THE PICTURESQUE TOWN OF PRESCOTT—THE APACHES ACTIVE NEAR
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.
A few words should be spoken in praise of a community which of all those
on the southwestern frontier preserved the distinction of being
thoroughly American. Prescott was not merely picturesque in location and
dainty in appearance, with all its houses neatly painted and surrounded
with paling fences and supplied with windows after the American style—it
was a village transplanted bodily from the centre of the Delaware, the
Mohawk, or the Connecticut valley. Its inhabitants were Americans;
American men had brought American wives out with them from their old
homes in the far East, and these American wives had not forgotten the
lessons of elegance and thrift learned in childhood. Everything about
the houses recalled the scenes familiar to the dweller in the country
near Pittsburgh or other busy community. The houses were built in
American style; the doors were American doors and fastened with American
bolts and locks, opened by American knobs, and not closed by letting a
heavy cottonwood log fall against them.
The furniture was the neat cottage furniture with which all must be
familiar who have ever had the privilege of entering an American country
home; there were carpets, mirrors, rocking-chairs, tables, lamps, and
all other appurtenances, just as one might expect to find them in any
part of our country excepting Arizona and New Mexico. There were
American books, American newspapers, American magazines—the last
intelligently read. The language was American, and nothing else—the man
who hoped to acquire a correct knowledge of Castilian in Prescott would
surely be disappointed. Not even so much as a Spanish advertisement
could be found in the columns of _The Miner_, in which, week after week,
John H. Marion fought out the battle of “America for the Americans.” The
stores were American stores, selling nothing but American goods. In one
word, the transition from Tucson to Prescott was as sudden and as
radical as that between Madrid and Manchester.
In one respect only was there the slightest resemblance: in Prescott, as
in Tucson, the gambling saloons were never closed. Sunday or Monday,
night or morning, the “game” went, and the voice of the “dealer” was
heard in the land. Prescott was essentially a mining town deriving its
business from the wants of the various “claims” on the Agua Fria, the
Big Bug and Lynx Creek on the east, and others in the west as far as
Cerbat and Mineral Park. There was an air of comfort about it which
indicated intelligence and refinement rather than wealth which its
people did not as yet enjoy.
At this time, in obedience to orders received from the Secretary of War,
I was assigned to duty as aide-de-camp, and in that position had the
best possible opportunity for becoming acquainted with the country, the
Indians and white people in it, and to absorb a knowledge of all that
was to be done and that was done. General Crook’s first move was to
bring the department headquarters to Prescott; they had been for a long
while at Los Angeles, California, some five hundred miles across the
desert, to the west, and in the complete absence of railroad and
telegraph facilities they might just as well have been in Alaska. His
next duty was to perfect the knowledge already gained of the enormous
area placed under his charge, and this necessitated an incredible amount
of travelling on mule-back, in ambulance and buckboard, over roads, or
rather trails, which eclipsed any of the horrors portrayed by the pencil
of Doré. There was great danger in all this, but Crook travelled without
escort, except on very special occasions, as he did not wish to break
down his men by overwork.
The Apaches had been fully as active in the neighborhood of Prescott as
they had been in that of Tucson, and to this day such names as “The
Burnt Ranch”—a point four miles to the northwest of the town—commemorate
attacks and massacres by the aborigines. The mail-rider had several
times been “corraled” at the Point of Rocks, very close to the town, and
all of this portion of Arizona had groaned under the depredations not of
the Apaches alone but of the Navajos, Hualpais, and Apache-Mojaves, and
now and then of the Sevinches, a small band of thieves of Pi-Ute stock,
living in the Grand Cañon of the Colorado on the northern boundary of
the territory. I have still preserved as relics of those days copies of
_The Miner_ of Prescott and of _The Citizen_ of Tucson, in every column
of which are to be found references to Indian depredations.
There should still be in Washington a copy of the petition forwarded by
the inhabitants pleading for more adequate protection, in which are
given the names of over four hundred American citizens killed in
encounters with the savages within an extremely limited period—two or
three years—and the dates and localities of the occurrences.
