THE CAMPAIGN RESUMED—EFFICIENCY OF APACHE SCOUTS—JACK LONG BREAKS DOWN—A
BAND OF APACHES SURRENDER IN THE MOUNTAINS—THE EPIZOOTIC—THE TAYLOR
MASSACRE AND ITS AVENGING—THE ARIZONA ROLL OF HONOR, OFFICERS, MEN,
SURGEONS, SCOUTS, GUIDES, AND PACKERS—THE STRANGE RUIN IN THE VERDE
VALLEY—DEATH OF PRESILIANO MONJE—THE APACHES SURRENDER
UNCONDITIONALLY TO CROOK AT CAMP VERDE.
The wounded squaws were forwarded to old Camp Grant, just as soon as
able to travel, and our command remained for several days in the camp,
until joined by other detachments, when we returned to the Superstition
range, this time in considerable strength, the whole force consisting of
the companies of Adams, Montgomery, Hamilton, Taylor, Burns, and
Almy—all of the Fifth Cavalry, with the following additional officers:
Lieutenants Rockwell, Schuyler, and Keyes, of the Fifth; Ross, of the
Twenty-third Infantry; Bourke, of the Third Cavalry; and Mr. James
Daily, General Crook’s brother-in-law, as volunteer. The guides, as
before, were Macintosh, Felmer, and Besias, with thirty Apache scouts,
under the leadership of “Esquinosquizn.” This march was simply a
repetition of the former; there was the same careful attention to
details—no fires allowed except when the light could not be discerned by
the lynx-eyed enemy; no shouting, singing, whistling, lighting of
matches, or anything else which might attract attention. There was the
same amount of night-marching, side scouting to either flank or in
advance, the same careful scrutiny of the minutest sign on the trail.
The presence of the Indian scouts saved the white soldiers a great deal
of extra fatigue, for the performance of which the Apaches were better
qualified. It was one of the fundamental principles upon which General
Crook conducted all his operations, to enlist as many of the Indians as
could be induced to serve as scouts, because by this means he not only
subtracted a considerable element from those in hostility and received
hostages, as it were, for the better behavior of his scouts’ kinsmen,
but he removed from the shoulders of his men an immense amount of
arduous and disagreeable work, and kept them fresh for any emergency
that might arise. The Apaches were kept constantly out on the flanks,
under the white guides, and swept the country of all hostile bands. The
white troops followed upon the heels of the Indians, but at a short
distance in the rear, as the native scouts were better acquainted with
all the tricks of their calling, and familiar with every square acre of
the territory. The longer we knew the Apache scouts, the better we liked
them. They were wilder and more suspicious than the Pimas and Maricopas,
but far more reliable, and endowed with a greater amount of courage and
daring. I have never known an officer whose experience entitled his
opinion to the slightest consideration, who did not believe as I do on
this subject. On this scout Captain Hamilton was compelled to send back
his Maricopas as worthless; this was before he joined Brown at
MacDowell.
All savages have to undergo certain ceremonies of lustration after
returning from the war-path where any of the enemy have been killed.
With the Apaches these are baths in the sweat-lodge, accompanied with
singing and other rites. With the Pimas and Maricopas these ceremonies
are more elaborate, and necessitate a seclusion from the rest of the
tribe for many days, fasting, bathing, and singing. The Apache “bunches”
all his religious duties at these times, and defers his bathing until he
gets home, but the Pima and Maricopa are more punctilious, and resort to
the rites of religion the moment a single one, either of their own
numbers or of the enemy, has been laid low. For this reason Brown
started out from MacDowell with Apaches only.
