CROOK BEGINS HIS CAMPAIGN—THE WINTER MARCH ACROSS THE MOGOLLON
PLATEAU—THE GREAT PINE BELT—BOBBY-DOKLINNY, THE MEDICINE MAN—COOLEY
AND HIS APACHE WIFE—THE APACHE CHIEF ESQUINOSQUIZN—THE APACHE GUIDE
NANAAJE—THE FEAST OF DEAD-MULE MEAT—THE FIGHT IN THE CAVE IN THE
SALT RIVER CAÑON—THE DEATH-CHANT—THE CHARGE—THE DYING MEDICINE
MAN—THE SCENE IN THE CAVE.
So long as the representative of the Government, Mr. Vincent Collyer,
remained in Arizona; so long as there flickered the feeblest ray of
light and hope that hostilities might be averted and peace secured,
Crook persisted in keeping his troops ready to defend the exposed
ranchos and settlements as fully as possible, but no offensive movements
were permitted, lest the Apaches should have reason to believe that our
people meant treachery, and were cloaking military operations under the
mask of peace negotiations. These conferences, or attempts at
conferences, came to naught, and at last, about the date of the attack
made upon General Crook and his party at Camp Date Creek, orders were
received to drive the Apaches upon the reservations assigned them and to
keep them there.
The time fixed by General Crook for the beginning of his campaign
against the Apaches had been the 15th of November, 1872—a date which
would have marked the beginning of winter and made the retreat of the
different bands to the higher elevations of the mountain ranges a source
of great discomfort, not to say of suffering to them, as their almost
total want of clothing would cause them to feel the fullest effects of
the colder temperature, and also there would be increased danger of
detection by the troops, to whose eyes, or those of the Indian scouts
accompanying them, all smokes from camp-fires would be visible.
The incident just related as happening at Camp Date Creek precipitated
matters somewhat, but not to a very appreciable extent, since Mason’s
attack upon the bands of Apache-Mojaves and Apache-Yumas in the “Muchos
Cañones” did not take place until the last days of the month of
September, and those bands having but slender relations with the other
portions of the Apache family over in the Tonto Basin, the latter would
not be too much on their guard. Crook started out from his headquarters
at Fort Whipple on the day set, and marched as fast as his animals would
carry him by way of Camp Verde and the Colorado Chiquito to Camp Apache,
a distance, as the roads and trails then measured, of about two hundred
and fifty miles. Upon the summit of the Colorado plateau, which in
places attains an elevation of more than ten thousand feet, the cold was
intense, and we found every spring and creek frozen solid, thus making
the task of watering our stock one of great difficulty.
Our line of march led through the immense pine forests, and to the right
of the lofty snow-mantled peak of San Francisco, one of the most
beautiful mountains in America. It seems to have been, at some period
not very remote, a focus of volcanic disturbance, pouring out lava in
inconceivable quantities, covering the earth for one hundred miles
square, and to a depth in places of five hundred feet. This depth can be
ascertained by any geologist who will take the trail out from the
station of Ash Fork, on the present Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, and
go north-northeast, to the Cataract Cañon, to the village of the
Ava-Supais. In beginning the descent towards the Cataract Cañon, at the
“Black Tanks,” the enormous depth of the “flow” can be seen at a glance.
What was the “forest primeval” at that time on the Mogollon has since
been raided by the rapacious forces of commerce, and at one
point—Flagstaff, favorably located in the timber belt—has since been
established the great Ayers-Riordan saw and planing mill, equipped with
every modern appliance for the destruction of the old giants whose heads
had nodded in the breezes of centuries. Man’s inhumanity to man is an
awful thing. His inhumanity to God’s beautiful trees is scarcely
inferior to it. Trees are nearly human; they used to console man with
their oracles, and I must confess my regret that the Christian
dispensation has so changed the opinions of the world that the soughing
of the evening wind through their branches is no longer a message of
hope or a solace to sorrow. Reflection tells me that without the use of
this great belt of timber the construction of the railroad from El Paso
to the City of Mexico would have been attended with increased expense
and enhanced difficulty—perhaps postponed for a generation—but, for all
that, I cannot repress a sentiment of regret that the demands of
civilization have caused the denudation of so many square miles of our
forests in all parts of the timbered West.
Our camp was aroused every morning at two o’clock, and we were out on
the road by four, making long marches and not halting until late in the
afternoon. Camp Apache was reached by the time expected, and the work of
getting together a force of scouts begun at once. One of the first young
men to respond to the call for scouts to enlist in the work of ferreting
out and subjugating the hostiles was “Na-kay-do-klunni,” called
afterwards by the soldiers “Bobby Doklinny.” I have still in my
possession, among other papers, the scrap of manuscript upon which is
traced in lead pencil the name of this Apache, whom I enrolled among the
very first at Camp Apache on this occasion. The work of enlistment was
afterwards turned over to Lieutenant Alexander O. Brodie, of the First
Cavalry, as I was obliged to leave with General Crook for the south.
“Bobby,” to adopt the soldiers’ name, became in his maturity a great
“medicine man” among his people, and began a dance in which he used to
raise the spirits of his ancestors. Of course, he scared the people of
the United States out of their senses, and instead of offering him a
bonus for all the ghosts he could bring back to life, the troops were
hurried hither and thither, and there was an “outbreak,” as is always
bound to be the case under such circumstances. “Bobby Doklinny” was
killed, and with him a number of his tribe, while on our side there was
grief for the death of brave officers and gallant men.
One of the white men met at Camp Apache was Corydon E. Cooley, who had
married a woman of the Sierra Blanca band, and had acquired a very
decided influence over them. Cooley’s efforts were consistently in the
direction of bringing about a better understanding between the two
races, and so far as “Pedro’s” and “Miguel’s” people were concerned, his
exertions bore good fruit. But it is of Mrs. Cooley I wish to speak at
this moment. She was, and I hope still is, because I trust that she is
still alive, a woman of extraordinary character, anxious to advance and
to have her children receive all the benefits of education. She tried
hard to learn, and was ever on the alert to imitate the housekeeping of
the few ladies who followed their husbands down to Camp Apache, all of
whom took a great and womanly interest in the advancement of their
swarthy sister. On my way back from the snake dance of the Moquis I once
dined at Cooley’s ranch in company with Mr. Peter Moran, the artist, and
can assure my readers that the little home we entered was as clean as
homes generally are, and that the dinner served was as good as any to be
obtained in Delmonico’s.
