It is safe to say that few commercial travellers meet with such
exciting experiences as befell the three “drummers” who figure
in this narrative. A business trip into the wilds of Arizona
landed them into as fierce a skirmish with Indian outlaws as
could well be imagined.
Take a young fellow just raw from city life, throw him into the wilds
of Arizona, and arrange for him to tumble head-first, so to speak, into
a brisk skirmish with Indians, and he will have something to remember.
Such was the experience which befell me about 1890.
For some years I had been travelling through California, visiting the
largest cities and towns, introducing a “line” of goods for a large
San Francisco importing concern. Such had been my success that nothing
would suit my firm but to add Arizona to my territory, a proposition I
made no objection to.
Of late years Arizona has vastly improved, and trouble with the Indians
has become almost unknown, especially since that notorious warrior,
Geronimo, was deported to the State of Florida, but up to the ‘nineties
there was still an occasional flare-up.
Both Geronimo and the villainous “Apache Kid,” a bloodthirsty red-skin
brigand, figure in this story, the first indirectly and the second very
prominently.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR, MR. EDWARD FRANKLIN CAMPBELL.
_From a Photograph._]
Having reached the town of Wilson, in the southern part of the
territory, I fell in with two fellow-commercial salesmen--Levy,
representing a large dry-goods concern, and Bates, handling a line of
boots for a St. Louis house.
Levy imparted the fact that he was going to visit a large mining camp,
called World City, located some hundred and sixty miles to the north
and as many miles distant from the railway. Bates said he would join
Levy provided I would make one of the party.
Although my route did not include this side-trip, I became convinced
that it would pay me well to visit World City. By sharing expenses with
Levy and Bates, the trip could be made most reasonably, so I wired my
house accordingly, and Levy hastened to make arrangements with a local
celebrity, a Scotchman named McGill, for transportation.
An agreement having been made with McGill, the balance of the day was
consumed in making preparations for our departure on the following
morning. There were blankets to buy, for one is never safe without
them. No matter how hot and burning the day may be, the nights are
always crisp and chill on the Arizona plains, and one never knows while
making such a trip when he will land at his destination. Nine chances
out of ten he will be hours late. Our journey was no exception to the
rule.
On the following morning I was aroused by McGill. On the wagon, which
was a heavy four-wheel affair, he had loaded three shoe-sample trunks,
the property of Bates, and two immense square trunks carried by Levy.
Beside this there were sundry boxes and bundles of blankets, as well
as our heavy overcoats and small personal luggage.
After a hasty breakfast of ham and eggs--I generally ordered ham and
eggs in Arizona because other meats were far from tender in those
days--we took our places on the wagon. Levy occupied the front seat
with McGill, while Bates and I sat on top of a huge trunk, slippery and
uncertain.
Although the animals seemed good and hardy, they were small, and I do
not think we realized the great weight of the combined load. At the
wheels we had a pair of small and nimble mules, and as leaders a pair
of small bay horses, whose looks did not recommend them.
The first day out all went well, and we reached the little town of
Bonita, a most desolate-looking place. We had travelled less than
thirty miles.
We drove up to the door of a little adobe building with a thatched
roof. On the front a crude sign informed the public that it was
a “General Store.” Another placard indicated that it was also a
public-house, or “saloon,” as they are called in America.
On entering we found ourselves in a small room with a rough counter
running down one side, behind which was the smiling face of the
proprietor, who lived with his wife and two beautiful daughters in the
one adjoining room--these two rooms constituting the entire building.
We spent the night on the floor of the store, in front of the counter,
and next morning resumed our journey, hoping to reach the little group
of buildings known as Standard before night. In my own mind--and I
think the others believed the same--I did not really expect to reach
Standard that night, for it was nearly fifty miles distant and our
animals were far from fresh.
I think it was about ten o’clock in the morning that we saw a cloud of
dust several miles ahead. In time it proved to be a company of negro
soldiers, marching to a neighbouring military post.
