wearing a brown canvas suit, a sort of brown canvas round-brimmed hat,
and carried a shot-gun across the pommel of his saddle, the muzzle of
course pointing ahead. Perhaps he was some sportsman from the East, on
a hunting trip, with the cavalry.
Micky lay perfectly still, intent to see with his one eye what would
happen, but Jimmie trembled. His soldier friends were riding into an
ambush and evidently had no suspicion of danger. Neither did their
horses. The timber, with the sunshine streaming through the long
aisles, stretched fragrant and peaceful. The air was so quiet that the
riders’ voices, the occasional blowing of the horses, the scuff of
hoofs and the creak of saddles, could be heard plainly.
The cavalry column itself was to be seen, behind, a short distance,
winding on among the trees, and the tinkle of the pack bells sounded,
again. Jimmie caught his breath. Micky was tense, beside him. The
advance squad apparently had reached the Tontos――were within short
bow-shot, anyway. Why didn’t――――? Ah, look out!
“Twang! Whiz!” “Twang-twang! Whiz-whiz!” “Twang-twang-twang!” And
“Whiz! Thud! Thud-thud!” The Tontos were whooping and screeching and
shooting; their daubed faces and flying hair and naked bodies could be
glimpsed gyrating among the trees; their arrows whizzed and glanced
and hummed and thudded, to the twanging of the bows. They were mainly
behind the advance squad, trying to stampede the cavalry column. Up
half-rose Jimmie, up half-rose Micky, the better to see. Had the first
volley killed anybody? Didn’t look so, for not one of the squad was
in sight; the animals were rearing and snorting, but every rider had
instantly plunged from the saddle and dived for a tree, gun in one hand
and reins in the other.
[Illustration: HAD THE FIRST VOLLEY KILLED ANYBODY? DIDN’T LOOK SO]
That had been quick and smart work. Lieutenant Bourke and Lieutenant
Ross and Tom Moore were no fools; and that sinewy man in the canvas
suit was no fool, either.
“Inju! Bueno! (Good! Good!)” chattered Micky, in Apache and Spanish
both. “Huh! Tonto run already! Cowards!”
“Hurrah! There come the other soldiers!” babbled Jimmie.
The carbines were banging, as the first troop began to fight――officers
shouted, the man in the canvas suit jumped out, yelled orders and
pointed, and leveled his shot-gun――“Bang!” The first troop, dismounted
to the notes of a bugle, deployed on, firing, another troop was
spurring in at a gallop――and the Tontos were scampering off through the
timber.
Jimmie was just about to spring upright, glad, when Micky nudged him
hard, in warning. Not all the Tontos had gone. The two who had dropped
into ambush among the rocks at the timber edge had been cut off by
the cavalry, and were now running back, and dancing and dodging, their
heads turned.
“Don’t shoot them!” shouted the canvas suit man, in a loud voice. “We
have them!”
He was running, too――and his officers――and the foremost of the
men――from tree to tree, after them, to surround them at the edge of
the basin. The two Tontos had crouched, again, behind a large boulder.
Jimmie might have tossed a stone and struck them; they were close in
front of him and Micky, and fully exposed, against the boulder. But the
soldiers had formed a half circle, hemming them in against the basin’s
edge. Up straightened the two Tontos, behind their rock, drew their
bows to the arrows’ heads, and stood, at bay, aiming now here, now
there, threatening their enemies.
“Don’t shoot them!” the canvas suit man kept shouting. “Take them
alive.” And he called to the Tontos: “Friends! Friends!”
However, the two Tontos would have none of _that_. They stood braced,
with bended bows, glaring from tangled hair, as defiant and menacing
as a coiled rattle-snake. On a sudden――“Twang!”――they had loosed
their arrows, and with a single backward spring and another bound
had disappeared over the edge! Evidently they preferred death to
capture――they certainly had killed themselves, for the basin looked to
be a sheer drop of over a thousand feet.