For those readers who care to learn of such things I insert a brief
description of “Cooley’s Ranch” as we found it in that year, 1881, of
course many years after the Apaches had been subdued. The ranch was on
the summit of the Mogollon plateau, at its eastern extremity, near the
head of Show Low Creek, one of the affluents of the Shevlons Fork of the
Colorado Chiquito. The contour of the plateau is here a charming series
of gentle hills and dales, the hills carpeted with juicy black “grama,”
and spangled with flowers growing at the feet of graceful pines and
majestic oaks; and the dales, watered by babbling brooks flowing through
fields of ripening corn and potatoes. In the centre of a small but
exquisitely beautiful park, studded with pine trees without undergrowth,
stood the frame house and the outbuildings of the ranch we were seeking.
Cooley was well provided with every creature comfort to be looked for in
the most prosperous farming community in the older States. His fields
and garden patches were yielding bountifully of corn, pumpkins,
cucumbers, wheat, peas, beans, cabbage, potatoes, barley, oats,
strawberries, gooseberries, horse-radish, and musk-melons. He had set
out an orchard of apple, crab, dwarf pear, peach, apricot, quince, plum,
and cherry trees, and could supply any reasonable demand for butter,
cream, milk, eggs, or fresh meat from his poultry yard or herd of cows
and drove of sheep. There was an ice-house well filled, two deep wells,
and several springs of pure water. The house was comfortably furnished,
lumber being plenty and at hand from the saw-mill running on the
property.
Four decidedly pretty gipsy-like little girls assisted their mother in
gracefully doing the honors to the strangers, and conducted us to a
table upon which smoked a perfectly cooked meal of Irish stew of mutton,
home-made bread, boiled and stewed mushrooms—plucked since our
arrival—fresh home-made butter, buttermilk, peas and beans from the
garden, and aromatic coffee. The table itself was neatly spread, and
everything was well served. If one Apache woman can teach herself all
this, it does not seem to be hoping for too much when I express the
belief that in a few years others may be encouraged to imitate her
example. I have inherited from General Crook a strong belief in this
phase of the Indian problem. Let the main work be done with the young
women, in teaching them how to cook, and what to cook, and how to become
good housekeepers, and the work will be more than half finished. In all
tribes the influence of the women, although silent, is most potent. Upon
the squaws falls the most grievous part of the burden of war, and if
they can be made to taste the luxuries of civilized life, and to regard
them as necessaries, the idea of resuming hostilities will year by year
be combated with more vigor. It was upon this principle that the work of
missionary effort was carried on among the Canadian tribes, and we see
how, after one or two generations of women had been educated, all
trouble disappeared, and the best of feeling between the two races was
developed and maintained for all time.
From Camp Apache to old Camp Grant was by the trail a trifle over one
hundred miles, but over a country so cut up with cañons, and so rocky,
that the distance seemed very much greater. The cañon of the Prieto or
Black River, the passage of the Apache range, the descent of the
Aravaypa, were all considered and with justice to be specially severe
upon the muscles and nerves of travellers, not only because of depth and
steepness, but also because the trail was filled with loose stones which
rolled from under the careless tread, and wrenched the feet and ankles
of the unwary.
Of the general character of the approaches to old Camp Grant, enough has
already been written in the earlier chapters. I wish to add that the
marches were still exceptionally long and severe, as General Crook was
determined to arrive on time, as promised to the chiefs who were
expecting him. On account of getting entangled in the cañons back of the
Picacho San Carlos, it took us more than twenty-four hours to pass over
the distance between the Black River and the mouth of the San Carlos,
the start being made at six o’clock one day, and ending at eight o’clock
the next morning, a total of twenty-six hours of marching and climbing.
Every one in the command was pretty well tired out, and glad to throw
himself down with head on saddle, just as soon as horses and mules could
be lariated on grass and pickets established, but General Crook took his
shot-gun and followed up the Gila a mile or two, and got a fine mess of
reed birds for our breakfast. It was this insensibility to fatigue,
coupled with a contempt for danger, or rather with a skill in evading
all traps that might be set for him, which won for Crook the admiration
of all who served with him; there was no private soldier, no packer, no
teamster, who could “down the ole man” in any work, or outlast him on a
march or a climb over the rugged peaks of Arizona; they knew that, and
they also knew that in the hour of danger Crook would be found on the
skirmish line, and not in the telegraph office.
At old Camp Grant, the operations of the campaign began in earnest; in
two or three days the troops at that post were ready to move out under
command of Major Brown, of the Fifth Cavalry, and the general plan of
the campaign unfolded itself. It was to make a clean sweep of the Tonto
Basin, the region in which the hostiles had always been so successful in
eluding and defying the troops, and this sweep was to be made by a
number of converging columns, each able to look out for itself, each
provided with a force of Indian scouts, each followed by a pack-train
with all needful supplies, and each led by officers physically able to
go almost anywhere. After the centre of the Basin had been reached, if
there should be no decisive action in the meantime, these commands were
to turn back and break out in different directions, scouring the
country, so that no nook or corner should be left unexamined. The posts
were stripped of the last available officer and man, the expectation
being that, by closely pursuing the enemy, but little leisure would be
left him for making raids upon our settlements, either military or
civil, and that the constant movements of the various detachments would
always bring some within helping distance of beleaguered stations.
General Crook kept at the front, moving from point to point, along the
whole periphery, and exercising complete personal supervision of the
details, but leaving the movements from each post under the control of
the officers selected for the work. Major George M. Randall,
Twenty-third Infantry, managed affairs at Camp Apache, having under him
as chief of scouts, Mr. C. E. Cooley, of whom mention has just been
made. Major George F. Price, Fifth Cavalry, commanded from Date Creek.
Major Alexander MacGregor, First Cavalry, had the superintendence of the
troops to move out from Fort Whipple; Colonel Julius W. Mason, Fifth
Cavalry, of those to work down from Camp Hualpai, while those of the
post of Camp MacDowell were commanded by Captain James Burns, Fifth
Cavalry. Colonel C. C. C. Carr, First Cavalry, led those from Verde. All
these officers were experienced, and of great discretion and good
judgment. Each and all did excellent work and struck blow after blow
upon the savages.
Before starting out, General Crook’s instructions were communicated to
both Indian scouts and soldiers at Camp Grant; as they were of the same
tenor as those already given at other posts, I have not thought it
necessary to repeat them for each post. Briefly, they directed that the
Indians should be induced to surrender in all cases where possible;
where they preferred to fight, they were to get all the fighting they
wanted, and in one good dose instead of in a number of petty
engagements, but in either case were to be hunted down until the last
one in hostility had been killed or captured. Every effort should be
made to avoid the killing of women and children. Prisoners of either sex
should be guarded from ill-treatment of any kind. When prisoners could
be induced to enlist as scouts, they should be so enlisted, because the
wilder the Apache was, the more he was likely to know of the wiles and
stratagems of those still out in the mountains, their hiding-places and
intentions. No excuse was to be accepted for leaving a trail; if horses
played out, the enemy must be followed on foot, and no sacrifice should
be left untried to make the campaign short, sharp, and decisive.