Fort Whipple, the name of the military post within one mile of the town,
was a ramshackle, tumble-down palisade of unbarked pine logs hewn from
the adjacent slopes; it was supposed to “command” something, exactly
what, I do not remember, as it was so dilapidated that every time the
wind rose we were afraid that the palisade was doomed. The quarters for
both officers and men were also log houses, with the exception of one
single-room shanty on the apex of the hill nearest to town, which was
constructed of unseasoned, unpainted pine planks, and which served as
General Crook’s “Headquarters,” and, at night, as the place wherein he
stretched his limbs in slumber. He foresaw that the negotiations which
Mr. Vincent Collyer had been commissioned to carry on with the roving
bands of the Apaches would result in naught, because the distrust of the
savages for the white man, and all he said and did, had become so
confirmed that it would take more than one or two pleasant talks full of
glowing promises to eradicate it. Therefore, General Crook felt that it
would be prudent for him to keep himself in the best physical trim, to
be the better able to undergo the fatigues of the campaigns which were
sure to come, and come very soon.
The Apaches are not the only tribe in Arizona; there are several others,
which have in the past been a source of trouble to the settlers and of
expense to the authorities. One of these was the Hualpais, whose place
of abode was in the Grand Cañon, and who were both brave and crafty in
war; they were then at Camp Beale Springs in northwestern Arizona,
forty-five miles from the Colorado River, and under the care of an
officer long since dead—Captain Thomas Byrne, Twelfth Infantry, who was
a genius in his way. “Old Tommy,” as he was affectionately called by
every one in the service or out of it, had a “deludherin’ tongue,” which
he used freely in the cause of peace, knowing as he did that if this
small tribe of resolute people should ever return to the war-path, it
would take half a dozen regiments to dislodge them from the dizzy cliffs
of the “Music,” the “Sunup,” the “Wickyty-wizz,” and the “Diamond.”
So Tommy relied solely upon his native eloquence, seconded by the
scantiest allowance of rations from the subsistence stores of the camp.
He acquired an ascendancy over the minds of the chiefs and head
men—“Sharum,” “Levy-Levy,” “Sequonya,” “Enyacue-yusa,” “Ahcula-watta,”
“Colorow,” and “Hualpai Charlie”—which was little short of miraculous.
He was an old bachelor, but seemed to have a warm spot in his heart for
all the little naked and half-naked youngsters in and around his camp,
to whom he gave most liberally of the indigestible candy and sweet cakes
of the trader’s store.
The squaws were allowed all the hard-tack they could eat, but only on
the most solemn occasions could they gratify their taste for castor
oil—the condition of the medical supplies would not warrant the issue of
all they demanded. I have read that certain of the tribes of Africa use
castor oil in cooking, but I know of no other tribe of American Indians
so greedy for this medicine. But taste is at best something which cannot
be explained or accounted for; I recall that the trader at the San
Carlos Agency once made a bad investment of money in buying cheap
candies; they were nearly all hoarhound and peppermint, which the
Apaches would not buy or accept as a gift.
Tommy had succeeded in impressing upon the minds of his savage wards the
importance of letting him know the moment anything like an outbreak, no
matter how slight it might be, should be threatened. There was to be no
fighting, no firing of guns and pistols, and no seeking redress for
injuries excepting through the commanding officer, who was the court of
last appeal. One day “Hualpai Charlie” came running in like an antelope,
all out of breath, his eyes blazing with excitement: “Cappy Byrne—get
yo’ sogy—heap quick. White man over da Min’nul Pa’k, all bloke out.” An
investigation was made, and developed the cause of “Charlie’s”
apprehensions: the recently established mining town of “Mineral Park” in
the Cerbat range had “struck it rich,” and was celebrating the event in
appropriate style; bands of miners, more or less sober, were staggering
about in the one street, painting the town red. There was the usual
amount of shooting at themselves and at the few lamps in the two
saloons, and “Charlie,” who had not yet learned that one of the
inalienable rights of the Caucasian is to make a fool of himself now and
then, took fright, and ran in the whole fourteen miles to communicate
the first advices of the “outbreak” to his commanding officer and
friend.
Captain Byrne was most conscientious in all his dealings with these
wild, suspicious people, and gained their affection to an extent not to
be credited in these days, when there seems to be a recurrence to the
ante-bellum theory that the only good Indian—be it buck, squaw, or
puling babe—is the dead one. I have seen the old man coax sulking
warriors back into good humor, and persuade them that the best thing in
the world for them all was the good-will of the Great Father. “Come now,
Sharum,” I have heard him say, “shure phat is de matther wid yiz? Have
yiz ivir axed me for anythin’ that oi didn’t _promise_ it to yiz?”
