_From Copyright Photograph 1906 by E.S. Curtis_
All the worldly possessions of the Apache woman are packed on the horse
which she and her children have ridden. The mother, with the youngest in
her arms, first clambers down, followed by the little girl four years of
age; she then removes the blankets that cover the pack, then the burden
basket containing her cooking utensils, next the water bottle, and from
across the saddle seat the large rawhide carryall that contains the family
supplies and extra clothing. A smaller rawhide bag holds those little
essentials necessary to the comfort of the family. The unloading finished,
the woman fills the water bottle at the stream and gathers fuel for
preparing the simple meal, which is soon over. If anything is more simple
than the cooking it is the preparation of the bed. A small circular spot
is cleared and an armful of grass, if any exists, is spread over it; the
blankets are laid on the grass, and the bed is made. The blankets may not
be clean, and certainly the pallet is not downy, but this matters little
to a people inured to hardship; they are happy.
With a laugh the children tumble upon the blankets. Being dressed in a
single garment a little girl innocently exposes more of her body than
meets with her modest mother's approval. The scolding is full and
positive. Little Miss Apache, sitting in the middle of the blanket with
her knees drawn to her chin and with scant skirt now tucked carefully
about her feet, looks up with roguish smile, then down at her wiggling
toes in coquettish defiance.
From far down the stream resound the splash of water and the merry
laughter of matrons and maidens bathing in the clear pools, and from above
the more boisterous shouts of men and boys. Surely he who says the
American Indian is morose, stolid, and devoid of humor never knew him in
the intimacy of his own home.
With the coming of light the women are at work building the campfires, and
the rising sun finds them at their morning meal. The breaking of camp is a
brief task. To-day they are to cross the divide, ford Black river, and
continue on to the mountains where the mescal grows abundantly. Travel in
the cool morning hours is a delight, and seven o'clock finds the party
well on its way. The long cavalcade winds slowly over the mountain trail.
Just ahead is a mother with two children, a little girl astride behind her
and a two-year-old boy standing in her lap. The mourning dove sounds its
melancholy note from the forest, and the children take up the call. The
little boy is not very proficient in the imitation, and sister corrects
him time after time. Truly, in Indian-land, nature study begins early in
life.
There is noticeable change in the vegetation. The giant yuccas appear
almost as a forest to-day; yesterday there was none. Soon the party gains
the summit of the range, before which winds the valley of the Black with
miles of placid stream in view. Quite different is this from White river,
which is ever hurrying, rushing along. The Black flows within its grassy
banks for long distances with scarcely a ripple; then a whirling rapid is
passed, beyond which glides another long stretch of almost silent water.
However, mescal does not grow by cool streams, and the trail again leads
up into high mountains. On a broad slope well toward the summit the final
halt is made. Close by is the mescal pit, perhaps twenty feet in diameter
and three feet deep; it may have been used a hundred years or a thousand,
abandoned for a long period, and then brought into use again. Each time it
is employed it must first be cleaned of the refuse from the last burning;
this done, a large supply of fuel is gathered and thrown in, and over all
are piled great quantities of stones.
Then begins the harvest of the mescal. With baskets on their backs the
women go out to gather the plants. Their implements consist of a stick
about two inches in diameter and three feet long, wedge-shaped and
sharpened at one end, and a broad hatchet-like knife. On reaching a plant,
the woman places the sharp end of the stick at its base and by a blow with
a stone severs the root and pries it up. Nothing could be more primitive.
The women of the Stone Age who gathered mescal on the same ground, and
perhaps used the same pit, thus far must have used identical tools.
[Illustration: Mescal - Apache]