Lieutenant and Brevet Major William J. Ross, Twenty-first Infantry, and
myself were attached to the command of Major Brown, to operate from Camp
Grant, through the Mescal, Pinal, Superstition, and Matitzal ranges,
over to Camp MacDowell and there receive further instructions. Before
leaving the post, I had to record a very singular affair which goes to
show how thoroughly self-satisfied and stupid officialism can always
become if properly encouraged. There was a Roman Catholic priest dining
at our mess—Father Antonio Jouvenceau—who had been sent out from Tucson
to try and establish a mission among the bands living in the vicinity of
Camp Apache. There wasn’t anything in the shape of supplies in the
country outside of the army stores, and of these the missionary desired
permission to buy enough to keep himself alive until he could make other
arrangements, or become accustomed to the wild food of such friends as
he might make among the savages. Every request he made was refused on
the ground that there was no precedent. I know that there was “no
precedent” for doing anything to bring savages to a condition of peace,
but I have never ceased to regret that there was not, because I feel
sure that had the slightest encouragement been given to Father Antonio
or to a handful of men like him, the wildest of the Apaches might have
been induced to listen to reason, and there would have been no such
expensive wars. A missionary could not well be expected to load himself
down with supplies and carry them on his own back while he was hunting
favorable specimens of the Indians upon whom to make an impression.
There were numbers of Mexican prisoners among the Apaches who retained
enough respect for the religion of their childhood to be from first
acquaintance the firm and devoted friends of the new-comer, and once set
on a good basis in the Apache villages, the rest would have been easy.
This, however, is merely conjecture on my part.
The new recruits from among the Apaches were under the command of a
chief responding to the name of “Esquinosquizn,” meaning “Bocon” or Big
Mouth. He was crafty, cruel, daring, and ambitious; he indulged whenever
he could in the intoxicant “Tizwin,” made of fermented corn and really
nothing but a sour beer which will not intoxicate unless the drinker
subject himself, as the Apache does, to a preliminary fast of from two
to four days. This indulgence led to his death at San Carlos some months
later. The _personnel_ of Brown’s command was excellent; it represented
soldiers of considerable experience and inured to all the climatic
variations to be expected in Arizona, and nowhere else in greater
degree. There were two companies of the Fifth Cavalry, and a detachment
of thirty Apache scouts, that being as many as could be apportioned to
each command in the initial stages of the campaign. Captain Alfred B.
Taylor, Lieutenant Jacob Almy, Lieutenant William J. Ross, and myself
constituted the commissioned list, until, at a point in the Superstition
Mountains, we were joined by Captain James Burns and First Lieutenant
Earl D. Thomas, Fifth Cavalry, with Company G of that regiment, and a
large body—not quite one hundred—of Pima Indians. In addition to the
above we had Archie Macintosh, Joe Felmer, and Antonio Besias as guides
and interpreters to take charge of the scouts. Mr. James Dailey, a
civilian volunteer, was also with the command. The pack train carried
along rations for thirty days, and there was no lack of flour, bacon,
beans, coffee, with a little chile colorado for the packers, and a small
quantity of dried peaches and chocolate, of which many persons in that
country made use in preference to coffee. We were all cut down to the
lowest notch in the matter of clothing, a deprivation of which no one
complained, since the loss was not severely felt amid such surroundings.
It was now that the great amount of information which General Crook had
personally absorbed in regard to Arizona came of the best service. He
had been in constant conference with the Apache scouts and interpreters
concerning all that was to be done and all that was positively known of
the whereabouts of the hostiles; especially did he desire to find the
“rancheria” of the chief “Chuntz,” who had recently murdered in cold
blood, at Camp Grant, a Mexican boy too young to have been a cause of
rancor to any one. It may be said in one word that the smallest details
of this expedition were arranged by General Crook in person before we
started down the San Pedro. He had learned from “Esquinosquizn” of the
site of the rancheria supposed to be occupied by “Deltchay” in the lofty
range called the “Four Peaks” or the “Matitzal,” the latter by the
Indians and the former by the Americans, on account of there being the
distinctive feature of four peaks of great elevation overlooking the
country for hundreds of miles in all directions. One of the most
important duties confided to our force was the destruction of this
rancheria if we could find it. These points were not generally known at
the time we left Grant, neither was it known that one of our Apache
guides, “Nantaje,” christened “Joe” by the soldiers, had been raised in
that very stronghold, and deputed to conduct us to it. First, we were to
look up “Chuntz,” if we could, and wipe him out, and then do our best to
clean up the stronghold of “Deltchay.”
I will avoid details of this march because it followed quite closely the
line of the first and second scouts made by Lieutenant Cushing, the
preceding year, which have been already outlined. We followed down the
dusty bottom of the San Pedro, through a jungle of mesquite and sage
brush, which always seem to grow on land which with irrigation will
yield bountifully of wheat, and crossed over to the feeble streamlet
marked on the maps as Deer Creek. We crossed the Gila at a point where
the Mescal and Pinal ranges seemed to come together, but the country was
so broken that it was hard to tell to which range the hills belonged.
The trails were rough, and the rocks were largely granites, porphyry,
and pudding stones, often of rare beauty. There was an abundance of
mescal, cholla cactus, manzanita, Spanish bayonet, pitahaya, and scrub
oak so long as we remained in the foothills, but upon gaining the higher
levels of the Pinal range, we found first juniper, and then pine of good
dimensions and in great quantity. The scenery upon the summit of the
Pinal was exhilarating and picturesque, but the winds were bitter and
the ground deep with snow, so that we made no complaint when the line of
march led us to a camp on the northwest extremity, where we found water
trickling down the flanks of the range into a beautiful narrow cañon,
whose steep walls hid us from the prying gaze of the enemy’s spies, and
also protected from the wind; the slopes were green with juicy grama
grass, and dotted with oaks which gracefully arranged themselves in
clusters of twos and threes, giving grateful shade to men and animals.
Far above us waved the branches of tall pines and cedars, and at their
feet could be seen the banks of snow, but in our own position the
weather was rather that of the south temperate or the northern part of
the torrid zone.