Poor Tommy was cut off too soon in life to redeem all his pledges, and I
fear that there is still a balance of unpaid promises, comprehending
mouth organs, hoop skirts, velocipedes, anything that struck the fancy
of a chief and for which he made instant demand upon his military
patron. To carry matters forward a little, I wish to say that Tommy
remained the “frind,” as he pronounced the term, of the Hualpais to the
very last, and even after he had been superseded by the civil agent, or
acting agent, he remained at the post respected and regarded by all the
tribe as their brother and adviser.
Like a flash of lightning out of a clear sky, the Hualpais went on the
war-path, and fired into the agency buildings before leaving for their
old strongholds in the Cañon of the Colorado. No one knew why they had
so suddenly shown this treacherous nature, and the territorial press
(there was a telegraph line in operation by this time) was filled with
gloomy forebodings on account of the “well-known treachery of the Indian
character.” Tommy Byrne realized full well how much it would cost Uncle
Sam in blood and treasure if this outbreak were not stopped in its
incipiency, and without waiting for his spirited little horse to be
saddled—he was a superb rider—threw himself across its back and took out
into the hills after the fugitives. When the Hualpais saw the cloud of
dust coming out on the road, they blazed into it, but the kind
Providence, which is said to look out for the Irish under all
circumstances, took pity on the brave old man, and spared him even after
he had dashed up—his horse white with foam—to the knot of chiefs who
stood on the brow of a lava mesa.
At first the Hualpais were sullen, but soon they melted enough to tell
the story of their grievances, and especially the grievance they had
against Captain Byrne himself. The new agent had been robbing them in
the most bare-faced manner, and in their ignorance they imagined that it
was Tommy Byrne’s duty to regulate all affairs at his camp. They did not
want to hurt him, and would let him go safely back, but for them there
was nothing but the war-path and plenty of it.
Tommy said gently, “Come back with me, and I’ll see that you are
righted.” Back they went, following after the one, unarmed man. Straight
to the beef scales went the now thoroughly aroused officer, and in less
time than it takes to relate, he had detected the manner in which false
weights had been secured by a tampering with the poise. A two-year-old
Texas steer, which, horns and all, would not weigh eight hundred pounds,
would mark seventeen hundred, and other things in the same ratio. Nearly
the whole amount of the salt and flour supply had been sold to the
miners in the Cerbat range, and the poor Hualpais, who had been such
valiant and efficient allies, had been swindled out of everything but
their breath, and but a small part of that was left.
Tommy seized upon the agency and took charge; the Hualpais were
perfectly satisfied, but the agent left that night for California and
never came back. A great hubbub was raised about the matter, but nothing
came of it, and a bitter war was averted by the prompt, decisive action
of a plain, unlettered officer, who had no ideas about managing savages
beyond treating them with kindness and justice.
General Crook not only saw to the condition of the Hualpais, but of
their relatives, the Mojaves, on the river, and kept them both in good
temper towards the whites; not only this, but more than this—he sent up
among the Pi-Utes of Nevada and Southern Utah and explained the
situation to them and secured the promise of a contingent of one hundred
of their warriors for service against the Apaches, should the latter
decline to listen to the propositions of the commissioner sent to treat
with them. When hostilities did break out, the Pi-Utes sent down the
promised auxiliaries, under their chief, “Captain Tom,” and, like the
Hualpais, they rendered faithful service.
What has become of the Pi-Utes I cannot say, but of the Hualpais I am
sorry to have to relate that the moment hostilities ended, the Great
Father began to ignore and neglect them, until finally their condition
became so deplorable that certain fashionable ladies of New York, who
were doing a great deal of good unknown to the world at large, sent
money to General Crook to be used in keeping them from starving to
death.
Liquor is freely given to the women, who have become fearfully
demoralized, and I can assert of my own knowledge that five years since
several photographers made large sales along the Atlantic and Pacific
railroad of the pictures of nude women of this once dreaded band, which
had committed no other offence than that of trusting in the faith of the
Government of the United States.