As they came alongside we could see a number of rifles sticking out of
the canvas of the great covered wagons which accompanied them. They
halted, and an officer, whom McGill said was a colonel, came over. He
saluted us pleasantly and asked laughingly:--
“Are you not afraid to travel in this direction?”
McGill inquired why, whereupon the officer explained that “Apache Kid”
was out with a small band of warriors, that Geronimo had disappeared
from the Indian Reservation, and that serious trouble was brewing.
The troops, he added, were being moved for the purpose of heading off
“Apache Kid” and his crowd.
The smiling face of the colonel rather misled me. He did not seem
really serious, and, as I sized up the situation, I believed it quite
possible that he recognised our party as “tenderfeet,” and desired to
frighten us.
After the soldiers had become a mere blur in the distance we resumed
our journey. We had gone but a few miles farther, however, when an
accident occurred to our wagon. Something gave way--I don’t remember
what--and it became impossible to proceed. Levy took a look at the
wagon and declared it was “no good, anyway”; Bates joined in the
abuse, and McGill lost his temper. Finally, I acted as peacemaker, and
suggested that something would have to be done as the afternoon was
advancing. Either we must return to Bonita on foot, abandoning the
wagon and contents, or McGill would have to take the team back and
secure another conveyance.
The last alternative being accepted, we drew lots, and it fell to Levy
to return to Bonita with McGill, while Bates and I remained to look
after the property.
McGill insisted that with the load off he would be able to haul the
wagon back to Bonita for repairs, so we set to work and, after a
struggle with the trunks, got the vehicle in shape to be drawn.
It was with great misgivings that I saw my companions depart. It was
not to my liking to remain as a guardian of that mass of luggage. Bates
did not seem to mind it. He simply offered me his last cigar, then
lighted it himself and sat down on the bare ground.
I think we could see in every direction for twenty miles and more,
except toward the mountains, which were to the east, some five miles
distant.
“Well, Bates,” I said, “what are we going to do? It’s getting mighty
cold. The wind sweeps down from that mountain as if we might get a
little of the storm brewing up there.”
“That’s no mistake, my boy, and if I am not in error we are going to
get snow inside of two hours. Most extraordinary for Arizona.”
“Don’t you think we could arrange some shelter with these trunks and
roll of canvas?”
“Just the thing, my boy. Glad you suggested it.”
So we set to work and built our house, forming our walls by arranging
the trunks in a square, leaving a small opening to be used as a door.
On this we spread the great piece of canvas which had been brought
along to cover the wagon in case of storm, thus making a roof. That
it might not be carried away by the wind, which was now howling like
a hurricane, we weighted it with small boulders. With other rocks
we built a small fireplace and chimney, without and facing our door.
With the limited supply of wood, which was very scarce--sagebrush and
gnarled mesquite--we built a small fire in our fireplace, much to our
joy, for we were now actually blue with the cold.
The sky was now thoroughly overcast with snow-clouds and the snow was
beginning to fall, settling in miniature drifts beneath the sage bushes.
In removing the trunks from the wagon our labours had been heavy, and
we realized, as Bates expressed it, “we were twenty miles from nowhere,
and not a drop of water nearer than Bonita.”
Bates rummaged through the kit for a drink of any kind, but was only
able to produce a diminutive flask with about one swallow of whisky in
it. After offering this to me he took it down with a cheering “Here’s
to you!”
“Don’t throw away that flask, Bates,” I called to him as I saw him
taking aim at a near-by sage bush. “I may be able to collect a drink
with that.”
I filled the little flask as full as I could pack it with snow which
I collected under the bushes, then held it carefully over the fire,
reducing the snow to water. This barely gave us enough to moisten our
lips, and I gave it up.
Then we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets and reclined inside our
improvised house and discussed matters.
“I say, Bates, what did you think of the colonel’s story about Apaches
being out?” I asked.
“Can’t say. I know if I were an Apache and had a warm wigwam to
crawl into, the warpath could go to perdition. I’m sure I wouldn’t
bother with it this kind of weather. You won’t have the pleasure of
meeting Geronimo, ’Apache Kid,’ nor any other human--and, I might add,
inhuman--being till the weather lets up.”