This rapid change of climate made scouting in Arizona very trying.
During this campaign we were often obliged to leave the warm valleys in
the morning and climb to the higher altitudes and go into bivouac upon
summits where the snow was hip deep, as on the Matitzal, the Mogollon
plateau, and the Sierra Ancha. To add to the discomfort, the pine was so
thoroughly soaked through with snow and rain that it would not burn, and
unless cedar could be found, the command was in bad luck. Our Apache
scouts, under Macintosh, Felmer, and Besias, were kept from twelve to
twenty-four hours in advance of the main body, but always in
communication, the intention being to make use of them to determine the
whereabouts of the hostiles, but to let the soldiers do the work of
cleaning them out. It was difficult to restrain the scouts, who were too
fond of war to let slip any good excuse for a fight, and consequently
Macintosh had two or three skirmishes of no great consequence, but which
showed that his scouts could be depended upon both as trailers and as a
fighting force. In one of these, the village or “rancheria” of “Chuntz,”
consisting of twelve “jacales,” was destroyed with a very full winter
stock of food, but only one of the party was wounded, and all escaped,
going in the direction of the Cañon of the Rio Salado or Salt River. The
advance of the scouts had been discovered by a squaw, who gave the alarm
and enabled the whole party to escape.
A day or two after this, the scouts again struck the trail of the enemy,
and had a sharp brush with them, killing several and capturing three.
The Apaches had been making ready to plant during the coming spring, had
dug irrigating ditches, and had also accumulated a great store of all
kinds of provisions suited to their needs, among others a full supply of
baked mescal, as well as of the various seeds of grass, sunflower, and
the beans of mesquite which form so important a part of their food. As
well as could be determined, this was on or near the head of the little
stream marked on the maps as Raccoon Creek, on the south slope of the
Sierra Ancha. Close by was a prehistoric ruin, whose wall of rubble
stone was still three feet high. On the other (the south) side of the
Salt River we passed under a well-preserved cliff-dwelling in the cañon
of Pinto Creek, a place which I have since examined carefully, digging
out sandals of the “palmilla” fibre, dried mescal, corn husks and other
foods, and some small pieces of textile fabrics, with one or two axes
and hammers of stone, arrows, and the usual débris to be expected in
such cases. We worked our way over into the edge of the Superstition
Mountains. There was very little to do, and it was evident that whether
through fear of our own and the other commands which must have been
seen, or from a desire to concentrate during the cold weather, the
Apaches had nearly all abandoned that section of country, and sought
refuge somewhere else.
The Apache scouts, however, insisted that we were to find a “heap” of
Indians “poco tiempo” (very soon). By their advice, most of our officers
and men had provided themselves with moccasins which would make no noise
in clambering over the rocks or down the slippery trails where rolling
stones might arouse the sleeping enemy. The Apaches, I noticed, stuffed
their moccasins with dry hay, and it was also apparent that they knew
all the minute points about making themselves comfortable with small
means. Just as soon as they reached camp, those who were not posted as
pickets or detailed to go off on side scouts in small parties of five
and six, would devote their attention to getting their bed ready for the
night; the grass in the vicinity would be plucked in handfuls, and
spread out over the smoothed surface upon which two or three of the
scouts purposed sleeping together; a semicircle of good-sized pieces of
rock made a wind break, and then one or two blankets would be spread
out, and upon that the three would recline, huddling close together,
each wrapped up in his own blanket. Whenever fires were allowed, the
Apaches would kindle small ones, and lie down close to them with feet
towards the flame. According to the theory of the Indian, the white man
makes so great a conflagration that, besides alarming the whole country,
he makes it so hot that no one can draw near, whereas the Apache, with
better sense, contents himself with a small collection of embers, over
which he can if necessary crouch and keep warm.
The fine condition of our pack-trains awakened continued interest, and
evoked constant praise; the mules had followed us over some of the worst
trails in Arizona, and were still as fresh as when they left Grant, and
all in condition for the most arduous service with the exception of two,
one of which ate, or was supposed to have eaten, of the insect known as
the “Compra mucho” or the “Niña de la Tierra,” which is extremely
poisonous to those animals which swallow it in the grass to which it
clings. This mule died. Another was bitten on the lip by a rattlesnake,
and though by the prompt application of a poultice of the weed called
the “golondrina” we managed to save its life for a few days, it too
died. On Christmas Day we were joined by Captain James Burns, Fifth
Cavalry, with Lieutenant Earl D. Thomas, of the same regiment, and a
command consisting of forty enlisted men of Company G, and a body of not
quite one hundred Pima Indians. They had been out from MacDowell for six
days, and had crossed over the highest point of the Matitzal range, and
had destroyed a “rancheria,” killing six and capturing two; one, a
squaw, sent in to MacDowell, and the other, a small but very bright and
active boy, whom the men had promptly adopted, and upon whom had been
bestowed the name “Mike” Burns, which he has retained to this day. This
boy, then not more than six or seven years old, was already an expert in
the use of the bow and arrow, and, what suited Captain Burns much
better, he could knock down quail with stones, and add much to the
pleasures of a very meagre mess, as no shooting was allowed. During the
past twenty years, Mike Burns has, through the interposition of General
Crook, been sent to Carlisle, and there received the rudiments of an
education; we have met at the San Carlos Agency, and talked over old
times, and I have learned what was not then known, that in Burns’s fight
with the band on the summit of the Four Peaks, seven of the latter were
killed, and the men and women who escaped, under the leadership of
Mike’s own father, hurried to the stronghold in the cañon of the Salt
River, where they were all killed by our command a few days later. On
the evening of the 27th of December, 1872, we were bivouacked in a
narrow cañon called the Cottonwood Creek, flowing into the Salado at the
eastern base of the Matitzal, when Major Brown announced to his officers
that the object for which General Crook had sent out this particular
detachment was almost attained; that he had been in conference with
“Nantaje,” one of our Apache scouts, who had been brought up in the cave
in the cañon of the Salt River, and that he had expressed a desire to
lead us there, provided we made up our minds to make the journey before
day-dawn, as the position of the enemy was such that if we should be
discovered on the trail, not one of our party would return alive. The
Apaches are familiar with the stars, and “Nantaje” had said that if we
were to go, he wanted to start out with the first appearance above the
eastern horizon of a certain star with which he was acquainted.