In the desolate, romantic country of the Hualpais and their brothers,
the Ava-Supais, amid the Cyclopean monoliths which line the cañons of
Cataract Creek, the Little Colorado, the Grand Cañon or the Diamond, one
may sit and listen, as I have often listened, to the simple tales and
myths of a wild, untutored race. There are stories to be heard of the
prowess of “Mustamho” and “Matyavela,” of “Pathrax-sapa” and
“Pathrax-carrawee,” of the goddess “Cuathenya,” and a multiplicity of
deities—animal and human—which have served to beguile the time after the
day’s march had ended and night was at hand. All the elements of nature
are actual, visible entities for these simple children—the stars are
possessed of the same powers as man, all the chief animals have the
faculty of speech, and the coyote is the one who is man’s good friend
and has brought him the great boon of fire. The gods of the Hualpais are
different in name though not in functions or peculiarities from those of
the Apaches and Navajos, but are almost identical with those of the
Mojaves.
As with the Apaches, so with the Hualpais, the “medicine men” wield an
unknown and an immeasurable influence, and claim power over the forces
of nature, which is from time to time renewed by rubbing the body
against certain sacred stones not far from Beale Springs. The Hualpai
medicine men also indulge in a sacred intoxication by breaking up the
leaves, twigs, and root of the stramonium or “jimson weed,” and making a
beverage which, when drunk, induces an exhilaration, in the course of
which the drunkard utters prophecies.
While the colonies along the Atlantic coast were formulating their
grievances against the English crown and preparing to throw off all
allegiance to the throne of Great Britain, two priests of the Roman
Catholic Church were engaged in exploring these desolate wilds, and in
making an effort to win the Hualpais and their brothers to Christianity.
Father Escalante started out from Santa Fé, New Mexico, in the year
1776, and travelling northwest through Utah finally reached the Great
Salt Lake, which he designated as the Lake of the Timpanagos. This name
is perfectly intelligible to those who happen to know of the existence
down to the present day of the band of Utes called the Timpanoags, who
inhabit the cañons close to the present city of Salt Lake. Travelling on
foot southward, Escalante passed down through Utah and crossed the Grand
Cañon of the Colorado, either at what is now known as Lee’s Ferry, or
the mouth of the Kanab Wash, or the mouth of the Diamond; thence east
through the Moqui and the Zuni villages back to Santa Fé. Escalante
expected to be joined near the Grand Cañon by Father Garces, who had
travelled from the mission of San Gabriel, near Los Angeles, and crossed
the Colorado in the country inhabited by the Mojaves; but, although each
performed the part assigned to him, the proposed meeting did not take
place.
It is impossible to avoid reference to these matters, which will obtrude
themselves upon the mind of any one travelling through Arizona. There is
an ever-present suggestion of the past and unknown, that has a
fascination all its own for those who yield to it. Thus, at Bowers’
Ranch on the Agua Fria, eighteen miles northeast from Prescott, one sits
down to his supper in a room which once formed part of a prehistoric
dwelling; and the same thing may be said of Wales Arnold’s, over near
Montezuma’s Wells, where many of the stones used in the masonry came
from the pueblo ruins close at hand.
Having visited the northern line of his department, General Crook gave
all his attention to the question of supplies; everything consumed in
the department, at that date, had to be freighted at great expense from
San Francisco, first by steamship around Cape San Lucas to the mouth of
the Rio Colorado, then up the river in small steamers as far as
Ehrenburg and Fort Mojave, and the remainder of the distance—two hundred
miles—by heavy teams. To a very considerable extent, these supplies were
distributed from post to post by pack-trains, a proceeding which evoked
the liveliest remonstrances from the contractors interested in the
business of hauling freight, but their complaints availed them nothing.
Crook foresaw the demands that the near future would surely make upon
his pack-trains, which he could by no surer method keep in the highest
discipline and efficiency than by having them constantly on the move
from post to post carrying supplies. The mules became hardened, the
packers made more skilful in the use of all the “hitches”—the “Diamond”
and others—constituting the mysteries of their calling, and the
detachments sent along as escorts were constantly learning something new
about the country as well as how to care for themselves and animals.
Sixty-two miles from Prescott to the southwest lay the sickly and dismal
post of Camp Date creek, on the creek of the same name. Here were
congregated about one thousand of the band known as the Apache-Yumas,
with a sprinkling of Apache-Mojaves, tribes allied to the Mojaves on the
Colorado, and to the Hualpais, but differing from them in disposition,
as the Date Creek people were not all anxious for peace, but would now
and then send small parties of their young men to raid and steal from
the puny settlements like Wickenburg. The culmination of the series was
the “Loring” or “Wickenburg” massacre, so-called from the talented young
scientist, Loring, a member of the Wheeler surveying expedition, who,
with his companions—a stage-load—was brutally murdered not far from
Wickenburg; of the party only two escaped, one a woman named Shephard,
and the other a man named Kruger, both badly wounded.
