, both of whom had been doing
excellent and arduous work against the hostile bands during the previous
summer.
I have already remarked that during this practice march all the members
of our command learned General Crook, but of far greater consequence
than that was the fact that he learned his officers and men. He was the
most untiring and indefatigable man I ever met; and, whether climbing up
or down the rugged face of some rocky cañon, facing sun or rain, never
appeared to be in the slightest degree distressed or annoyed. No matter
what happened in the camp, or on the march, he knew it; he was always
awake and on his feet the moment the cook of the pack-train was aroused
to prepare the morning meal, which was frequently as early as two
o’clock, and remained on his feet during the remainder of the day. I am
unable to explain exactly how he did it, but I can assure my readers
that Crook learned, while on that march, the name of every plant,
animal, and mineral passed near the trail, as well as the uses to which
the natives put them, each and all; likewise the habits of the birds,
reptiles, and animals, and the course and general character of all the
streams, little or big. The Indians evinced an awe for him from the
first moment of their meeting; they did not seem to understand how it
was that a white man could so quickly absorb all that they had to teach.
In the character of General Crook there appeared a very remarkable
tenderness for all those for whose care he in any manner became
responsible; this tenderness manifested itself in a way peculiar to
himself, and, as usual with him, was never made the occasion or excuse
for parade. He was at all times anxious to secure for his men while on
campaign all the necessaries of life, and to do that he knew from his
very wide experience that there was nothing to compare to a thoroughly
organized and well-equipped pack-train, which could follow a command by
night or by day, and into every locality, no matter how rocky, how
thickly wooded, or how hopelessly desert. He made the study of
pack-trains the great study of his life, and had always the satisfaction
of knowing that the trains in the department under his control were in
such admirable condition, that the moment trouble was threatened in
other sections, his pack-trains were selected as being best suited for
the most arduous work. He found the nucleus ready to hand in the system
of pack-transportation which the exigencies of the mining communities on
the Pacific coast had caused to be brought up from Chili, Peru, and the
western States of the Mexican Republic.
The fault with these trains was that they were run as money-making
concerns, and the men, as well as the animals belonging to them, were in
nearly every case employed as temporary makeshifts, and as soon as the
emergency had ended were discharged. The idea upon which Crook worked,
and which he successfully carried out, was to select trains under the
pack-masters who had enjoyed the widest experience, and were by nature
best adapted to the important duties they would be called upon to
perform. Those who were too much addicted to alcoholic stimulants, or
were for other cause unsuited, were as opportunity presented replaced by
better material. As with the men, so with the animals; the ill-assorted
collections of bony giants and undersized Sonora “rats,” whose withers
were always a mass of sores and whose hoofs were always broken and out
of sorts, were as speedily as possible sold off or transferred to other
uses, and in their places we saw trains of animals which in weight, size
and build, were of the type which experience had shown to be most
appropriate.
The “aparejos,” or pack-cushions, formerly issued by the quartermaster’s
department, had been burlesques, and killed more mules than they helped
in carrying their loads. Crook insisted upon having each mule provided
with an “aparejo” made especially for him, saying that it was just as
ridiculous to expect a mule to carry a burden with an ill-fitting
“aparejo” as it would be to expect a soldier to march comfortably with a
knapsack which did not fit squarely to his back and shoulders. Every
article used in these pack-trains had to be of the best materials, for
the very excellent reason that while out on scout, it was impossible to
replace anything broken, and a column might be embarrassed by the
failure of a train to arrive with ammunition or rations—therefore, on
the score of economy, it was better to have all the very best make in
the first place.