Brown gave orders that every officer and man who was not in the best
condition for making a severe march and climb over rugged mountains,
should stay with the pack-trains and be on the watch for any prowling
band of the enemy. First, there was made a pile of the _aparejos_ and
supplies which could serve in emergency as a breastwork for those to
remain behind; then a picket line was stretched, to which the mules and
horses could be tied, and kept under shelter from fire; and lastly,
every officer and man looked carefully to his weapons and ammunition,
for we were to start out on foot and climb through the rough promontory
of the Matitzal into the Salt River Cañon, and on to the place in which
we were to come upon the cave inhabited by the hostiles of whom we were
in search. Every belt was filled with cartridges, and twenty extra were
laid away in the blanket which each wore slung across his shoulders, and
in which were placed the meagre allowance of bread, bacon, and coffee
taken as provision, with the canteen of water. The Apache scouts had
asked the privilege of cooking and eating the mule which had died during
the morning, and as the sky had clouded and the light of small fires
could not well be seen, Major Brown consented, and they stuffed
themselves to their hearts’ content, in a meal which had not a few
points of resemblance to the “Festins à manger tout,” mentioned by
Father Lafitau, Parkman, and other writers. Before eight o’clock, we
were on our way, “Nantaje” in the van, and all marching briskly towards
the summit of the high mesas which enclosed the cañon.
The night became extremely cold, and we were only too glad of the
opportunity of pushing ahead with vigor, and regretted very much to hear
the whispered command to halt and lie down until the last of the
rear-guard could be heard from. The Apache scouts in front had detected
lights in advance, and assured Major Brown that they must be from the
fires of the Indians of whom we were in quest. While they went ahead to
search and determine exactly what was the matter, the rest of us were
compelled to lie prone to the ground, so as to afford the least chance
to the enemy to detect any signs of life among us; no one spoke beyond a
whisper, and even when the cold compelled any of the party to cough, it
was done with the head wrapped up closely in a blanket or cape.
“Nantaje,” “Bocon,” and others were occupied with the examination of the
track into which the first-named had stepped, as he and Brown were
walking ahead; it seemed to the Indian to be the footprint of a man, but
when all had nestled down close to the earth, covered heads over with
blankets, and struck a match, it proved to be the track of a great bear,
which closely resembles that of a human being. Within a few moments,
Felmer, Archie, and the others, sent on to discover the cause of the
fires seen ahead, returned with the intelligence that the Apaches had
just been raiding upon the white and Pima Indian settlements in the
valley of the Gila, and had driven off fifteen horses and mules, which,
being barefoot and sore from climbing the rocky trail up the face of the
mountain, had been abandoned in a little nook where there was a slight
amount of grass and a little water. Worst news of all, there had been
four large “wickyups” in the same place which had just been vacated, and
whether on account of discovering our approach or not it was hard to
say.
We were becoming rather nervous by this time, as we still had in mind
what “Nantaje” had said the previous evening about killing the last of
the enemy, or being compelled to fight our own way back. “Nantaje” was
thoroughly composed, and smiled when some of the party insinuated a
doubt about the existence of any large “rancheria” in the neighborhood.
“Wait and see,” was all the reply he would vouchsafe.
By advice of “Nantaje,” Major Brown ordered Lieutenant William J. Ross
to proceed forward on the trail with twelve or fifteen of the best shots
among the soldiers, and such of the packers as had obtained permission
to accompany the command. “Nantaje” led them down the slippery, rocky,
dangerous trail in the wall of the gloomy cañon, which in the cold gray
light of the slowly creeping dawn, and under the gloom of our
surroundings, made us think of the Valley of the Shadow of Death. “They
ought to be very near here,” said Major Brown. “Good Heavens! what is
all that?” It was a noise equal to that of a full battery of
six-pounders going off at once. Brown knew that something of the
greatest consequence had happened, and he wasn’t the man to wait for the
arrival of messengers; he ordered me to take command of the first forty
men in the advance, without waiting to see whether they were white or
red, soldiers or packers, and go down the side of the cañon on the run,
until I had joined Ross, and taken up a position as close to the enemy
as it was possible for me to get without bringing on a fight; meantime,
he would gather up all the rest of the command, and follow me as fast as
he could, and relieve me. There was no trouble at all in getting down
that cañon; the difficulty was to hold on to the trail; had any man lost
his footing, he would not have stopped until he had struck the current
of the Salado, hundreds of feet below. In spite of everything, we
clambered down, and by great good luck broke no necks. As we turned a
sudden angle in the wall, we saw the condition of affairs most
completely. The precipice forming that side of the cañon was hundreds of
feet in height, but at a point some four or five hundred feet below the
crest had fallen back in a shelf upon which was a cave of no great
depth. In front of the cave great blocks of stone furnished a natural
rampart behind which the garrison could bid defiance to the assaults of
almost any enemy; in this eyrie, the band of “Nanni-chaddi” felt a
security such as only the eagle or the vulture can feel in the seclusion
of the ice-covered dizzy pinnacles of the Andes; from the shelf upon
which they lived these savages, who seem to me to have been the last of
the cliff-dwellers within our borders, had on several occasions watched
the commands of Sanford and Carr struggling to make their way up the
stream in the cañon below. The existence of one, or perhaps two,
rancherias somewhere within this gloomy cañon had long been suspected,
but never demonstrated until the present moment. When we joined Ross we
heard his story told in few words: he and his small band of twelve had
followed Felmer and Macintosh down the face of the cliff until they had
reached the small open space in front of the cave; there they saw within
a very few yards of them the party of raiders just returned from the
Gila settlements, who had left at pasture the band of fifteen ponies
which we had seen. These warriors were dancing, either to keep
themselves warm or as a portion of some religious ceremonial, as is
generally the case with the tribes in the southwest. Close by them
crouched half a dozen squaws, aroused from slumber to prepare food for
the hungry braves. The flames of the fire, small as it was, reflected
back from the high walls, gave a weird illumination to the features of
the circle, and enabled the whites to take better aim upon their
unsuspecting victims. Ross and “Nantaje” consulted in whispers, and
immediately it was decided that each man should with the least noise
possible cock his piece and aim at one of the group without reference to
what his next-door neighbor might be doing. Had not the Apaches been
interested in their own singing, they might surely have heard the low
whisper: ready! aim! fire! but it would have been too late; the die was
cast, and their hour had come.