General Crook was soon satisfied that this terrible outrage had been
committed by a portion of the irreconcilable element at the Date Creek
Agency, but how to single them out as individuals and inflict the
punishment their crime deserved, without entailing disaster upon
well-meaning men, women, and babies who had not been implicated, was for
a long while a most serious problem. There were many of the tribe
satisfied to cultivate peaceful relations with the whites, but none so
favorably disposed as to impart the smallest particle of information in
regard to the murder, as it was no part of their purpose to surrender
any of their relatives for punishment.
It would take too much time to narrate in detail the “patient search and
vigil long” attending the ferreting out of the individuals concerned in
the Loring massacre; it was a matter of days and weeks and months, but
Crook knew that he had the right clew, and, although many times baffled,
he returned to the scent with renewed energy and determination. The
culprits, who included in their ranks, or at least among their
sympathizers, some very influential men of the tribe, had also begun, on
their side, to suspect that all was not right; one of them, I
understood, escaped to Southern California, and there found work in some
of the Mexican settlements, which he could do readily as he spoke
Spanish fluently, and once having donned the raiment of civilization,
there would be nothing whatever to distinguish him from the average of
people about him.
Word reached General Crook, through the Hualpais, that when next he
visited Camp Date Creek, he was to be murdered with all those who might
accompany him. He was warned to be on the look-out, and told that the
plan of the conspirators was this: They would appear in front of the
house in which he should take up his quarters, and say that they had
come for a talk upon some tribal matter of importance; when the General
made his appearance, the Indians were to sit down in a semicircle in
front of the door, each with his carbine hidden under his blanket, or
carelessly exposed on his lap. The conversation was to be decidedly
harmonious, and there was to be nothing said that was not perfectly
agreeable to the whites. After the “talk” had progressed a few minutes,
the leading conspirator would remark that they would all be the better
for a little smoke, and as soon as the tobacco was handed out to them,
the chief conspirator was to take some and begin rolling a cigarette.
(The Indians of the southwest do not ordinarily use the pipe.) When the
first puff was taken from the cigarette, the man next to the chief was
to suddenly level his weapon and kill General Crook, the others at the
very same moment taking the lives of the whites closest to them. The
whole tribe would then be made to break away from the reserve and take
to the inaccessible cliffs and cañons at the head of the Santa Maria
fork of the Bill Williams. The plan would have succeeded perfectly, had
it not been for the warning received, and also for the fact that the
expected visit had to be made much sooner than was anticipated, and thus
prevented all the gang from getting together.
Captain Philip Dwyer, Fifth Cavalry, the officer in command of the camp,
suddenly died, and this took me down post-haste to assume command. Dwyer
was a very brave, handsome, and intelligent soldier, much beloved by all
his comrades. He was the only officer left at Date Creek—all the others
and most of the garrison were absent on detached service of one kind and
another—and there was no one to look after the dead man but Mr. Wilbur
Hugus, the post trader, and myself. The surroundings were most dismal
and squalid; all the furniture in the room in which the corpse lay was
two or three plain wooden chairs, the bed occupied as described, and a
pine table upon which stood a candlestick, with the candle melted and
burned in the socket. Dwyer had been “ailing” for several days, but no
one could tell exactly what was the matter with him; and, of course, no
one suspected that one so strong and athletic could be in danger of
death.
One of the enlisted men of his company, a bright young trumpeter, was
sitting up with him, and about the hour of midnight, Dwyer became a
trifle uneasy and asked: “Can you sing that new song, ‘Put me under the
daisies’?”
“Oh, yes, Captain,” replied the trumpeter; “I have often sung it, and
will gladly sing it now.”
So he began to sing, very sweetly, the ditty, which seemed to calm the
nervousness of his superior officer. But the candle had burned down in
the socket, and when the young soldier went to replace it, he could find
neither candle nor match, and he saw in the flickering light and shadow
that the face of the Captain was strangely set, and of a ghastly
purplish hue. The trumpeter ran swiftly to the nearest house to get
another light, and to call for help, but upon returning found the
Captain dead.