It was noticed with some concern by all his friends that old Jack Long
was beginning to break; the fatigue and exertion which the more juvenile
members of the expedition looked upon as normal to the occasion, the
night marches, the exposure to the cold and wind and rain and snow, the
climbing up and down steep precipices, the excitement, the going without
food or water for long periods, were telling visibly upon the
representative of an older generation. Hank ’n Yank, Chenoweth, Frank
Monach, and Joe Felmer “’lowed th’ ole man was off his feed,” but it
was, in truth, only the summons sent him by Dame Nature that he had
overdrawn his account, and was to be in the future bankrupt in health
and strength. There was an unaccountable irritability about Jack, a
fretfulness at the end of each day’s climbing, which spoke more than
words could of enfeebled strength and nervous prostration. He found
fault with his cook, formerly his pride and boast. “Be-gosh,” he
remarked one evening, “seems t’ me yer a-burnin’ everything; next I
know, ye’ll be a-burnin’ water.” There were sarcastic references to the
lack of “horse sense” shown by certain unnamed “shave-tail leftenants”
in the command—shafts which rebounded unnoticed from the armor of
Schuyler and myself, but which did not make us feel any too comfortable
while the old veteran was around. Day by day, meal after meal, his cook
grew worse, or poor Jack grew no better. Nothing spread upon the canvas
would tempt Jack’s appetite; he blamed it all on the culinary artist,
never dreaming that he alone was at fault, and that his digestion was a
thing of the past, and beyond the skill of cook or condiment to revive.
“He ain’t a pastry cook,” growled Jack, “nor yet a hasty cook, nor a
tasty cook, but fur a dog-goned nasty cook, I’ll back ’m agin th’ hull
Pacific Slope.” When he heard some of the packers inveighing against
Tucson whiskey, Jack’s rage rose beyond bounds. “Many a time ’n oft,” he
said, “Arizona whiskey ’s bin plenty good enough fur th’ likes o’ me; it
’s good ’s a hoss liniment, ’n it ’s good ’s a beverage, ’n I’ve tried
it both ways, ’n I know; ’n thet’s more ’n kin be said for this yere
dude whiskey they gits in Dilmonico’s.” There wasn’t a drop of stimulant
as such, with the whole command, that I knew of, but in my own blankets
there was a pint flask filled with rather better stuff than was
ordinarily to be obtained, which I had been keeping in case of snake
bites or other accidents. It occurred to me to present a good drink of
this to Jack, but as I did not like to do this with so many standing
around the fire, I approached the blankets upon which Jack was
reclining, and asked: “See here, Jack, I want you to try this water;
there’s something very peculiar about it.”
“Thet ’s allers th’ way with these yere shave-tail leftenants they ’s
gittin’ in th’ army now-a-days; allers complainin’ about su’thin; water!
Lor’! yer orter bin with me when I was minin’ up on th’ Frazer. Then
ye’d a’ known what water was * * * Water, be-gosh! why, Major, I’ll
never forget yer’s long’s I live”—and in the exuberance of his
gratitude, the old man brevetted me two or three grades.
From that on Jack and I were sworn friends; he never levelled the shafts
of his sarcasm either at me or my faithful mule, “Malaria.” “Malaria”
had been born a first-class mule, but a fairy godmother, or some other
mysterious cause, had carried the good mule away, and left in its place
a lop-eared, mangy specimen, which enjoyed the proud distinction of
being considered, without dissent, the meanest mule in the whole
Department of Arizona. Not many weeks after that poor old Jack died; he
was in camp with one of the commands on the San Carlos, and broke down
entirely; in his delirium he saw the beautiful green pastures of the
Other Side, shaded by branching oaks; he heard the rippling of pellucid
waters, and listened to the gladsome song of merry birds. “Fellers,” he
said, “it is beautiful over thar; the grass is so green, and the water
so cool; I am tired of marchin’, ’n I reckon I’ll cross over ’n go in
camp ”—so poor old Jack crossed over to come back no more.
All through the Superstition Mountains, we worked as carefully as we had
worked in the more northern portion on our trip to MacDowell, but we met
with less success than we had anticipated; on the morning of the 15th of
January, after a toilsome night-climb over rough mesas and mountains, we
succeeded in crawling upon a small rancheria ere the first rays of the
sun had surmounted the eastern horizon; but the occupants were too smart
for us and escaped, leaving three dead in our hands and thirteen
captives—women and children; we also captured the old chief of the band,
who, like his people, seemed to be extremely poor. Three days later we
heard loud shouting from a high mountain to the left of the trail we
were following. Thinking at first that it was from some hostile parties,
Major Brown sent out a detachment of the scouts to run them off. In
about half an hour or less a young boy not more than eight years old
came down to see the commanding officer, who had halted the column until
he could learn what was wanted. The youngster was very much agitated,
and trembled violently; he said that he had been sent down to say that
his people did not want any more war, but were desirous of making peace.