Out bolted Jimmie and ran, the better to see. Forward ran the canvas
suit man and his officers and the soldiers. And there were the two
Tontos, alive and running, themselves. They were leaping and bounding
like rabbits, from rock to rock and landing-place to landing-place of
the merest trail zigzagging them almost straight up and down! that must
have been the trail which all the Tontos had climbed.
For a moment everybody was too astonished to shoot. Then――“Bang!” The
canvas suit man had thrown his gun to his shoulder, lightning-quick,
and aimed and pulled trigger.
The second of the two Tontos leaped aside, one arm fell limp, and was
dyed red. But he did not slacken. Now “Bang! Bang! Bang-bang!” The
soldiers and the officers also shot as fast as they could, so that even
the basin echoed. They were excited, and shooting down-hill, the Tontos
were leaping and dodging and looked very small, not much larger than
coyotes; and as far as anybody might see, not a bullet touched them.
Pretty soon they had plunged into the brush and scrub-oak chaparral
almost at the bottom of the precipice; they had got away.
Jimmie drew a long breath. In the excitement he had forgotten all about
himself. Now he came to, and discovered that he was standing out here,
alone, on a curve of the basin rim; and that the soldiers, the nearest
only a few paces away, holding their smoking carbines were surveying
him keenly. Some had begun to steal around, to head him off.
Naturally they took him for an Apache.
The canvas suit man had seen as quickly as any of the soldiers.
“No cuidado, muchacho! Ven’ aqui! (Don’t be afraid, boy! Come here!),”
he called, in Spanish, to Jimmie. And added, in English, to the
soldiers: “Bring that boy in.”
Jimmie did not wait to be brought in. He raised his hand in the “peace
sign,” and ran forward, crying:
“I’m not Apache. I’m American. I’m Jimmie Dunn, Lieutenant Bourke!
Hello, Tom Moore! Don’t you know me?”
V
JIMMIE REPORTS FOR DUTY
“Well, for goodness’ sake!”
Bronzed Lieutenant Bourke stared: runty Packer Tom Moore gaped amidst
his wrinkles; everybody stood stock-still, amazed. Jimmie’s shrill
announcement, as he ran in, created a sensation.
Now Lieutenant Bourke hastened to him; so did Tom Moore; so did
Lieutenant Ross: all the officers and men within hearing pressed around
him.
“By gracious, boy, we thought you were a bleached-out Tonto!” exclaimed
Tom.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Lieutenant Bourke. “Pete Kitchen
said the Chiricahuas had you.”
“They did,” answered Jimmie, so glad to speak English again. He found
the words a little stiff on his tongue, but he had not forgotten. “I
ran away.”
“Those were Tontos, weren’t they? How came you among the Tontos?”
“I wasn’t among ’em. They didn’t have me.”
“Are you here alone?”
Huh! Jimmie looked around an instant; he was so happy that he was
a-tremble. He did not sight Micky; the soldiers were covering the very
spot where he and Micky had been hiding, but Micky was not with them.
He had mysteriously vanished. Jimmie had promised not to betray him,
and must keep his word.
“Yes, sir.” So far as he knew now, that was true.
“How long have you been traveling?”
“Nearly a week, I guess.”
“Well if that ain’t the limit!” exploded weazened Tom Moore.
“You’d better report to the general, Jimmie,” bade Lieutenant Bourke
kindly. “General George Crook――that man in the canvas suit. He’s our
department commander now, so don’t omit to salute him. Come along.”
Scanned by curious eyes, Jimmie followed First Lieutenant John Bourke
to where the man in the canvas suit was standing expectant, his
shot-gun at an order.
The lieutenant saluted, and Jimmie saluted. That was regulations.
“This boy is Jimmie Dunn, sir,” reported the lieutenant. “He was taken
by the Chiricahuas about a year ago, while herding sheep on the Kitchen
ranch south of Tucson. He says that he has run away from them, and,”
added the lieutenant, with a quizzical laugh, “he doesn’t want to go
back.”