Many strange sights have I seen, but none that produced a stranger or
more pathetic appeal to my emotions than the funeral of Phil Dwyer; we
got together just as good an apology for a coffin as that timberless
country would furnish, and then wrapped our dead friend in his
regimentals, and all hands were then ready to start for the cemetery.
At the head marched Mr. Hugus, Doctor Williams (the Indian agent),
myself, and Lieutenant Hay, of the Twenty-third Infantry, who arrived at
the post early in the morning; then came the troop of cavalry,
dismounted, and all the civilians living in and around the camp; and
lastly every Indian—man, woman, or child—able to walk or toddle, for all
of them, young or old, good or bad, loved Phil Dwyer. The soldiers and
civilians formed in one line at the head of the grave, and the
Apache-Yumas in two long lines at right angles to them, and on each
side. The few short, expressive, and tender sentences of the burial
service were read, then the bugles sang taps, and three volleys were
fired across the hills, the clods rattled down on the breast of the
dead, and the ceremony was over.
As soon as General Crook learned of the death of Dwyer, he hurried to
Date Creek, now left without any officer of its proper garrison, and
informed the Indians that he intended having a talk with them on the
morrow, at a place designated by himself. The conspirators thought that
their scheme could be carried out without trouble, especially since they
saw no signs of suspicion on the part of the whites. General Crook came
to the place appointed, without any escort of troops, but carelessly
strolling forward were a dozen or more of the packers, who had been
engaged in all kinds of mêlées since the days of early California
mining. Each of these was armed to the teeth, and every revolver was on
the full cock, and every knife ready for instant use. The talk was very
agreeable, and not an unpleasant word had been uttered on either side,
when all of a sudden the Indian in the centre asked for a little
tobacco, and, when it was handed to him, began rolling a cigarette;
before the first puff of smoke had rolled away from his lips one of the
warriors alongside of him levelled his carbine full at General Crook,
and fired. Lieutenant Ross, aide-de-camp to the General, was waiting for
the movement, and struck the arm of the murderer so that the bullet was
deflected upwards, and the life of the General was saved. The scrimmage
became a perfect Kilkenny fight in another second or two, and every man
made for the man nearest to him, the Indian who had given the signal
being grasped in the vise-like grip of Hank Hewitt, with whom he
struggled vainly. Hewitt was a man of great power and able to master
most men other than professional athletes or prize-fighters; the Indian
was not going to submit so long as life lasted, and struggled, bit, and
kicked to free himself, but all in vain, as Hank had caught him from the
back of the head, and the red man was at a total disadvantage. Hewitt
started to drag his captive to the guard-house, but changed his mind,
and seizing the Apache-Mojave by both ears pulled his head down
violently against the rocks, and either broke his skull or brought on
concussion of the brain, as the Indian died that night in the
guard-house.
Others of the party were killed and wounded, and still others, with the
ferocity of tigers, fought their way out through our feeble lines, and
made their way to the point of rendezvous at the head of the Santa
Maria. Word was at once sent to them by members of their own tribe that
they must come in and surrender at once, or else the whole party must
expect to be punished for what was originally the crime of a few. No
answer was received, and their punishment was arranged for; they were
led to suppose that the advance was to be made from Date Creek, but,
after letting them alone for several weeks—just long enough to allay to
some extent their suspicions—Crook pushed out a column of the Fifth
Cavalry under command of Colonel Julius W. Mason, and by forced marches
under the guidance of a strong detachment of Hualpai scouts, the
encampment of the hostiles was located just where the Hualpais said it
would be, at the “Muchos Cañones,” a point where five cañons united to
form the Santa Maria; and there the troops and the scouts attacked
suddenly and with spirit, and in less than no time everything was in our
hands, and the enemy had to record a loss of more than forty. It was a
terrible blow, struck at the beginning of winter and upon a band which
had causelessly slaughtered a stageful of our best people, not as an act
of war, which would have been excusable, but as an act of highway
robbery, by sneaking off the reservation where the Government was
allowing them rations and clothing in quantity sufficient to eke out
their own supplies of wild food. This action of the “Muchos Cañones” had
a very beneficial effect upon the campaign which began against the
Apaches in the Tonto Basin a few weeks later. It humbled the pride of
those of the Apache-Yumas who had never been in earnest in their
professions of peace, and strengthened the hands of the chiefs like
“Jam-aspi,” “Ochacama,” “Hoch-a-chi-waca,” “Quaca-thew-ya,” and “Tom,”
who were sincerely anxious to accept the new condition of things. There
was a third element in this tribe, led by a chief of ability,
“Chimahuevi-Sal,” which did not want to fight, if fighting could be
avoided, but did not care much for the new white neighbors whom they saw
crowding in upon them. “Chimahuevi-Sal” made his escape from the
reservation with about one hundred and fifty of his followers, intending
to go down on the south side of the Mexican line and find an asylum
among the Cocopahs. They were pursued and brought back without bloodshed
by Captain James Burns, a brave and humane officer of the Fifth Cavalry,
who died sixteen years ago worn out by the hard work demanded in
Arizona.