According to the nomenclature then in vogue in pack-trains, there were
to be placed upon each mule in due order of sequence a small cloth
extending from the withers to the loins, and called from the office it
was intended to perform, the “suadera,” or sweat-cloth. Then came,
according to the needs of the case, two or three saddle blankets, then
the “aparejo” itself—a large mattress, we may say, stuffed with hay or
straw—weighing between fifty-five and sixty-five pounds, and of such
dimensions as to receive and distribute to best advantage all over the
mule’s back the burden to be carried which was known by the Spanish term
of “cargo.” Over the “aparego,” the “corona,” and over that the
“suvrinhammer,” and then the load or “cargo” evenly divided so as to
balance on the two sides. In practice, the “corona” is not now used,
except to cover the “aparejo” after reaching camp, but there was a time
way back in Andalusia and in the Chilean Andes when the heart of the
“arriero” or muleteer, or “packer,” as he is called in the dreadfully
prosy language of the quartermaster’s department, took the greatest
delight in devising the pattern, quaint or horrible, but always gaudy
and in the gayest of colors, which should decorate and protect his
favorite mules. I do not know how true it is, but “Chileno John” and
others told me that the main service expected of the “corona” was to
enable the “arriero” who couldn’t read or write to tell just where his
own “aparejos” were, but of this I am unable to say anything positively.
The philological outrage which I have written phonetically as
“suvrin-hammer” would set devout Mohammedans crazy were they to know of
its existence; it is a base corruption of the old Hispano-Moresque term
“sobre-en-jalma,”—over the jalma,—the Arabic word for pack-saddle, which
has wandered far away, far from the date-palms of the Sahara, and the
rippling fountains of Granada, to gladden the hearts and break the
tongues of Cape Cod Yankees in the Gila Valley. In the same boat with it
is the Zuni word “Tinka” for the flux to be used in working silver; it
is a travelled word, and first saw the light in the gloomy mountain
ranges of far-off Thibet, where it was pronounced “Tincal” or “Atincal,”
and meant borax; thence, it made its way with caravans to and through
Arabia and Spain to the Spanish settlements in the land of the West.
Everything about a pack-train was Spanish or Arabic in origin, as I have
taken care to apprise my readers in another work, but it may be proper
to repeat here that the first, as it was the largest organized
pack-train in history, was that of fifteen thousand mules which Isabella
the Catholic called into the service of the Crown of Castile and Leon at
the time she established the city of Santa Fé in the “Vega,” and began
in good earnest the siege of Granada.
One could pick up not a little good Spanish in a pack-train in the times
of which I speak—twenty-one years ago—and there were many expressions in
general use which preserved all the flavor of other lands and other
ideas. Thus the train itself was generally known as the “atajo;” the
pack-master was called the “patron;” his principal assistant, whose
functions were to attend to everything pertaining to the loads, was
styled “cargador;” the cook was designated the “cencero,” from the fact
that he rode the bell-mare, usually a white animal, from the
superstition prevailing among Spanish packers that mules liked the color
white better than any other.
Packers were always careful not to let any stray colts in among the
mules, because they would set the mules crazy. This idea is not an
absurd one, as I can testify from my personal observation. The mules are
so anxious to play with young colts that they will do nothing else; and,
being stronger than the youngster, will often injure it by crowding up
against it. The old mules of a train know their business perfectly well.
They need no one to show them where their place is when the evening’s
“feed” is to be apportioned on the canvas, and in every way deport
themselves as sedate, prim, well-behaved members of society, from whom
all vestiges of the frivolities of youth have been eradicated. They
never wander far from the sound of the bell, and give no trouble to the
packers “on herd.”
But a far different story must be told of the inexperienced, skittish
young mule, fresh from the blue grass of Missouri or Nebraska. He is the
source of more profanity than he is worth, and were it not that the
Recording Angel understands the aggravation in the case, he would have
his hands full in entering all the “cuss words” to which the green
pack-mule has given rise. He will not mind the bell, will wander away
from his comrades on herd, and in sundry and divers ways demonstrates
the perversity of his nature. To contravene his maliciousness, it is
necessary to mark him in such a manner that every packer will see at a
glance that he is a new arrival, and thereupon set to work to drive him
back to his proper place in his own herd. The most certain, as it is the
most convenient way to effect this, is by neatly roaching his mane and
shaving his tail so that nothing is left but a pencil or tassel of hair
at the extreme end. He is now known as a “shave-tail,” and everybody can
recognize him at first sight. His sedate and well-trained comrade is
called a “bell-sharp.”