Jimmie stood at attention, while General Crook eyed him. This, then,
was the new “comandante” of whom Micky had spoken. He was a straight,
square-shouldered, active-looking man, as strong on his feet as any
Apache. Yes, he was of a tall, muscular build like Geronimo. He was of
light complexion, with sandy hair and thin sandy moustache, and high
forehead, and from between two very keen, gray-blue eyes a large sharp
nose jutted down to a firm mouth set over a longish, firm chin. He
needed shaving. The hands upon his shot-gun were brown and sinewy.
Now he queried abruptly, military fashion but not gruff; merely as
though he required a short direct answer.
“What band of Chiricahua?”
“Cochise’s band.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know, sir. They’re traveling around.”
“Where were they when you left them?”
“They were in the north part of the Chiricahua Mountains, I think. They
were moving to a new camp, because of the soldiers.”
“Hah! Was Cochise there?”
“No, sir. He was out and so was Geronimo. It was just the old men and
the squaws. Most of the chiefs were in Mexico, on raids.”
“Who is Geronimo?”
“He’s Go-yath-lay, the war chief.”
“How long ago did you run away?”
“Five days, I think.”
“How did you happen to get up here? Did the Tonto have you?”
“No, sir. I was trying to go to Camp Apache.”
“You answer like a soldier, boy. Are you a soldier’s son?”
“No, sir. My mother and father were killed by the Apaches, but I lived
with Joe Felmer. He’s post blacksmith for Camp Grant.”
“Lieutenant Ross and Moore and I have seen him there often, general,”
put in Lieutenant Bourke. “He calls Joe Felmer uncle, but they’re not
relations, as I understand.”
“No, sir; we’re not,” said Jimmie. “Joe is mighty good to me, though.”
“Did the Chiricahua treat you well?” asked the general.
“Yes, sir; but I don’t like them.”
“Why not?” And General Crook slightly smiled. When he smiled his face
was kind and fatherly.
“Because they wanted to make me an Apache, so I’d help them kill
Americans and Mexicans and steal cattle. They torture people. And they
killed Lieutenant Cushing, too!”
“How do you know that?” sharply queried the general.
“They did, didn’t they, sir? I saw his shirt. Taza was wearing it.”
“Hum!” mused the general. “Could you guide us to the Cochise camp, do
you think?”
“N-no, sir,” faltered Jimmie. “You see, they have their own names for
places, and sometimes I was in Mexico and sometimes I was in Arizona,
and I got all mixed up.”
“I see,” admitted the general. “You say you were trying to reach Camp
Apache. Don’t you know that this is a long way west of Camp Apache? How
did you happen to be off here?”
“Yes, sir; I know it,” replied Jimmie. “The Chiricahua might think I
was starting for Camp Apache, so I tried to fool them. Then I saw the
Tonto trail, and then I saw the soldiers’ trail, and I was hurrying
to catch you as soon as the Tonto did, when the Tonto jumped out of
the basin, and I couldn’t do anything but hide and watch. I knew the
soldiers would whip ’em, though. Did――did anybody get killed?”
“No,” said the general grimly. “That will do,” he continued. “We’ve
been at Camp Apache, and can’t take you back there; but we may be able
to send you down to Camp Grant. Turn him over to Mr. Moore, if you
please, lieutenant, and see that he’s outfitted more like a white boy
and less like an Indian.”
“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Bourke saluted; Jimmie rigidly saluted. “Come
with me, Jimmie.” And they looked up Tom Moore.
There were two troops of cavalry and twenty pack-mules. Tom Moore was
busy, just now, attending to the pack-train; and having been left with
him Jimmie might gaze about and listen.
None of the soldiers had even been wounded, but those Tontos certainly
had shot hard. The general and party were examining a pine-trunk into
which a Tonto arrow had buried itself clear to the feathers! In several
other tree trunks there were arrows that could not be pulled out. As
far as might be discovered, no Tontos had been wounded, except the one
shot by the general. It had been a sharp skirmish, nevertheless.