The fearful noise which we had heard, reverberating from peak to peak
and from crag to crag, was the volley poured in by Ross and his
comrades, which had sent six souls to their last account, and sounded
the death-knell of a powerful band. The surprise and terror of the
savages were so complete that they thought only of the safety which the
interior of the cave afforded, and as a consequence, when my party
arrived on the scene, although there were a number of arrows thrown at
us as we descended the path and rounded the angle, yet no attempt was
made at a counter-assault, and before the Apaches could recover from
their astonishment the two parties united, numbering more than fifty,
nearer sixty, men, had secured position within thirty yards of one flank
of the cave, and within forty yards of the other, and each man posted
behind rocks in such a manner that he might just as well be in a rifle
pit. My instructions were not to make any fight, but to keep the Apaches
occupied, in case they tried to break out of the trap, and to order all
men to shelter themselves to the utmost. Major Brown was down with the
remainder of the command almost before a shot could be exchanged with
the enemy, although there were two more killed either a moment before
his arrival or very soon after. One of these was a Pima, one of our own
allies, who persisted in disregarding orders, and exposed himself to the
enemy’s fire, and was shot through the body and died before he ever knew
what had struck him. The other was one of the Apaches who had sneaked
down along our right flank, and was making his way out to try to open up
communication with another village and get its people to attack us in
rear. He counted without his host, and died a victim to his own
carelessness; he had climbed to the top of a high rock some distance
down the cañon, and there fancied himself safe from our shots, and
turned to give a yell of defiance. His figure outlined against the sky
was an excellent mark, and there was an excellent shot among us to take
full advantage of it. Blacksmith John Cahill had his rifle in position
like a flash, and shot the Indian through the body. At the time of the
fight, we did not know that the savage had been killed, although Cahill
insisted that he had shot him as described, and as those nearest him
believed. The corpse could not be found in the rocks before we left, and
therefore was not counted, but the squaws at San Carlos have long since
told me that their relative was killed there, and that his remains were
found after we had left the neighborhood.
[Illustration: SHARP NOSE.]
Brown’s first work was to see that the whole line was impregnable to
assault from the beleaguered garrison of the cave, and then he directed
his interpreters to summon all to an unconditional surrender. The only
answer was a shriek of hatred and defiance, threats of what we had to
expect, yells of exultation at the thought that not one of us should
ever see the light of another day, but should furnish a banquet for the
crows and buzzards, and some scattering shots fired in pure bravado.
Brown again summoned all to surrender, and when jeers were once more his
sole response, he called upon the Apaches to allow their women and
children to come out, and assured them kind treatment. To this the
answer was the same as before, the jeers and taunts of the garrison
assuring our people that they were in dead earnest in saying that they
intended to fight till they died. For some moments the Apaches resorted
to the old tactics of enticing some of our unwary soldiers to expose
themselves above the wall of rocks behind which Major Brown ordered all
to crouch; a hat or a war bonnet would be set up on the end of a bow,
and held in such a way as to make-believe that there was a warrior
behind it, and induce some one proud of his marksmanship to “lay” for
the red man and brother, who would, in his turn, be “laying” for the
white man in some coign of vantage close to where his squaw was holding
the head-gear. But such tricks were entirely too transparent to deceive
many, and after a short time the Apaches themselves grew tired of them,
and began to try new methods. They seemed to be abundantly provided with
arrows and lances, and of the former they made no saving, but would send
them flying high in air in the hope that upon coming back to earth they
might hit those of our rearguard who were not taking such good care of
themselves as were their brothers at the front on the skirmish line.
There was a lull of a few minutes; each side was measuring its own
strength and that of its opponent. It was apparent that any attempt to
escalade without ladders would result in the loss of more than half our
command; the great rock wall in front of the cave was not an inch less
than ten feet in height at its lowest point, and smooth as the palm of
the hand; it would be madness to attempt to climb it, because the moment
the assailants reached the top, the lances of the invested force could
push them back to the ground wounded to death. Three or four of our
picked shots were posted in eligible positions overlooking the places
where the Apaches had been seen to expose themselves; this, in the hope
that any recurrence of such fool-hardiness would afford an opportunity
for the sharpshooters to show their skill. Of the main body, one-half
was in reserve fifty yards behind the skirmish line—to call it such
where the whole business was a skirmish line—with carbines loaded and
cocked, and a handful of cartridges on the clean rocks in front, and
every man on the lookout to prevent the escape of a single warrior,
should any be fortunate enough to sneak or break through the first line.
The men on the first line had orders to fire as rapidly as they chose,
directing aim against the roof of the cave, with the view to having the
bullets glance down among the Apache men, who had massed immediately
back of the rock rampart.
This plan worked admirably, and, so far as we could judge, our shots
were telling upon the Apaches, and irritating them to that degree that
they no longer sought shelter, but boldly faced our fire and returned it
with energy, the weapons of the men being reloaded by the women, who
shared their dangers. A wail from a squaw, and the feeble cry of a
little babe, were proof that the missiles of death were not seeking men
alone. Brown ordered our fire to cease, and for the last time summoned
the Apaches to surrender, or to let their women and children come out
unmolested. On their side, the Apaches also ceased all hostile
demonstration, and it seemed to some of us Americans that they must be
making ready to yield, and were discussing the matter among themselves.
Our Indian guides and interpreters raised the cry, “Look out! There goes
the death song; they are going to charge!” It was a weird chant, one not
at all easy to describe; half wail and half exultation—the frenzy of
despair and the wild cry for revenge. Now the petulant, querulous treble
of the squaws kept time with the shuffling feet, and again the deeper
growl of the savage bull-dogs, who represented manhood in that cave, was
flung back from the cold pitiless brown of the cliffs.
“Look out! Here they come!” Over the rampart, guided by one impulse,
moving as if they were all part of the one body, jumped and ran twenty
of the warriors—superb-looking fellows all of them; each carried upon
his back a quiver filled with the long reed arrows of the tribe, each
held in his hand a bow and a rifle, the latter at full cock. Half of the
party stood upon the rampart, which gave them some chance to sight our
men behind the smaller rocks in front, and blazed away for all they were
worth—they were trying to make a demonstration to engage our attention,
while the other part suddenly slipped down and around our right flank,
and out through the rocks which had so effectively sheltered the retreat
of the one who had so nearly succeeded in getting away earlier in the
morning. Their motives were divined, and the move was frustrated; our
men rushed to the attack like furies, each seeming to be anxious to
engage the enemy at close quarters. Six or seven of the enemy were
killed in a space not twenty-five feet square, and the rest driven back
within the cave, more or less wounded.