“What have you got for protection in case we do run across them?” I
asked.
“Well, the only protection I have is a pair of boots made by the Sun
Shoe Company, which I represent. With these on, and a fair start, I
might outrun them. That’s all I’ve got for protection. What have you
got?”
“Well,” I said, rather apologetically, “I have a revolver here, but it
isn’t much good. It might do to fire salutes with, but I’m afraid it
would not do much execution. The fact is, I’ve not fired the thing for
some years.”
“Now, look here, my boy. If you should ever shoot me with that thing,
and I should find it out, I should be quite put out about it,” said
Bates, with a laugh. “We might as well quit worrying. If the wild and
woolly Apaches get us, it’s fate. They’ll get us, that’s all. I’m going
to sleep.”
[Illustration: LOOKING OUT OF BRICK DUST CANYON.
[_From a Photograph._]]
Suiting the action to the word, he rolled over and left me to my dreary
thoughts. I tried to sleep and did drop into a light slumber, from
which I was suddenly awakened by a startled exclamation from Bates.
As I opened my eyes he was just going through the doorway on all fours.
“Bring that revolver here,” he called to me.
As quickly as possible I was out after him. He was gazing towards the
mountains in the distance.
“What has happened?” I asked, in some alarm at the sudden call to arms.
He explained that something had come to the door of our house. He could
hear it, but only caught a slight glimpse of it as he raised his head,
for it dashed out of sight immediately. It was evidently an animal of
some sort, for we found the marks of its feet and claws in the soft
earth. Whatever it was we never caught sight of it.
We were now thoroughly awake. The weather had cleared, the sun was
shining warmly and my spirits were beginning to rise.
Far off, down the incline of the plain, we could see the spot known as
Bonita. Between us and the town all was open, save for some sage bushes
here and there dotting the view.
Surely McGill should now be on his way back, but not a sign of him
could we see.
We recalled the fact that we were hungry. Bates rummaged in the
kit. The net results were a small paper of biscuits and a tin of
beef--nothing else.
We ate all the biscuits and half of the beef, collected more firewood,
and, at about six o’clock, discovered the team slowly wending its way
from Bonita. It was more than an hour before it arrived at our camp.
Another serious matter now confronted us. Either we must stay with our
improvised camp or, as McGill suggested, make for Brick Dust Canyon, in
the mountain, where lived a frontiersman named James W. Smith, who had
a little farm situated on an oasis of productive earth in the midst of
this vast wilderness of alkali and sand.
Eventually we decided upon the latter alternative, and succeeded in
loading up and making a start.
For a long time we crept upward, no one riding except McGill, in order
to relieve the tired animals.
Reaching the summit of the ascent at last, McGill stopped, for we had
now to descend into a deep canyon.
Daylight had by this time given way to deepest night, and ahead all
looked black and forbidding. Our driver could not even see the road,
which was, moreover, obscured by a growth of trees in the canyon.
“Gentlemen,” said McGill, “this rig has no brake to hold it. There is a
big down-grade here and a sharp turn at the bottom. From there to Jim’s
house is about a mile. We must manage to stop one of the hind wheels,
for these mules will never be able to hold the load in check; besides,
I can’t see the road, and must let the animals take their course.”
We tied the right rear wheel with a stout bit of rope and started
again, but with this difference--Levy, Bates, and I each lighted
cigars, which Levy had brought from Bonita, and, puffing vigorously at
these, walked ahead of the load, endeavouring to pilot McGill by the
glow of the lighted “stogies.”
There were times when the mules and the locked wheel were insufficient
to check the wagon to any great extent, on account of the steepness
of the grade, but at first all went well. It was not long before we
reached the sharp turn at the bottom. We were greatly in advance of
McGill now, and, indeed, we could hear nothing of him, so Levy went
back to investigate and to warn him of the danger ahead. He found
the wagon halted at a fairly level spot to recuperate the exhausted
animals. Levy told the Scotsman that he was about to plunge down the
last and most precipitous piece of road, and urged him to give it up.