Micky Free had disappeared. Not a trace of him was noted. Jimmie
loyally said not a word about him, and did not see him again for some
months.
“All right,” presently spoke Tom Moore. “Now, boy, you can ride behind
me, on my hoss, and I’ll fix you out after we get to camp. Haven’t time
here.”
For the sun was setting in a range of mountains across the big basin;
the basin itself was growing dark, while the high plateau was still
bathed in the last rays; and the general had given the order to march
and make a camping-place.
With Jimmie behind his saddle, Tom rode in the advance party. This was
composed of the general, and Lieutenant Bourke his aide, Captain Brent
and Lieutenant Ross and Guide Archie MacIntosh. Mr. MacIntosh was a
new man from the Hudson’s Bay country of the Far North――a fine scout
but not yet acquainted with this part of Arizona. In fact, even Tom
Moore had never been through here. So Tom was acting as pack-master and
assistant guide, both.
At camp that evening Jimmie was awarded an old flannel shirt and pair
of cotton trousers. The shirt belonged to Lieutenant Ross; the trousers
belonged to “Chileno John,” one of the packers. The suit didn’t fit
very well, but Jimmie now felt more like a white boy again.
Because he was in charge of Tom Moore, his place was with the packers.
They were a merry set, around their fires after supper: Charley Hopkins
and old Jack Long, of Tucson; and “Hank ’n Yank”――who were Hank Hewitt
and Yank Bartlett; and “Long” Jim Cook (who had a brother “Short” Jim
Cook); and Jim O’Neill, and “Chileno John,” and José de Leon, and
Lauriano Gomez who sang Spanish songs; and others. They looked rather
rough and they talked rather rough――but such stories they had to tell,
of their adventures in California and Arizona and Mexico, and up in
British Columbia!
The soldiers strolled over, to sit and listen and swap yarns. The
general and officers listened, too, now and then, and laughed.
Altogether it was a much more pleasant camp than a Chiricahua rancheria.
According to soldiers’ and packers’ talk this General George Crook had
made a hit. He had suddenly arrived, last June, in Tucson by stage from
San Francisco, to take command of the new Department of Arizona. His
regular rank was lieutenant-colonel in the Twenty-third Infantry, but
as he had been brevetted or given honorary rank of major-general for
gallant service in the Civil War, he of course was called “General.”
Up in the far Northwest, where he had commanded the Department of the
Columbia, he had done such good work against the Shoshones or Snakes
that the Government had now sent him down to see what he could do with
the Apaches.
He had set right to work. “A powerful active sort of man,” he was,
declared Tom Moore. After having questioned all the post commanders and
many scouts, about the trails and other conditions, he had started out
from Tucson with five companies of cavalry and a company of scouts,
both white and red, and a great pack-train, to make a big circle of
some six hundred miles: east one hundred and ten miles to Camp Bowie
at Apache Pass in the Chiricahua Mountains, thence north two hundred
miles across the mountains to Camp Apache and the White Mountain
reservation, thence west two hundred and fifty or three hundred miles
to Fort Whipple at the town of Prescott, which was the department
headquarters.
Lieutenant Bourke’s Troop F of the Third Cavalry it was which had
surprised the Geronimo and Nah-che band and made them leave their meat;
and there had been other skirmishes. At Camp Apache the general had
talked to the White Mountain Apaches.
“That man,” asserted Tom Moore, “he cert’inly knows Injun. He said
he’d nothin’ against the ’Paches; he wasn’t out to war on ’em, but
to get ’em to live peaceably. They could see for themselves that the
white people were crowdin’ into the country, and that pretty soon there
wouldn’t be enough game to live on. So the ’Pache’d better decide to
settle down and go to farmin’ on the land that was given him. He’d be
protected from his enemies, and wouldn’t need to steal. The ’Paches who
came in peaceful wouldn’t be punished; they’d be treated same as white
people; but the bad ones who hung out would make trouble for the good
ones, and he’d expect the good ’Paches to help him run down the bad
’Paches. That sounded like sense, and Pedro and the rest of ’em agreed.”