Although there was a fearful din from the yells, groans, wails of the
squaws within the fortress, and the re-echoing of volleys from the walls
of the cañon, our command behaved admirably, and obeyed its orders to
the letter. The second line never budged from its place, and well it was
that it had stayed just there. One of the charging party, seeing that so
much attention was converged upon our right, had slipped down unnoticed
from the rampart, and made his way to the space between our two lines,
and had sprung to the top of a huge boulder, and there had begun his
war-whoop, as a token of encouragement to those still behind. I imagine
that he was not aware of our second line, and thought that once in our
rear, ensconced in a convenient nook in the rocks, he could keep us busy
by picking us off at his leisure. His chant was never finished; it was
at once his song of glory and his death song; he had broken through our
line of fire only to meet a far more cruel death. Twenty carbines were
gleaming in the sunlight just flushing the cliffs; forty eyes were
sighting along the barrels. The Apache looked into the eyes of his
enemies, and in not one did he see the slightest sign of mercy; he tried
to say something; what it was we never could tell. “No! No! soldados!”
in broken Spanish, was all we could make out before the resounding
volley had released another soul from its earthly casket, and let the
bleeding corpse fall to the ground as limp as a wet moccasin. He was
really a handsome warrior; tall, well-proportioned, finely muscled, and
with a bold, manly countenance; “shot to death” was the verdict of all
who paused to look upon him, but that didn’t half express the state of
the case; I have never seen a man more thoroughly shot to pieces than
was this one; every bullet seemed to have struck, and not less than
eight or ten had inflicted mortal wounds.
The savages in the cave, with death now staring them in the face, did
not seem to lose their courage—or, shall we say despair? They resumed
their chant, and sang with vigor and boldness, until Brown determined
that the battle or siege must end. Our two lines were now massed in one,
and every officer and man told to get ready a package of cartridges;
then as fast as the breech-block of the carbine could be opened and
lowered, we were to fire into the mouth of the cave, hoping to inflict
the greatest damage by glancing bullets, and then charge in by the
entrance on our right flank, back of the rock rampart which had served
as the means of exit for the hostiles when they made their attack. The
din and tumult increased twenty-fold beyond the last time; lead poured
in by the bucketful, but, strangely enough, there was a lull for a
moment or two, and without orders. A little Apache boy, not over four
years old, if so old, ran out from within the cave, and stood, with
thumb in mouth, looking in speechless wonder and indignation at the
belching barrels. He was not in much danger, because all the carbines
were aiming upwards at the roof, nevertheless a bullet—whether from our
lines direct, or hurled down from the rocky ceiling—struck the youngster
on the skull, and ploughed a path for itself around to the back of his
neck, leaving a welt as big as one’s finger. The youngster was knocked
off his feet, and added the tribute of his howls to the roars and echoes
of the conflict. “Nantaje” sprang like a deer to where the boy lay, and
grasped him by one arm, and ran with him behind a great stone. Our men
spontaneously ceased firing for one minute to cheer “Nantaje” and the
“kid;” the fight was then resumed with greater vigor. The Apaches did
not relax their fire, but, from the increasing groans of the women, we
knew that our shots were telling either upon the women in the cave, or
upon their relatives among the men for whom they were sorrowing.
It was exactly like fighting with wild animals in a trap: the Apaches
had made up their minds to die if relief did not reach them from some of
the other “rancherias” supposed to be close by. Ever since early morning
nothing had been seen of Burns and Thomas, and the men of Company G.
With a detachment of Pima guides, they had been sent off to follow the
trail of the fifteen ponies found at day-dawn; Brown was under the
impression that the raiding party belonging to the cave might have split
into two or three parties, and that some of the latter ones might be
trapped and ambuscaded while ascending the mountain. This was before
Ross and “Nantaje” and Felmer had discovered the cave and forced the
fight. This part of our forces had marched a long distance down the
mountain, and was returning to rejoin us, when the roar of the carbines
apprised them that the worst kind of a fight was going on, and that
their help would be needed badly; they came back on the double, and as
soon as they reached the summit of the precipice were halted to let the
men get their breath. It was a most fortunate thing that they did so,
and at that particular spot. Burns and several others went to the crest
and leaned over to see what all the frightful hubbub was about. They saw
the conflict going on beneath them, and in spite of the smoke could make
out that the Apaches were nestling up close to the rock rampart, so as
to avoid as much as possible the projectiles which were raining down
from the roof of their eyrie home.
It didn’t take Burns five seconds to decide what should be done; he had
two of his men harnessed with the suspenders of their comrades, and made
them lean well over the precipice, while the harness was used to hold
them in place; these men were to fire with their revolvers at the enemy
beneath, and for a volley or so they did very effective work, but their
Irish blood got the better of their reason, and in their excitement they
began to throw their revolvers at the enemy; this kind of ammunition was
rather too costly, but it suggested a novel method of annihilating the
enemy. Burns ordered his men to get together and roll several of the
huge boulders, which covered the surface of the mountain, and drop them
over on the unsuspecting foe. The noise was frightful; the destruction
sickening. Our volleys were still directed against the inner faces of
the cave and the roof, and the Apaches seemed to realize that their only
safety lay in crouching close to the great stone heap in front; but even
this precarious shelter was now taken away; the air was filled with the
bounding, plunging fragments of stone, breaking into thousands of
pieces, with other thousands behind, crashing down with the momentum
gained in a descent of hundreds of feet. No human voice could be heard
in such a cyclone of wrath; the volume of dust was so dense that no eye
could pierce it, but over on our left it seemed that for some reason we
could still discern several figures guarding that extremity of the
enemy’s line—the old “Medicine Man,” who, decked in all the panoply of
his office, with feathers on head, decorated shirt on back, and all the
sacred insignia known to his people, had defied the approach of death,
and kept his place, firing coolly at everything that moved on our side
that he could see, his rifle reloaded and handed back by his
assistants—either squaws or young men—it was impossible to tell which,
as only the arms could be noted in the air. Major Brown signalled up to
Burns to stop pouring down his boulders, and at the same time our men
were directed to cease firing, and to make ready to charge; the fire of
the Apaches had ceased, and their chant of defiance was hushed. There
was a feeling in the command as if we were about to rush through the
gates of a cemetery, and that we should find a ghastly spectacle within,
but, at the same time, it might be that the Apaches had retreated to
some recesses in the innermost depths of the cavern, unknown to us, and
be prepared to assail all who ventured to cross the wall in front.
Precisely at noon we advanced, Corporal Hanlon, of Company G, Fifth
Cavalry, being the first man to surmount the parapet. I hope that my
readers will be satisfied with the meagrest description of the awful
sight that met our eyes: there were men and women dead or withing in the
agonies of death, and with them several babies, killed by our glancing
bullets, or by the storm of rocks and stones that had descended from
above. While one portion of the command worked at extricating the bodies
from beneath the pile of débris, another stood guard with cocked
revolvers or carbines, ready to blow out the brains of the first wounded
savage who might in his desperation attempt to kill one of our people.