These terms, in frontier sarcasm, have been transferred to officers of
the army, who, in the parlance of the packers, are known as
“bell-sharps” and “shave-tails” respectively; the former being the old
captain or field-officer of many “fogies,” who knows too much to be
wasting his energies in needless excursions about the country, and the
latter, the youngster fresh from his studies on the Hudson, who fondly
imagines he knows it all, and is not above having people know that he
does. He is a “shave-tail”—all elegance of uniform, spick-span new, well
groomed, and without sense enough to come in for “feed” when the bell
rings. On the plains these two classes of very excellent gentlemen used
to be termed “coffee-coolers” and “goslings.”
There are few more animated sights than a pack-train at the moment of
feeding and grooming the mules. The care shown equals almost that given
to the average baby, and the dumb animals seem to respond to all
attentions. General Crook kept himself posted as to what was done to
every mule, and, as a result, had the satisfaction of seeing his trains
carrying a net average of three hundred and twenty pounds to the mule,
while a pamphlet issued by the Government had explicitly stated that the
highest average should not exceed one hundred and seventy-five. So that,
viewed in the most sordid light, the care which General Crook bestowed
upon his trains yielded wonderful results. Not a day passed that General
Crook did not pass from one to two hours in personal inspection of the
workings of his trains, and he has often since told me that he felt then
the great responsibility of having his transportation in the most
perfect order, because so much was to be demanded of it.
The packers themselves were an interesting study, drawn as they were
from the four corners of the earth, although the major portion, as was
to be expected, was of Spanish-American origin. Not an evening passed on
this trip across the mountains of the Mogollon Range that Crook did not
quietly take a seat close to the camp-fire of some of the packers, and
listen intently to their “reminiscences” of early mining days in
California or “up on the Frazer in British Columbia.” “Hank ’n Yank,”
Tom Moore, Jim O’Neill, Charlie Hopkins, Jack Long, Long Jim Cook, and
others, were “forty-niners,” and well able to discuss the most exciting
times known to the new Pactolus, with its accompanying trying days of
the vigilance committee and other episodes of equal interest. These were
“men” in the truest sense of the term; they had faced all perils,
endured all privations, and conquered in a manly way, which is the one
unfailing test of greatness in human nature. Some of the narratives were
mirth-provoking beyond my powers of repetition, and for General Crook
they formed an unfailing source of quiet amusement whenever a chance
offered to listen to them as told by the packers.
One of our men—I have forgotten to mention him sooner—was Johnnie Hart,
a very quiet and reserved person, with a great amount of force, to be
shown when needed. There was little of either the United States or
Mexico over which he had not wandered as a mining “prospector,” delving
for metals, precious or non-precious. Bad luck overtook him in Sonora
just about when that country was the scene of the liveliest kind of a
time between the French and the native Mexicans, and while the hostile
factions of the Gandaras and the Pesquieras were doing their best to
destroy what little the rapacity of the Gallic invaders left intact.
Johnnie was rudely awakened one night by a loud rapping at the door of
the hut in which he had taken shelter, and learned, to his great
surprise, that he was needed as a “voluntario,” which meant, as nearly
as he could understand, that he was to put on handcuffs and march with
the squad to division headquarters, and there be assigned to a company.
In vain he explained, or thought he was explaining, that he was an
American citizen and not subject to conscription. All the satisfaction
he got was to be told that every morning and evening he was to cheer
“for our noble Constitution and for General Pesquiera.”
After all, it was not such a very hard life. The marches were short, and
the country well filled with chickens, eggs, and goats. What more could
a soldier want? So, our friend did not complain, and went about his few
duties with cheerfulness, and was making rapid progress in the
shibboleth of “Long live our noble Constitution and General
Pesquiera,”—when, one evening, the first sergeant of his company hit him
a violent slap on the side of the head, and said: “You idiot, do you not
know enough to cheer for General Gandara?” And then it was that poor
Johnnie learned for the first time—he had been absent for several days
on a foraging expedition and had just returned—that the general
commanding had sold out the whole division to General Gandara the
previous day for a dollar and six bits a head.
This was the last straw. Johnnie Hart was willing to fight, and it made
very little difference to him on which side; but he could not put up
with such a sudden swinging of the pendulum, and as he expressed it,
“made up his mind to skip the hull outfit ’n punch the breeze fur
Maz’tlan.”
All the packers were sociable, and inclined to be friendly to every one.
