BLUE FIELD, ARIZONA, AND AN INDIAN SCRIMMAGE
The desire to travel was strong within me, and in the following June I
left Mankato, went out to Arizona and secured a position on the A. & P.,
at Blue Field, a small town almost in the centre of the desert. Alfreda,
Kansas, was dreary and desolate enough, but there, I was at least in
communication with civilization, because I had one wire running to
Kansas City, while Blue Field was the crowning glory of utter
desolation. The Bible says that the good Lord made heaven and earth in
six days, and rested on the seventh. It needed but a single glance at
Blue Field to thoroughly convince me that the Lord quit work at the end
of the sixth day right there, and had never taken it up since. There was
nothing but some scattering adobe shacks, with the usual complement of
saloons, and as far almost as the eye could see in every
direction,--sand--hot, glaring, burning sand. To the far northwards,
could be dimly observed the outlines of the Mogollon range of
mountains. The population consisted chiefly of about four hundred
dare-devil spirits who had started to wander westwards in search of the
El Dorado and had finally settled there, too tired, too disgusted to go
any farther, and lacking money enough to return to their homes. It
wasn't the most congenial crowd in the world. There was only one good
thing in the place, and that was a deep well of pure sparkling water.
The sun during the day was so scorching that the rails seemed to sizzle
as they stretched out like two slender, interminable bands of silver
over the hot sands, and at night no relief was apparent, and the office
so stifling hot that my existence was well nigh unbearable. But the pay
was ninety dollars per month and I hung on until I could save funds
enough to get back to God's own country. To sleep in a house, in the day
time, was almost killing, so I used to make up a sort of bunk on a truck
and sleep in the shade of the freight shed. At seven-forty-three in the
evening, the Trans-Continental flyer went smashing by at a fifty-five
mile an hour clip and the dust it raised was enough to strangle a man.
The Arizona climate is a well known specific for pulmonary troubles, and
thousands of people come down there in all stages of consumption from
the first premonitory cough to the living emaciated skeleton.
The first station west of me was Clear Creek (so called on account of a
good sized stream of water that came down from the Mogollons), and a few
days after I arrived at Blue Field, I heard a message going over the
wires saying that Fred Baird was coming down there to take charge. I had
known him up in Kansas, and his looks and a hacking cough indicated only
too truly, that the dreaded consumption had fastened itself on him;
therefore when I heard of his assignment to Clear Creek, I knew it was
his health that brought him down to that awful country. He had a wife
(and a sweet little woman she was), and two beautiful children, aged two
and four. A few evenings after this I had the pleasure of talking to
them for several minutes as they went through on a slow passenger train,
and I must say that my heart ached when I thought of the town to which
that family was going. What a place to bring a woman? But then women
have a faculty of hanging on to their liege lords under all
circumstances and conditions. God bless 'em. Baird, himself, looked
wretched, being a mere shadow of his former self, but like all
consumptives he imagined he was going to get well.
Just about this time, two Indian gentlemen, named Geronimo and Victoria,
were raising particular mischief all through that section of the
country, and the feeling that any moment they might come down on you and
raise your scalp after puncturing you full of holes was anything but
pleasant. It was decidedly creepy and many a time I wished myself back
in the good old state of Texas. I had come for excitement and adventure
and it was not long until I had both articles doled out to me in large
chunks. Those Indians used to break out from their reservations, swoop
down on some settlement, kill everything in sight and then loot and burn
to their heart's content. There was no warning--just a few shots, then a
shrill war-whoop, and a perfect horde of yelling and shooting red devils
would be upon you. Precautions were taken and some of the larger
settlements were able to stand them off until some of the small army
could come and scatter them. Blue Field had pickets posted every night,
chosen from among the four hundred toughs that lived there, and was
pretty well protected.
They gave us a wide berth for a while, but one night, I was sitting
dozing in my chair about eleven-thirty, when I was awakened by the
sharp crack of a rifle, followed in quick succession by others, until it
was a regular fusillade. Then I heard the short shrill Apache war-whoop,
and mentally I thought my time had come. I tried to breathe a prayer,
but the high and unusual position of my heart effectually prevented any
articulation. The window had been closed on account of a high wind
blowing, or I fancy I should have gone out that way. However, I grabbed
up a rifle, and then opening a trap door, dropped down into a little
cubbyhole under the floor, where we used to keep our batteries. What I
brought the rifle along for I can't say, unless it was to blow the top
of my own head off. The place was like a bake-oven and all the air I
received came through a small crack in the floor, and it was not long
until I was soaked with perspiration.
[Illustration: "One of them picked up the lantern, and swaggering over
to where I sat all trembling...."]
