_Fortress Paradise_
Urged by three of Geronimo's warriors, fifty-three cattle climbed
laboriously up a slope and shuffled into pine forest. Stolen from a
Mexican _rancheria_, they had been driven most of the night at the
fastest pace they could keep up. Now the cattle staggered with
weariness. But they would rest soon.
Geronimo and a warrior named Francisco, who had helped steal the cattle,
were with the raiding party. Watching only until the cattle had reached
the mountain top, they turned to look back down the slope.
Beneath, the Sierra Madres leveled into low foothills. In the distance,
the hills seemed to fold into each other, so that instead of many
mountains there was just one. Finally the one was lost in a shimmering
blue haze.
The two Apaches tied their horses to nearby trees and continued to scan
the hills below them. It was Geronimo who spoke.
"They come."
Far beneath, made small by distance, a line of Mexican soldiers moved
slowly but steadily on the cattle's trail. The two Apaches looked at
them as one might regard some interesting insects.
[Illustration]
Geronimo had never been a chief while Apaches still lived by their
ancient customs. But he was one now because he had been chosen by the
people who had escaped from San Carlos, to be their leader. Neither he
nor Francisco, the warrior, were the least bit excited by the sight of
the Mexican soldiers. Their rifles leaned against two trees.
The Sierra Madres, with their low foothills that rose to
ten-thousand-foot peaks, were known only to Apaches. Two hundred miles
long by a hundred miles wide, the only human dwellings in the entire
vast range were wickiups.
It was here that the Apaches held their pony races, played their endless
games, and hunted. When they felt in need of amusement or plunder, they
left their camps in the Sierra Madres to raid Mexican towns or ranches.
Returning to the mountains, they were always safe. No force of _rurales_
had ever penetrated this wild retreat.
After a bit, Geronimo sat down and cast only an occasional glance toward
the oncoming soldiers. He yawned.
"We needn't have been so hasty," he said. "Mexicans know two gaits, slow
and slower."
"Yes," Francisco was amusing himself by tracing designs in the earth
with a stick.
"Still, there are more than there were, and they come deeper into the
Sierra Madres than they ever did," Geronimo said. "I am glad Loco has
come with his people, and Benito, and Nana, and Mangas, and Chato, and
Naiche."
Geronimo was speaking of other Apache chiefs and braves who had come to
Mexico. After seeing for themselves that the American soldiers were
unable to bring Whoa and Geronimo back, they, too, had defied the Army
and fled the reservation. Now they, too, were living a free life in the
Sierra Madre Mountains.
"We did not really need them to fight Mexicans," the sulky Francisco
remarked.
"I am not so certain," Geronimo said seriously. "Have you so soon
forgotten the battle we fought in the stream bed south of Arispe? It was
no more than three weeks after we finally returned to the Sierra Madres.
Do you remember the Mexican general who shouted my name in such foul
terms?
"He said, 'That dog of a Geronimo is finally cornered!' He screamed to
his soldiers that they must kill every Apache, and that he would post
his wounded to shoot cowards and deserters. They were many more than we,
and we might have been overwhelmed had I not shot the general."
"But you did shoot the general," Francisco pointed out.
"I did," Geronimo agreed, "and I am very glad. I have no love in my
heart for Mexicans, especially Mexican generals. That is why I am happy
to see so many Apaches in the Sierra Madres. Together we may fight all
the Mexicans."