The Spaniards, like “Chileno John,” José de Leon, Lauriano Gomez, and
others, were never more happy—work completed—than in explaining their
language to such Americans as evinced a desire to learn it. Gomez was
well posted in Spanish literature, especially poetry, and would often
recite for us with much animation and expression the verses of his
native tongue. He preferred the madrigals and love ditties of all kinds;
and was never more pleased than when he had organized a quartette and
had begun to awaken the echoes of the grand old cañons or forests with
the deliciously plaintive notes of “La Golondrina,” “Adios de Guaymas,”
or other songs in minor key, decidedly nasalized. I may say that at a
later date I have listened to a recitation by a packer named Hale, of
Espronceda’s lines—“The Bandit Chief”—in a very creditable style in the
balsam-breathing forests of the Sierra Madre.
The experiences of old Sam Wisser, in the more remote portions of Sonora
and Sinaloa, never failed to “bring down the house,” when related in his
homely Pennsylvania-German brogue. I will condense the story for the
benefit of those who may care to listen. Sam’s previous business had
been “prospecting” for mines, and, in pursuit of his calling, he had
travelled far and near, generally so intent upon the search for wealth
at a distance that he failed to secure any of that which often lay at
his feet. Equipped with the traditional pack-mule, pick, spade,
frying-pan, and blankets, he started out on his mission having as a
companion a man who did not pretend to be much of a “prospector,” but
was travelling for his health, or what was left of it. They had not
reached the Eldorado of their hopes; but were far down in Sinaloa when
the comrade died, and it became Sam’s sad duty to administer upon the
“estate.” The mule wasn’t worth much and was indeed almost as badly worn
out as its defunct master. The dead man’s clothing was buried with him,
and his revolver went a good ways in paying the expenses of interment.
There remained nothing but a very modest-looking valise nearly filled
with bottles, pillboxes, and pots of various medicinal preparations
warranted to cure all the ills that flesh is heir to. An ordinary man
would have thrown all this away as so much rubbish, but our friend was a
genius—he carefully examined each and every package, and learned exactly
what they were all worth according to the advertisements. Nothing
escaped his scrutiny, from the picture of the wretch “before taking,” to
that of the rubicund, aldermanic, smiling athlete “after taking six
bottles.” All the testimonials from shining lights of pulpit and bar
were read through from date to signature, and the result of it all was
that Sam came to the very logical conclusion that if he had in his
possession panaceas for all ailments, why should he not practise the
healing art? The next morning dawned upon a new Esculapius, and lighted
up the legend “Medico” tacked upon the frame of the door of Sam’s hovel.
It made no difference to the budding practitioner what the disorder was;
he had the appropriate remedy at hand, and was most liberal in the
amount of dosing to be given to his patients, which went far to increase
their confidence in a man who seemed so willing to give them the full
worth of their money. The only trouble was that Sam never gave the same
dose twice to the same patient; this was because he had no memorandum
books, and could not keep in mind all the circumstances of each case.
The man who had Croton-oil pills in the morning received a tablespoonful
of somebody’s “Siberian Solvent” at night, and there was such a crowd
that poor Sam was kept much more busy than he at first supposed he
should be, because the people were not disposed to let go by an
opportunity of ridding themselves of all infirmities, when the same
could be eradicated by a physician who accepted in payment anything from
a two-bit-piece to a string of chile colorado. Sam’s practice was not
confined to any one locality. It reached from the southern end of the
Mexican State of Sinaloa to the international boundary. Sam, in other
words, had become a travelling doctor—he kept travelling—but as his mule
had had a good rest and some feed in the beginning of its master’s new
career, the pursuers were never able to quite catch up with the Gringo
quack whose nostrums were depopulating the country.
From the valley of the Verde to the town of Prescott, according to the
steep roads and trails connecting them in 1871, was something over
fifty-five miles, the first part of the journey extremely rough and
precipitous, the latter half within sight of hills clad with graceful
pines and cooled by the breezes from the higher ranges. The country was
well grassed; there was a very pleasing absence of the cactus vegetation
to be seen farther to the south, adobe houses were replaced by
comfortable-looking dwellings and barns of plank or stone; the water in
the wells was cold and pure, and the lofty peaks, the San Francisco and
the Black Range and the Bradshaw, were for months in the year buried in
snow.