He was given something to eat and tobacco to smoke, and afterwards one
of the pack-mules was led up and its “cargo” unloaded so that the cook
might give the ambassador a good stomachful of beans always kept cooked
in a train. The Apache was very grateful, and after talking with the
scouts was much more at his ease. He was presented with an old blouse by
one of the officers, and then Major Brown told him that he was too young
to represent anybody, but not too young to see for himself that we did
not want to harm any people who were willing to behave themselves. He
could return in safety to his own people up on the hill, and tell them
that they need not be afraid to send in any one they wished to talk for
them, but to send in some grown persons. The boy darted up the flanks of
the mountain with the agility of a jack rabbit, and was soon lost to
view in the undergrowth of scrub oak; by the time we had ascended the
next steep grade there was more shouting, and this time the boy returned
with a wrinkled squaw, who was at once ordered back—after the usual
feed—one of our people going with her to tell the men of the band that
we were not women or babies, and that we could talk business with men
only.
This summons brought back a very decrepit antique, who supported his
palsied limbs upon one of the long walking-canes so much in use among
the Apaches. He too was the recipient of every kindness, but was told
firmly that the time for fooling had long since gone by, and that to-day
was a much better time for surrendering than to-morrow; our command
would not harm them if they wanted to make peace, but the country was
full of scouting parties and at any moment one of these was likely to
run in upon them and kill a great many; the best thing, the safest
thing, for them to do was to surrender at once and come with us into
Camp Grant. The old chief replied that it was not possible for him to
surrender just then and there, because his band had scattered upon
learning of our approach, but if we would march straight for Grant he
would send out for all his people, gather them together, and catch up
with us at the junction of the Gila and San Pedro, and then accompany us
to Camp Grant or other point to be agreed upon.
We moved slowly across the mountains, getting to the place of meeting on
the day assigned, but there were no Indians, and we all felt that we had
been outwitted. The scouts however said, “Wait and see!” and sure
enough, that evening, the old chief and a small party of his men arrived
and had another talk and smoke with Major Brown, who told them that the
only thing to do was to see General Crook whose word would determine all
questions. Every man in the column was anxious to get back, and long
before reveille most of them were up and ready for the word for
breakfast and for boots and saddles. There was a feeling that so far as
the country south of the Salt River was concerned, the campaign was
over; and though we saw no men, women, or children other than those
captured by us on the way, all felt that the surrender would surely take
place as agreed upon.
When we started up the dusty valley of the San Pedro not one of the
strangers had arrived, but as we drew nigh to the site of the post, it
seemed as if from behind clusters of sage brush, giant cactus, palo
verde or mesquite, along the trail, first one, then another, then a
third Apache would silently join the column with at most the greeting of
“Siquisn” (My brother). When we reported to Crook again at the post,
whither he had returned from MacDowell, there were one hundred and ten
people with us, and the whole business done so quietly that not one-half
the command ever knew whether any Apaches had joined us or not. With
these Indians General Crook had a long and satisfactory talk, and
twenty-six of them enlisted as scouts. From this point I was sent by
General Crook to accompany Major Brown in a visit to the celebrated
chief of the Chiricahua Apaches, “Cocheis,” of which visit I will speak
at length later on.
We rejoined the command at the foot of Mount Graham, where General Crook
had established the new post of Camp Grant. It offered many inducements
which could not well be disregarded in that arid section; the Graham
Mountain, or Sierra Bonita as known to the Mexicans, is well timbered
with pine and cedar; has an abundance of pure and cold water, and
succulent pasturage; there is excellent building-stone and adobe clay
within reach, and nothing that could reasonably be expected is lacking.
There were twelve or thirteen companies of cavalry concentrated at the
new camp, and all or nearly all these were, within a few days, on the
march for the Tonto Basin, to give it another overhauling.