Overhead I could hear the crack of the rifles and the whoop of the
Indians as the battle raged, back and forth. During a temporary lull I
heard the despatcher calling me for dear life, but he could call for all
I cared; I had other business just then--I was truly "25." All at once I
heard a bigger commotion than ever, there was a sound as if caused by
the scurrying of many feet, and then all was quiet. I sat there
wondering what was coming next, and how much longer I had to live, when
I smelled smoke, and in a second I knew the depot was on fire. I tried
to raise the trap-door, but it had a snap lock and had been dropped so
hard in my mad efforts to get away, that it was securely locked. Good
God! was I to be burned like a rat in a trap? All was quiet save the
crackling of the flames as they licked up the depot. Something must be
done and quickly at that, or there would be one operator who would
receive his congé in a manner that was anything but pleasant.
Feverishly, I groped around, and all at once my hand came in contact
with the Winchester rifle. I grasped it by the barrel, and using it as a
battering ram I started to smash that door. The smoke by this time was
stifling, suffocating, and already my senses were leaving
me,--everything was swimming around before my eyes, but it was a case of
life and death, and I hammered away with all my might. Finally, Crash!
Ah! I had succeeded, the lock broke and in a moment I had pulled myself
up in the office.
The side towards the door was all ablaze and escape that way was
impossible, so I picked up a chair and slammed it through the window
over the table, and climbed out taking a loose set of instruments with
me. The wires were still working, and above the crackle of the flames I
heard "DS" still calling me. I reached in through the window and simply
said,
"Indians--depot on fire--have saved a set of instruments--will call you
later when I can fix a wire," and signed my name, "Bates."
My lungs were filled with smoke and felt like they had a million sharp
needles sticking in them, but thanks to my lucky stars, I was not
otherwise hurt. Everything appeared so quiet and still that I was dazed,
but presently I heard a low mumbling of voices out to the westwards. I
made my way thither and found the population (all that was left of it),
assembled. When I staggered up to a group of the men, they turned on me
like tigers, not knowing what kind of an animal I was. I recognized one
of them who was commonly known as "Full-House Charley," and weakly said,
"Don't shoot, Charley, it's Bates the night operator at the depot."
"Well! where the devil have you been all the time? When the depot was
burning some of us went over there, but you'd gone some place. We
couldn't save anything so we let 'er burn. Your side partner, the day
man, was killed and scalped."
It appeared that just as the fight was the hottest, three troops of
the --th U. S. Colored Cavalry, appeared on the scene, having been on
the trail of this same band all day. They made short work of the red men
who melted away to the fastnesses of the Mogollons, first setting fire
to the depot, the troops in close pursuit. If there ever were faithful
hard working fighters in that country, it was these same dusky
brunettes.
I told the gang where I had been, and in a few minutes several of them
went over to the station to help me rig up a wire. I knew the
despatcher's wire, and taking a pole's length out of another line, I
soon made a connection to the instrument I had saved. It was no go--the
wire was dead open. Then I rigged up a ground by running a wire to a
pipe that ran down the well, and in testing I found the wire was open
west. I called up "DS," who was east of-me, and told him what a nice hot
old time we had been having out there.
"Yes," he said, "I knew there was trouble. Just after you told me about
the Indians and fire, Clear Creek said their place was attacked by
another band and things were getting pretty hot with them. Then the wire
went open, caused as I supposed by your fire, but now it seems as if
Baird is probably up against it as well. A train load of troops will
come through in a short while to try and get beyond the Indians and cut
them off. If you are able, I wish you would flag them and go over to
Clear Creek and report from there. Disconnect and take your instrument
and leave the line cut through. A line man will be sent out from here in
the morning. Everything is tied up on the road, and you can tell the C.
& E. there's nothing ahead of them, but to run carefully, keeping a
sharp lookout for torn up track and burned trestles."
My experiences had been so exciting and the smoke in my lungs so
painful, that I was ready to drop from fatigue; but then I thought of
poor Fred Baird and his family, and I said I'd go. The troop train came
in presently and I boarded her. It did my heart good to ride on that
engine with "Daddy" Blake at the throttle, and think that four hundred
big husky American regulars were trailing along behind, waiting for
something to turn up and just aching for a crack at the red men.
It was now about three o'clock, and just as the first rays of early dawn
illumined the horizon, we came in sight of Clear Creek. There was a dull
red glow against the sky, that told only too well what we should find.
The place had not been as well protected as Blue Field, and the
slaughter was something fearful. The depot was nothing but a smoldering
mass of ruins, and but a short distance away we came upon the bodies of
Baird, his wife and two children, shot to pieces, stripped, horribly
mutilated and scalped. It was sickening, and shortly after, when the
troop train pulled out for Chiquito, the sense of loneliness was
oppressing. A few people had escaped by hiding in obscure places and
when they came out they went to work and buried the dead. I finally
succeeded in getting a wire through and then, despite the heat, I slept.
The next day the troops corralled the Indians, gave them a good licking
and sent them back to their old reservations. And yet in face of just
such incidents as these, there are people who say that poor Lo can be
civilized.
A construction gang came out and started to re-build, and the company
offered me a good day office if I would remain, but Nay! Nay! I had had
all I wanted of Arizona, and I went back to Texas, thankful that I had a
whole skin and a full shock of red hair.