But this precaution was entirely useless. All idea of resistance had
been completely knocked out of the heads of the survivors, of whom, to
our astonishment, there were over thirty.
How any of the garrison had ever escaped such a storm of missiles was at
first a mystery to us, as the cave was scarcely a cave at all, but
rather a cliff dwelling, and of no extended depth. However, there were
many large slabs of flat thin stone within the enclosure, either left
there by Nature or carried in by the squaws, to be employed in various
domestic purposes. Behind and under these many of the squaws had crept,
and others had piled up the dead to screen themselves and their children
from the fury of our assault. Thirty-five, if I remember aright, were
still living, but in the number are included all who were still
breathing; many were already dying, and nearly one-half were dead before
we started out of that dreadful place. None of the warriors were
conscious except one old man, who serenely awaited the last summons; he
had received five or six wounds, and was practically dead when we sprang
over the entrance wall. There was a general sentiment of sorrow for the
old “Medicine Man” who had stood up so fiercely on the left of the
Apache line; we found his still warm corpse, crushed out of all
semblance to humanity, beneath a huge mass of rock, which had also
extinguished at one fell stroke the light of the life of the squaw and
the young man who had remained by his side. The amount of plunder and
supplies of all kinds was extremely great, and the band inhabiting these
cliffs must have lived with some comfort. There was a great amount of
food—roasted mescal, seeds of all kinds, jerked mule or pony meat, and
all else that these savages were wont to store for the winter; bows and
arrows in any quantity, lances, war clubs, guns of various kinds, with
ammunition fixed and loose; a perfect stronghold well supplied. So much
of the mescal and other food as our scouts wished to pack off on their
own backs was allowed them, and everything else was given to the flames.
No attempt was made to bury the dead, who, with the exception of our own
Pima, were left where they fell.
Brown was anxious to get back out of the cañon, as the captive squaws
told him that there was another “rancheria” in the Superstition
Mountains on the south side of the cañon, and it was probable that the
Indians belonging to it would come up just as soon as they heard the
news of the fight, and attack our column in rear as it tried to make its
way back to the top of the precipice. The men who were found dancing by
Ross had, just that moment, returned from a raid upon the Pima villages
and the outskirts of Florence, in the Gila valley, where they had been
successful in getting the ponies we recovered, as well as in killing
some of the whites and friendly Indians living there. We had not wiped
out all the band belonging to the cave; there were six or seven of the
young women who had escaped and made their way down to the foot of the
precipice, and on into the current of the Salado; they would be sure to
push on to the other “rancheria,” of which we had been told. How they
came to escape was this: at the very first streak of light, or perhaps a
short time before, they had been sent—six young girls and an old
woman—to examine a great “mescal pit” down in the cañon, and determine
whether the food was yet ready for use. The Apaches always preferred to
let their mescal cook for three days, and at the end of that time would
pull out a plug made of the stalk of the plant, which should always be
put into the “pit” or oven, and if the end of that plug is cooked, the
whole mass is cooked. We had smelt the savory odors arising from the
“pit” as we climbed down the face of the cliff, early in the day. John
de Laet describes a mescal heap, or a furnace of earth covered with hot
rocks, upon which the Chichimecs (the name by which the Spaniards in
early times designated all the wild tribes in the northern part of their
dominions in North America) placed their corn-paste or venison, then
other hot rocks, and finally earth again. This mode of cooking, he says,
was imitated by the Spaniards in New Mexico. (_Lib. 7, cap. 3._) The
Apache-Mojave squaws at the San Carlos Agency still periodically mourn
for the death of seventy-six of their people in this cave, and when I
was last among them, they told a strange story of how one man escaped
from our scrutiny, after we had gained possession of the stronghold.
He had been badly wounded by a bullet in the calf of the left leg, in
the very beginning of the fight, and had lain down behind one of the
great slabs of stone which were resting against the walls; as the fight
grew hotter and hotter, other wounded Indians sought shelter close to
the same spot, and after a while the corpses of the slain were piled up
there as a sort of a breastwork. When we removed the dead, it never
occurred to any of us to look behind the stone slabs, and to this fact
the Indian owed his salvation. He could hear the scouts talking, and he
knew that we were going to make a rapid march to reunite with our
pack-train and with other scouting parties. He waited until after we had
started out on the trail, and then made for himself a support for his
injured limb out of a broken lance-staff, and a pair of crutches out of
two others. He crawled or climbed up the wall of the cañon, and then
made his way along the trail to the Tonto Creek, to meet and to turn
back a large band of his tribe who were coming down to join
“Nanni-chaddi.” He saved them from Major Brown, but it was a case of
jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. They took refuge on the
summit of “Turret Butte,” a place deemed second only to the Salt River
cave in impregnability, and supposed to be endowed with peculiar
“medicine” qualities, which would prevent an enemy from gaining
possession of it. But here they were surprised by the command of Major
George M. Randall, Twenty-third Infantry, and completely wiped out, as
will be told on another page.
We got away from the cañon with eighteen captives, women and children,
some of them badly wounded; we might have saved a larger percentage of
the whole number found, living in the cave at the moment of assault, but
we were not provided with medical supplies, bandages, or anything for
the care of the sick and wounded. This one item will show how thoroughly
out of the world the Department of Arizona was at that time; it was
difficult to get medical officers out there, and the resulting condition
of affairs was such an injustice to both officers and men that General
Crook left no stone unturned until he had rectified it. The captives
were seated upon the Pima ponies left back upon the top of the mountain;
these animals were almost played out; their feet had been knocked to
pieces coming up the rocky pathway, during the darkness of night; and
the cholla cactus still sticking in their legs, showed that they had
been driven with such speed, and in such darkness, that they had been
unable to pick their way. But they wore better than nothing, and were
kept in use for the rest of that day. Runners were despatched across the
hills to the pack-train, and were told to conduct it to a small spring,
well known to our guides, high up on the nose of the Matitzal, where we
were all to unite and go into camp.
It was a rest and refreshment sorely needed, after the scrambling,
slipping, and sliding over and down loose rocks which had been dignified
with the name of marching, during the preceding two days. Our captives
were the recipients of every attention that we could give, and appeared
to be improving rapidly, and to have regained the good spirits which are
normally theirs. Mounted couriers were sent in advance to Camp
MacDowell, to let it be known that we were coming in with wounded, and
the next morning, early, we set out for that post, following down the
course of what was known as Sycamore Creek to the Verde River, which
latter we crossed in front of the post.