McGill was headstrong, however, and insisted upon going ahead, so we
took up our stand with our cigars, to mark the turn at the bottom, and
the big vehicle started.
We could hear it gaining speed every moment. Mingled with the rumbling
of the wagon and the clatter of the animals’ hoofs we heard the shouts
of McGill, who had now lost all control over his team.
On they came with a rush and a roar, and we, who were lighting the way,
discovered we were in some danger. At the last moment we sprang back
into the rocks and brush at the side as the team swept irresistibly on.
The leaders took the turn all right, but the next instant there was a
crash and a yell from McGill. The wagon had left the road and plunged
into a tree, the harness gave way, and Bedlam broke loose.
The Scotsman saved his skin by jumping fairly into a bush, while we
sprang to the animals’ heads to check them. They showed, however, no
disposition on their part to run away; they knew when they had had
enough.
Away down in the distance we could see a light, which McGill said was
at Jim’s house. He would leave us with the animals and seek assistance
from the house, he told us.
“I shall go across-lots,” he shouted back to us, “by a trail which will
save a lot of walking.”
For hours Bates, Levy, and I awaited his return in vain. We exhausted
every topic of conversation we could think of, and at last, tired,
disgusted, and feeling thoroughly out of sorts, we set off down the
road, taking the animals with us.
Although we could still see the light, we walked for a long time before
we actually arrived before a small adobe house, which was surrounded by
a thick wall some eight feet high. The road led us to a pair of huge
solid gates, which, being closed, prevented us seeing within. We called
out, and in a few seconds a voice answered us, and we were conscious of
someone approaching the gates with a lantern.
This proved to be Jim Smith himself. He seemed to be in a very merry
mood, for, although we were total strangers, he almost laughed in our
faces. He had a story to tell, it soon appeared, of a misfortune which
had befallen our friend McGill.
It seemed that in attempting to take his short cut “across-lots,” the
Scotsman had struck a cattle trail, which led to a watering-trough set
beside a newly-dug well, the existence of which he knew nothing of.
By a curious accident, he walked straight into this well and plunged
into eight feet of water.
It happened that Smith was at that moment bringing some young cattle
into his walled enclosure, and, hearing the muffled cries of McGill in
the well, believed they proceeded from a cow in difficulties.
Lantern in hand, he made his way to the well and called out. Judge of
his surprise when he heard a voice, as from the tomb, growl:--
“I’ve lost my bloomin’ pipe!”
Looking into the well, he discovered McGill clinging to the sides as
best he could with fingers and nails. It was but a moment’s work to
throw him a line and bring him out, as sorry and dejected-looking a
scarecrow as one could imagine. Strange to relate, it was all that Jim
could do to keep McGill from going back into the well for his cherished
briar, the loss of which seemed to worry him greatly.
We found the Scotsman in a very bad temper, complaining bitterly of the
loss of his pipe, which he told us he was smoking at the time of his
misfortune.
We received a hearty welcome from Jim and his wife. The latter was
busy soothing their ten-months-old baby to sleep. There they lived, in
that little one-room house, eating, sleeping, and cooking in the same
apartment.
[Illustration: “SHOT-GUN JIM.”
_From a Photograph._]
I began to speculate as to where we tired travellers would find a place
to lay our heads. The house was a solid adobe, without windows. In the
doorway hung a frame, on which was fastened a strip of canvas in lieu
of a door.
A hearty meal was prepared by Mrs. Smith, after which we were invited
to go out and bring in our beds.
On our return we found that Mrs. Smith and the babe were already in
the huge bed in the corner. Jim was preparing to follow, and we were
invited to spread our blankets on the floor, which, like the Bonita
store, was mother earth.
Our sleep was far more restful than on the previous night. At an
early hour we were awakened by Smith, who seemed to be worried about
something. I followed him to the door of the house and discovered that
he was holding a whispered conversation with a stranger, a young fellow
of about eighteen years. As soon as I approached they stopped speaking
and I was introduced to the young man, whose name was given as “Hank.”