I do not wish to describe the remainder of the campaign in detail; it
offered few features not already presented to my readers; it was rather
more unpleasant than the first part, on account of being to a greater
extent amid the higher elevations of the Sierra Ancha and the Matitzal
and Mogollon, to which the hostiles had retreated for safety. There was
deeper snow and much more of it, more climbing and greater heights to
attain, severer cold and more discomfort from being unable to find dry
fuel. There was still another source of discomfort which should not be
overlooked. At that time the peculiar disease known as the epizoötic
made its appearance in the United States, and reached Arizona, crippling
the resources of the Department in horses and mules; we had to abandon
our animals, and take our rations and blankets upon our own backs, and
do the best we could. In a very few weeks the good results became
manifest, and the enemy showed signs of weakening. The best element in
this campaign was the fact that on so many different occasions the
Apaches were caught in the very act of raiding, plundering, and killing,
and followed up with such fearful retribution. Crook had his forces so
disposed that no matter what the Apaches might do or not do, the troops
were after them at once, and, guided as we were by scouts from among
their own people, escape was impossible. For example, a large band
struck the settlements near the town of Wickenburg, and there surprised
a small party of young men, named Taylor, recently arrived from England
or Wales. All in the party fell victims to the merciless aim of the
assailants, who tied two of them to cactus, and proceeded deliberately
to fill them with arrows. One of the poor wretches rolled and writhed in
agony, breaking off the feathered ends of the arrows, but each time he
turned his body, exposing a space not yet wounded, the Apaches shot in
another barb. The Indians then robbed the ranchos, stole or killed all
the cattle and horses, and struck out across the ragged edge of the
great Bradshaw Mountain, then over into the Tonto Basin. Having
twenty-four hours the start of the troops, they felt safe in their
expedition, but they were followed by Wesendorf, of the First Cavalry;
by Rice, of the Twenty-third Infantry; by Almy, Watts, and myself; by
Woodson, of the Fifth; and lastly by Randall, of the Twenty-third, who
was successful in running them to earth in the stronghold on the summit
of Turret Butte, where they fancied that no enemy would dare follow.
Randall made his men crawl up the face of the mountain on hands and
feet, to avoid all danger of making noise by the rattling of stones, and
shortly after midnight had the satisfaction of seeing the glimmer of
fires amid the rocks scattered about on the summit. He waited patiently
until dawn, and then led the charge, the Apaches being so panic-stricken
that numbers of the warriors jumped down the precipice and were dashed
to death. This and the action in the cave in the Salt River Cañon were
the two affairs which broke the spirit of the Apache nation; they
resembled each other in catching raiders just in from attacks upon the
white settlements or those of friendly tribes, in surprising bands in
strongholds which for generations had been invested with the attribute
of impregnability, and in inflicting great loss with comparatively small
waste of blood to ourselves.
In singling out these two incidents I, of course, do not wish in the
slightest degree to seem to disparage the gallant work performed by the
other officers engaged, each and all of whom are entitled to as much
credit as either Randall or Brown for earnest, intelligent service,
gallantry in trying situations, and cheerful acceptance of the most
annoying discomforts. No army in the world ever accomplished more with
the same resources than did the little brigade which solved the Apache
problem under Crook in the early seventies. There were no supplies of
food beyond the simplest components of the ration and an occasional can
of some such luxury as tomatoes or peaches; no Pullman cars to transport
officers in ease and comfort to the scene of hostilities; no telegraph
to herald to the world the achievements of each day. There was the
satisfaction of duty well performed, and of knowing that a fierce,
indomitable people who had been a scourge in the history of two great
nations had been humbled, made to sue for peace, and adopt to a very
considerable extent the ways of civilization.
The old settlers in both northern and southern Arizona still speak in
terms of cordial appreciation of the services of officers like Hall,
Taylor, Burns, Almy, Thomas, Rockwell, Price, Parkhurst, Michler, Adam,
Woodson, Hamilton, Babcock, Schuyler, and Watts, all of the Fifth
Cavalry; Ross, Reilley, Sherwood, Theller and Major Miles, of the
Twenty-first Infantry; Garvey, Bomus, Carr, Grant, Bernard, Brodie,
Vail, Wessendorf, McGregor, Hein, Winters, Harris, Sanford, and others,
of the First Cavalry; Randall, Manning, Rice, and others, of the
Twenty-third Infantry; Gerald Russell, Morton, Crawford, Cushing,
Cradlebaugh, of the Third Cavalry; Byrne, of the Twelfth Infantry, and
many others who during this campaign, or immediately preceding it, had
rendered themselves conspicuous by most efficient service. The army of
the United States has no reason to be ashamed of the men who wore its
uniform during the dark and troubled period of Arizona’s history; they
were grand men; they had their faults as many other people have, but
they never flinched from danger or privation. I do not mean to say that
I have given a complete list; it is probable that many very
distinguished names have been omitted, for which I apologise now by
saying that I am not writing a history, but rather a series of
reminiscences of those old border days. I would not intentionally fail
in paying tribute to any brave and deserving comrade, but find it beyond
my power to enumerate all.