“He’s shorely got some pecul’ar idees,” commented old Jack Long. “For
one thing, he says an’ Injun’s as good as a white man an’ some white
men are wuss’n Injuns, ’cause they know better. But I reckon when he
says ‘peace’ he means peace, an’ when he says ‘fight’ he means fight.
He wanted mightily to ketch those two Tonto an’ talk with ’em――an’
when they threw arrers at him an’ skadoodled, blamed if he didn’t up
an’ shoot ’em himself! Got the olive-branch in one hand an’ sword in
t’other, _he_ has.”
However, with only these two companies of cavalry and a small
pack-train the general was now on his way to Fort Whipple, there to
wait and plan; for when with all his force he had arrived at Camp
Apache, he had received dispatches from the War Department directing
him to quit until the Government Peace Commission had tried.
This Peace Commission had been formed in 1867, for the purpose of
seeing that the Indians were being honestly treated, and of persuading
them to live upon reservations. President U. S. Grant was much in favor
of such a scheme. The Indians of Arizona never had been talked with,
so the President was sending a Mr. Vincent Colyer, a patriotic and
large-hearted New Yorker, to represent the Commission in the Southwest.
“That thar peace plan may work with some o’ those Eastern Injuns, but
’twon’t work with ’Paches,” grumbled old Jack Long. “They got too much
country to travel ’round in, an’ war is meat an’ drink to ’em. They
ain’t been licked yet, an’ till they’re licked they’ll think the whites
are ’fraid of ’em. They won’t understand civilian peace talk, by a
stranger. Some big white chief ought to do the talkin’. An’ now the
soldiers an’ settlers got to sit back an’ be perlite, so’s not to stir
up trouble, an’ Gin’ral Crook can’t make his words good an’ go get the
bad lots. ’Pache’ll see ’tain’t any use to stay on a reservation if he
can have more fun in the hills.”
Jimmie rather believed, himself, that Mr. Colyer or any stranger from
the East, who was not used to Indians, would have hard times “catching”
the Chiricahuas.
During the next few days General Crook proved to be a most remarkable
man indeed. At first sight, nobody would take him for a general in the
United States army. He wore no uniform――just a plain canvas suit; he
rode a mule, and he preferred a shot-gun to a rifle. He was not above
talking to anybody, as he chose. Only when you saw how straight and
decisive he was, would you suspect him to be a soldier and an officer.
Nothing was too small for him to notice, and nothing too hard for him
to do. He could talk in the sign language and he could read a trail.
He could speak Snake and Spanish and some Apache; and he knew almost
as much about Arizona as Tom Moore or Jack Long did. He was up in the
morning, even by two o’clock, as soon as the cooks. All day, as he
rode in the advance, he constantly asked the names of trees and bushes
and flowers, and mountains and streams――and he never forgot. He was a
tremendous hunter, and could stuff the beasts and birds that he killed,
and he had studied wild animals until he could tell many curious things
about them. He liked to explore by himself, with gun and fishing-rod,
and never was lost. He drank only cold water――no tea or coffee. He
could do without drinking at all, and without eating, either. In fact,
Tom Moore and Archie MacIntosh agreed, he could “out-Injun the Injuns”!
The pack-train was his particular hobby.
“He fetched a lot o’ notions down from Idyho an’ Californy,”
explained old Jack, with wag of head; “an’ by jinks, he began to tear
things loose as soon as he struck Tooson. Nothin’s too good for the
pack-train. Consequence is, now we’ve got critters an’ men who’ll go
anywhar a dog’ll go, an’ be fresh for an’ arly start next mornin’. He’s
sort o’ pack-train daddy, I reckon.”