It does not seem just, at first sight, to deny to Indians the right to
domicile themselves in another country if they so desire, and if a
peaceful life can be assured them; but, in the end, it will be found
that constant visiting will spring up between the people living in the
old home and the new, and all sorts of complications are sure to result.
The Apache-Mojaves and the Apache-Tontos, living in the Tonto Basin,
misapprehending the reasons for the cessation of scouting against them,
had become emboldened to make a series of annoying and destructive
attacks upon the ranchos in the Agua Fria Valley, upon those near
Wickenburg, and those near what is now the prosperous town of Phœnix, in
the Salt River Valley. Their chiefs “Delt-che” (The Red Ant) and
“Cha-lipun” (The Buckskin-colored Hat) were brave, bold, able, and
enterprising, and rightfully regarded as among the worst enemies the
white men ever had. The owners of two of the ranchos attacked were very
peculiar persons. One of them, Townsend, of the Dripping Springs in the
Middle Agua Fria, was supposed to be a half-breed Cherokee from the
Indian Nation; he certainly had all the looks—the snapping black eyes,
the coal-black, long, lank hair, and the swarthy skin—of the
full-blooded aborigine, with all the cunning, shrewdness, contempt for
privation and danger, and ability to read “sign,” that distinguish the
red men. It was his wont at the appearance of the new moon, when raiding
parties of Apaches might be expected, to leave his house, make a wide
circuit in the mountains and return, hoping to be able to “cut” the
trail of some prowlers; if he did, he would carefully secrete himself in
the rocks on the high hills overlooking his home, and wait until the
Apaches would make some movement to let him discover where they were and
what they intended doing.
He was a dead shot, cunning as a snake, wily and brave, and modest at
the same time, and the general belief was that he had sent twenty-seven
Apaches to the Happy Hunting Grounds. Townsend and Boggs, his next-door
neighbor who lived a mile or two from him, had made up their minds that
they would “farm” in the fertile bottom lands of the Agua Fria; the
Apaches had made up their minds that they should not; hence it goes
without saying that neither Townsend nor Boggs, nor any of their hired
men, ever felt really lonesome in the seclusion of their lovely valley.
The sequel to this story is the sequel to all such stories about early
Arizona: the Apaches “got him” at last, and my friend Townsend has long
been sleeping his last sleep under the shadow of a huge bowlder within a
hundred yards of his home at the “Dripping Springs.”
The antipodes of Townsend’s rancho, as its proprietor was the antipodes
of Townsend himself, was the “station” of Darrel Duppa at the “sink” of
the same Agua Fria, some fifty miles below. Darrel Duppa was one of the
queerest specimens of humanity, as his ranch was one of the queerest
examples to be found in Arizona, and I might add in New Mexico and
Sonora as well. There was nothing superfluous about Duppa in the way of
flesh, neither was there anything about the “station” that could be
regarded as superfluous, either in furniture or ornament. Duppa was
credited with being the wild, harum-scarum son of an English family of
respectability, his father having occupied a position in the diplomatic
or consular service of Great Britain, and the son having been born in
Marseilles. Rumor had it that Duppa spoke several languages—French,
Spanish, Italian, German—that he understood the classics, and that, when
sober, he used faultless English. I can certify to his employment of
excellent French and Spanish, and what had to my ears the sound of
pretty good Italian, and I know too that he was hospitable to a fault,
and not afraid of man or devil. Three bullet wounds, received in three
different fights with the Apaches, attested his grit, although they
might not be accepted as equally conclusive evidence of good judgment.
