I will tell you about our Indian excitement in Arizona last spring.
We were living in Galeyville at the time of the Apache outbreak
(some of you will remember the letter from there in No. 128). We
were dreadfully frightened. We heard the firing one day when one of
the men was shot. He went out to look for his horses, when the
red-skins saw and killed him. We could see them (the Indians) the
same evening as they passed just below town; they had hundreds of
stolen horses along. At night the women and children slept in an
adobe house which was barricaded. All the men in the camp were
armed, and took turns at keeping guard; they expected to have a
fight some morning at daybreak.
My papa and another gentleman talked the matter over, and decided
to send their families to Tucson. So we got ready very hastily, and
on the morning of the 26th of April we said "good-by" to the dear
old camp where we had had such good times. It was a drive of
twenty-five miles to our station on the Southern Pacific Railroad.
There were two ladies, five children, and five riflemen, besides
papa, who drove. A mile out of town we came to an encampment of
soldiers, about five hundred in number. Two companies were mounted
and moving, and the others were drawn up in line, ready to mount;
each man stood at his horse's head, and took off his hat as we
passed. We boys thought it very fine. But the scouts who
accompanied them, about eighty Yuma Indians, looked hideous in
their war-paint. They wore but little clothing, and all had red
turbans on to show that they belonged to the United States service.
When ten miles from home we crossed a fresh trail, and a few
moments later discovered a band of Indians on either side, the one
at our right being the larger, and some two miles away. Those at
the left--there were twenty--were nearer, and as soon as they saw
us, wheeled about, and came dashing after us. Papa whipped Kate and
Jennie, and they broke into a regular runaway, which lasted for a
mile or more, the Indians, of course, gaining on us all the while,
and soon we were almost in shooting distance. Papa then stopped the
team to prepare for an attack, when the Indians halted, seeming to
hold a council, then turned and rode back as fast as they had come.
They no doubt saw we were well armed, and that they might get the
worst of it. The large band was mostly composed of stolen horses
without riders, but this we could not at first make out. I can
never tell you how frightened mamma and Mrs. S. were, and how glad
we all were to see the last of the hostiles.
We reached the railroad without any accident, and in time for the
train. Mamma, brother, and I were in Tucson ten days, and then came
here to my grandpa's house. The folks here had heard that we were
all killed. A number of papa's friends were killed, and it was a
most dreadful time. There are now no ladies or children at
Galeyville, nor will there be for a long time. It makes us homesick
to think about it all. My papa came on a few weeks ago, and we
intend to stay here all summer. This is a very pleasant town. A
river flows through it, bordered by grand old trees and sloping
grassy banks, and spanned by a handsome suspension-bridge. We have
nice times riding black Charlie, my grandpa's horse.