Jimmie did not ride clear through to Fort Whipple at Prescott. At Camp
Verde, the post fifty miles this side of Whipple, the general sent off
dispatches for some of the posts south, and told Jimmie that this was a
good chance to reach Camp Grant, where he belonged.
“But if you do fight the Apaches, can I help?” ventured Jimmie.
He loved the bronzed, lean, untiring, wise General Crook, so brief
of speech, so kind in manner, so fatherly and yet so soldierly; who
quickly learned whatever he didn’t happen to know already, and who
somehow got things done without any loud orders.
“I didn’t come in here to fight them,” smiled the general. “I came in
to make peace. But those who won’t make peace and keep it, I’ll fight
very hard――they may depend on that also. I promised the White Mountain
Apaches that I’d protect the good Indians and punish the bad ones; and
the only way to control Indians is to do exactly what you promise to
do. Now we’ll all have to wait until Mr. Colyer of the Peace Commission
has tried. He’ll give them an opportunity to gather upon reservations
and learn to support themselves without murdering and stealing. A
great deal of the fighting between the Indians and the whites has been
unnecessary, because there are white men who don’t believe in good
Indians. You go to your friends at Camp Grant. Learn all you can about
pack-mules and soldier duties, too, and don’t forget Apache. I haven’t
any doubt that some day you can help the Government very much.”
When at last Jimmie was delivered at Camp Grant, and set out for Joe
Felmer’s little ranch, above, to surprise Joe, he met him coming in,
mule back. As a result, Joe opened his whiskered mouth widely, and
almost fell off his mule: for here was Jimmie Dunn, who had been
captured by the Apaches in mid-summer of 1870, and now it was the close
of August, 1871.
“Hello, black-beard white man,” greeted Jimmie, in his best Apache.
VI
THE PEACE COMMISSION TRIES
“Wall, ’xpec’ you want to hear all the news yourself,” proposed “Uncle”
Joe, that evening, at the ranch, after Jimmie had told his own story in
every detail.
“Yes, if you please,” answered Jimmie.
“Wall,” mused Joe Felmer, stroking his shaggy full beard, “lemme see.
‘Six-toed’ Hutton’s been kicked in the jaw by a mule, an’ he’s like
to go under. The kick busted his heart, same time it busted his jaw,
’cause he ought to’ve known better than to get in the way.”
“Six-toed” Hutton’s real name was Oscar Hutton. He had six toes on
either foot, and was one of the bravest scouts at Camp Grant. To be
killed by a mule kick did indeed seem an untimely end for a scout.
“’Paches have been awful bad all ’long the line,” continued Joe.
“Chiricahuas an’ Tontos an’ Pinals been raidin’ the stage road out o’
Tucson, both ways. Forty-seven whites an’ Mexicans have been killed
down thar’bouts, an’ ten thousand dollars’ wuth o’ property burned
or stolen. Up ’round Prescott the Hualpais an’ Apache-Mohaves have
corraled the mail rider an’ run ranchers an’ miners off. An’ a passel
o’ blamed rascals lit out with an old mule from my very pasture――three
of ’em at once on her back, in broad day!”
The recollection of this evidently made “Uncle” Joe very angry again.
He paused to mumble.
“Thar’s a band o’ Es-kim-en-zin’s Pinals an’ Arivaipas farmin’ on the
creek ’bout a mile from Grant,” he resumed. “Gathered thar ag’in after
that massacre last spring, when those whites an’ Mexicans an’ Papagos
from Tucson way came up an’ wiped out ’most their women an’ old men an’
stole their children. Yessir, killed over seventy squaws an’ only eight
bucks, some of ’em while asleep, an’ carried off thirty children. Sold
’em ’mongst the Mexicans an’ Papagos, they did. Now I hear tell that
the Government’s sendin’ what it calls a ‘peace commissioner,’ from New
Yawk, to fetch in other ’Paches an’ feed ’em an’ treat ’em nice. Wall,
reckon he’ll have his hands full.”