The site of his “location” was in the midst of the most uncompromising
piece of desert in a region which boasts of possessing more desert land
than any other territory in the Union. The surrounding hills and mesas
yielded a perennial crop of cactus, and little of anything else.
The dwelling itself was nothing but a “ramada,” a term which has already
been defined as a roof of branches; the walls were of rough, unplastered
wattle work, of the thorny branches of the ironwood, no thicker than a
man’s finger, which were lashed by thongs of raw-hide to horizontal
slats of cottonwood; the floor of the bare earth, of course—that almost
went without saying in those days—and the furniture rather too simple
and meagre even for Carthusians. As I recall the place to mind, there
appears the long, unpainted table of pine, which served for meals or
gambling, or the rare occasions when any one took into his head the
notion to write a letter. This room constituted the ranch in its
entirety. Along the sides were scattered piles of blankets, which about
midnight were spread out as couches for tired laborers or travellers. At
one extremity, a meagre array of Dutch ovens, flat-irons, and
frying-pans revealed the “kitchen,” presided over by a hirsute,
husky-voiced gnome, half Vulcan, half Centaur, who, immersed for most of
the day in the mysteries of the larder, at stated intervals broke the
stillness with the hoarse command: “Hash pile! Come a’ runnin’!” There
is hardly any use to describe the rifles, pistols, belts of ammunition,
saddles, spurs, and whips, which lined the walls, and covered the joists
and cross-beams; they were just as much part and parcel of the
establishment as the dogs and ponies were. To keep out the sand-laden
wind, which blew fiercely down from the north when it wasn’t blowing
down with equal fierceness from the south, or the west, or the east,
strips of canvas or gunny-sacking were tacked on the inner side of the
cactus branches.
My first visit to this Elysium was made about midnight, and I remember
that the meal served up was unique if not absolutely paralyzing on the
score of originality. There was a great plenty of Mexican figs in
raw-hide sacks, fairly good tea, which had the one great merit of
hotness, and lots and lots of whiskey; but there was no bread, as the
supply of flour had run short, and, on account of the appearance of
Apaches during the past few days, it had not been considered wise to
send a party over to Phœnix for a replenishment. A wounded Mexican,
lying down in one corner, was proof that the story was well founded. All
the light in the ranch was afforded by a single stable lantern, by the
flickering flames from the cook’s fire, and the glinting stars. In our
saddle-bags we had several slices of bacon and some biscuits, so we did
not fare half so badly as we might have done. What caused me most wonder
was why Duppa had ever concluded to live in such a forlorn spot; the
best answer I could get to my queries was that the Apaches had attacked
him at the moment he was approaching the banks of the Agua Fria at this
point, and after he had repulsed them he thought he would stay there
merely to let them know he could do it. This explanation was
satisfactory to every one else, and I had to accept it.
We should, before going farther, cast a retrospective glance upon the
southern part of the territory, where the Apaches were doing some
energetic work in be-devilling the settlers; there were raids upon
Montgomery’s at “Tres Alamos,” the “Cienaga,” and other places not very
remote from Tucson, and the Chiricahuas apparently had come up from
Sonora bent upon a mission of destruction. They paid particular
attention to the country about Fort Bowie and the San Simon, and had
several brushes with Captain Gerald Russell’s Troop “K” of the Third
Cavalry. While watering his horses in the narrow, high, rock-walled
defile in the Dragoon Mountains, known on the frontier at that time as
“Cocheis’s Stronghold,” Russell was unexpectedly assailed by Cocheis and
his band, the first intimation of the presence of the Chiricahuas being
the firing of the shot, which, striking the guide, Bob Whitney, in the
head, splashed his brains out upon Russell’s face. Poor Bob Whitney was
an unusually handsome fellow, of great courage and extended service
against the Apaches; he had been wounded scores of times, I came near
saying, but to be exact, he had been wounded at least half a dozen times
by both bullets and arrows. He and Maria Jilda Grijalva, an escaped
Mexican prisoner, who knew every foot of the southern Apache country,
had been guides for the commands of Winters and Russell, and had seen
about as much hard work as men care to see in a whole generation.
So far as the army was concerned, the most distressing of all these
skirmishes and ambuscades was that in which Lieutenant Reid T. Steward
lost his life in company with Corporal Black, of his regiment, the Fifth
Cavalry. They were ambushed near the spring in the Davidson Cañon,
twenty-five or thirty miles from Tucson, and both were killed at the
same moment.