There was one class of officers who were entitled to all the praise they
received and much more besides, and that class was the surgeons, who
never flagged in their attentions to sick and wounded, whether soldier
or officer, American, Mexican, or Apache captive, by night or by day.
Among these the names of Stirling, Porter, Matthews, Girard, O’Brien,
Warren E. Day, Steiger, Charles Smart, and Calvin Dewitt will naturally
present themselves to the mind of any one familiar with the work then
going on, and with them should be associated those of the guides, both
red and white, to whose fidelity, courage, and skill we owed so much.
The names of Mason McCoy, Edward Clark, Archie MacIntosh, Al Spears, C.
E. Cooley, Joe Felmer, Al Seiber, Dan O’Leary, Lew Elliott, Antonio
Besias, Jose De Leon, Maria Jilda Grijalba, Victor Ruiz, Manuel Duran,
Frank Cahill, Willard Rice, Oscar Hutton, Bob Whitney, John B. Townsend,
Tom Moore, Jim O’Neal, Jack Long, Hank ’n Yank (Hewitt and Bartlett),
Frank Monach, Harry Hawes, Charlie Hopkins, and many other scouts,
guides, and packers of that onerous, dangerous, and crushing campaign,
should be inscribed on the brightest page in the annals of Arizona, and
locked up in her archives that future generations might do them honor.
The great value of the services rendered by the Apache scouts
“Alchesay,” “Jim,” “Elsatsoosn,” “Machol,” “Blanquet,” “Chiquito,”
“Kelsay,” “Kasoha,” “Nantaje,” “Nannasaddi,” was fittingly acknowledged
by General Crook in the orders issued at the time of the surrender of
the Apaches, which took place soon after.
Many enlisted men rendered service of a most important and efficient
character, which was also acknowledged at the same time and by the same
medium; but, on account of lack of space, it is impossible for me to
mention them all; conspicuous in the list are the names of Buford,
Turpin, Von Medern, Allen, Barrett, Heineman, Stanley, Orr, Lanahan,
Stauffer, Hyde, and Hooker.
In the first week of April, a deputation from the hostile bands reached
Camp Verde, and expressed a desire to make peace; they were told to
return for the head chiefs, with whom General Crook would talk at that
point. Signal fires were at once set on all the hills, scouts sent to
all places where they would be likely to meet with any of the
detachments in the Tonto Basin or the Mogollon, and all possible
measures taken to prevent any further hostilities, until it should be
seen whether or not the enemy were in earnest in professions of peace.
Lieutenant Jacob Almy, Fifth Cavalry, with whose command I was on duty,
scoured the northwest portion of the Tonto Basin, and met with about the
same experiences as the other detachments; but I wish to tell that at
one of our camping-places, on the upper Verde, we found a ruined
building of limestone, laid in adobe, which had once been of two or
three stories in height, the corner still standing being not less than
twenty-five feet above the ground, with portions of rafters of
cottonwood, badly decayed, still in place. It was the opinion of both
Almy and myself, after a careful examination, that it was of Spanish and
not of Indian origin, and that it had served as a depot for some of the
early expeditions entering this country; it would have been in the line
of advance of Coronado upon Cibola, and I then thought and still think
that it was most probably connected with his great expedition which
passed across Arizona in 1541. All this is conjecture, but not a very
violent one; Coronado is known to have gone to “Chichilticale,” supposed
to have been the “Casa Grande” on the Gila; if so, his safest, easiest,
best supplied, and most natural line of march would have been up the
valley of the Verde near the head of which this ruin stands.
Another incident was the death of one of our packers, Presiliano Monje,
a very amiable man, who had made friends of all our party. He had caught
a bad cold in the deep snows on the summit of the Matitzal Range, and
this developed into an attack of pneumonia; there was no medical officer
with our small command, and all we could do was based upon ignorance and
inexperience, no matter how much we might desire to help him. Almy hoped
that upon descending from the high lands into the warm valley of the
Verde, the change would be beneficial to our patient; but he was either
too far gone or too weak to respond, and the only thing left for us to
do was to go into bivouac and try the effect of rest and quiet. For two
days we had carried Monje in a chair made of mescal stalks strapped to
the saddle, but he was by this time entirely too weak to sit up, and we
were all apprehensive of the worst. It was a trifle after midnight, on
the morning of the 23d of March, 1873, that “the change” came, and we
saw that it was a matter of minutes only until we should have a death in
our camp; he died before dawn and was buried immediately after sunrise,
under the shadow of a graceful cottonwood, alongside of two pretty
springs whose babbling waters flowed in unison with the music of the
birds. In Monje’s honor we named the cañon “Dead Man’s Cañon,” and as
such it is known to this day.
At Camp Verde we found assembled nearly all of Crook’s command, and a
dirtier, greasier, more uncouth-looking set of officers and men it would
be hard to encounter anywhere. Dust, soot, rain, and grime had made
their impress upon the canvas suits which each had donned, and with hair
uncut for months and beards growing with straggling growth all over the
face, there was not one of the party who would venture to pose as an
Adonis; but all were happy, because the campaign had resulted in the
unconditional surrender of the Apaches and we were now to see the reward
of our hard work. On the 6th of April, 1873, the Apache-Mojave chief
“Cha-lipun” (called “Charley Pan” by the Americans), with over three
hundred of his followers, made his unconditional submission to General
Crook; they represented twenty-three hundred of the hostiles.
General Crook sat on the porch of Colonel Coppinger’s quarters and told
the interpreters that he was ready to hear what the Indians had to say,
but he did not wish too much talk. “Cha-lipun” said that he had come in,
as the representative of all the Apaches, to say that they wanted to
surrender because General Crook had “too many cartridges of copper”
(“demasiadas cartuchos de cobre”). They had never been afraid of the
Americans alone, but now that their own people were fighting against
them they did not know what to do; they could not go to sleep at night,
because they feared to be surrounded before daybreak; they could not
hunt—the noise of their guns would attract the troops; they could not
cook mescal or anything else, because the flame and smoke would draw
down the soldiers; they could not live in the valleys—there were too
many soldiers; they had retreated to the mountain tops, thinking to hide
in the snow until the soldiers went home, but the scouts found them out
and the soldiers followed them. They wanted to make peace, and to be at
terms of good-will with the whites.
Crook took “Cha-lipun” by the hand, and told him that, if he would
promise to live at peace and stop killing people, he would be the best
friend he ever had. Not one of the Apaches had been killed except
through his own folly; they had refused to listen to the messengers sent
out asking them to come in; and consequently there had been nothing else
to do but to go out and kill them until they changed their minds. It was
of no use to talk about who began this war; there were bad men among all
peoples; there were bad Mexicans, as there were bad Americans and bad
Apaches; our duty was to end wars and establish peace, and not to talk
about what was past and gone. The Apaches must make this peace not for a
day or a week, but for all time; not with the Americans alone, but with
the Mexicans as well; and not alone with the Americans and Mexicans, but
with all the other Indian tribes. They must not take upon themselves the
redress of grievances, but report to the military officer upon their
reservation, who would see that their wrongs were righted. They should
remain upon the reservation, and not leave without written passes;
whenever the commanding officer wished to ascertain the presence of
themselves or any of the bands upon the reservation, they should appear
at the place appointed to be counted. So long as any bad Indians
remained out in the mountains, the reservation Indians should wear tags
attached to the neck, or in some other conspicuous place, upon which
tags should be inscribed their number, letter of band, and other means
of identification. They should not cut off the noses of their wives when
they became jealous of them. They should not be told anything that was
not exactly true. They should be fully protected in all respects while
on the reservation. They should be treated exactly as white men were
treated; there should be no unjust punishments. They must work like
white men; a market would be found for all they could raise, and the
money should be paid to themselves and not to middlemen. They should
begin work immediately; idleness was the source of all evils, and work
was the only cure. They should preserve order among themselves; for this
purpose a number would be enlisted as scouts, and made to do duty in
keeping the peace; they should arrest and confine all drunkards,
thieves, and other offenders.