band that extended in a loop around the mule’s haunches under her tail,
so that the _aparejo_ could not slip forward.
“Then we lay the _aparejo cincha_ so to hang acrost the middle, pass
the ring end under her belly, connect up with the _latigo_ strap and
all together draw tighter’n sin so’s to hold the aparejo in place.”
The _aparejo cincha_ was another canvas band, like a woven saddle-cinch.
It was long enough to reach across under the mule’s belly. One end
terminated in a ring and the other end in a leather strap, the _latigo_;
and by connecting the ring and strap the cincha was drawn tight.
“You have omitted to explain this, Señor Jack,” reminded Chileno John,
resting a sinewy brown hand upon the pack-saddle or aparejo; and he
lifted the flap that hung down on either side.
“That thar soldier hammer?” grunted Jack. “Wall, me son, every aparejo
has a duck kivver attached to its middle, so’s to protect it from bein’
cut by the ropes――an’ from weather, too. It’s got a wooden brace sewed
in leather ’crost each end, yuh understan’, to stiffen it whar the
cincha lays, so’s it won’t wrinkle ag’in the mule’s hide.”
“_Sobre-en-jalmas_ is the correct name, muchacho,” said Chileno John,
to Jimmie, with some dignity――for Chileno John took great pride in
the Spanish language. “It is a very old name, descended to us from
the ancient Moors of Spain. Sobre-en-jalmas――cover for harness. The
first two words are Spanish, and the last word is Arabian. But these
Americanos――――!” And Chileno John shrugged his shoulders. “They do not
know.”
“Wall, ‘soldier hammer,’ ‘sovrin hammer,’ or ‘Sullivan hammer,’ it’s
all the same,” grunted old Jack. “Plain ‘aparejo cover’ is good
enough.” And thus he disposed of the historic sobre-en-jalmas, which,
pronounced rapidly sobr’-’n-halma did indeed sound like some kind of
a ‘hammer.’ “After the pack saddle, ’long with its sovrin hammer, is
cinched on, then we h’ist on the packs an’ sling ’em an’ fasten ’em
with the diamond hitch,” he resumed. “But as we haven’t got nary packs,
the fust lesson stops right hyar, me son. Now you remember what I’m
tellin’ you, l’arn mules and pack-ways, an’ jump when you’re spoken to,
so you won’t be a drag tail.”
“What’s a ‘drag tail,’ Jack?”
“A drag tail, me son, is wuss’n a shave tail. A drag tail is a durned
lazy mule who’s alluz hangin’ back on the trail, an’ a no-’count packer
who’s alluz late on his job. Savvy?”
VIII
THE ONE-ARMED GENERAL TRIES
“Hey! Cochise is out again!”
It was a spring day of this next year, 1872, and in the ranch yard
on the Joe Felmer place Jimmie and his assistant, little Francisco
Vasquez, were practicing pack-train.
Jimmie was the pack-master, little Francisco (a Mexican boy) was
arriero or muleteer; the train was composed of Shosh (Bear), a big
black shepherd dog, Pete, a yellow hound dog, and Two-bits, just dog.
Shosh already had learned to carry a pack and pack-rigging, dog size.
He was a real “bell sharp.” Two-bits was still an unruly “shave tail,”
and the yellow Pete was so lazy that he ranked as only a “drag tail.”
But they furnished good practice for Jimmie.
Now Joe, returning from a trip down to Tucson, brought startling news.
Cochise was “out” again! Even little Francisco looked alarmed.
“Are all the Chiricahua out, Joe?”
“Cochise an’ Geronimo an’ nigh two hundred more of ’em. That pesky
Colyer man on his way back to the States got the Government to move all
the ’Paches from whar they were comf’table in the Warm Spring country
to another part o’ the New Mexico country called the Tularosa; an’,
by jinks, Cochise said he wouldn’t go――an’ he didn’t go! He took his
Chiricahua an’ lit out for his old stampin’-ground in Arizony. So the
word’s been passed to watch for trouble.”
Joe stalked on, muttering, to carry some purchases into the house.
Jimmie the pack-master and little Francisco the arriero dismissed
their pack-train and quit for the day. The knowledge that Cochise and
Geronimo and their shifty Chiricahuas had left the Cañada Alamosa
reservation, where they had been staying with Chief Victorio’s Warm
Spring band, and had joined the fighting Chiricahuas who had stayed
“wild,” cast a shadow upon foolery.
“Will the great General Crook march against them now?” asked Francisco,
his black eyes round and large.
“Who knows?” responded Jimmie, in Spanish. “There’s a new peace man
coming from Washington. Then if the Chiricahua will not listen to
peace, they will hear war. Bueno!”
“Bueno (Good)!” piped Francisco. “Will you take me, Jeem?”
“Perhaps, chico mio (my little one),” grandly promised Jimmie.
To Francisco, Jimmie was an important person, who had lived with the
Cochise Chiricahuas, and called the chief’s son “chi-kis-n” or brother,
and spoke Apache, and soon was going to be a real arriero or else a
scout, with the American soldiers.
Aside from a few scouting expeditions, the winter at Camp Grant had
been quiet. The agency for the Arivaipas and Pinals was in operation,
at the mouth of the Arivaipa Canyon about a mile east; a Mr. Ed Jacobs
was the agent.
Nevertheless, Chief Es-kim-en-zin’s people were still afraid; they had
not forgotten the attack by the Tucson crowd. They came in around the
agency buildings every day, but every evening they went back up into
the canyon, where they might defend themselves.
The Peace Policy and the visit by Commissioner Colyer had not proved
an entire success. A great many Indians were still out. The Arizona
newspapers insisted that as long as General Crook was forbidden to
drive the outlaw Indians from their hiding-places, the bad hearts who
were simply using the reservations would feel that they might do as
they pleased, also.
There had been attacks upon ranches and mines and stage stations in
south and north both; the legislature had called upon Congress for
better protection to Arizona; and General Crook was all ready. He was
only waiting.
“I think that the Apache is painted in darker colors than he deserves,
and that his villainies arise more from a misconception of facts than
from his being worse than other Indians,” had reported the general,
after studying the situation. And he had added: “I am satisfied that a
sharp, active campaign against him would not only make him one of the
best Indians in the country, but it would also save millions of dollars
to the Treasury, and the lives of many innocent whites and Indians.”
The Indians on the reservations were complaining of food and slack
treatment; in New Mexico Chief Victorio of the Warm Springs and Chief
Cochise of the Chiricahuas had refused to be changed from the Cañada
Alamosa; so the Government was sending out another peace commissioner.
Brevet Major-General O. O. Howard, to try to satisfy everybody.
He was to make especial effort to talk with Cochise, who so far
had declined to talk at all. Cochise and Geronimo had claimed that
they were willing to live with Chief Victorio on the Warm Spring
reservation, but they had run away from Mr. Colyer, in fear of the
soldiers. They rarely went near the army post, there, Fort Craig, and
orders had been given that the soldiery should leave them alone, so
that they would continue peaceful and contented, among the Warm Springs.
The President had hoped that Cochise would talk with General Howard,
who was a great chief like himself. Now Cochise was “out” again!
“As far as I can savvy the trouble, that Colyer man has spilled the
soup,” complained Joe, this evening after his return from Tucson. “Some
o’ these agencies are located in awful pore places, not fitted for the
Injuns at all――like that Date Creek reservation whar the Apache-Mohaves
are herded. But that Cañada Alamosa of the Ojo Caliente (Warm Spring)
country jest suited old Victorio, an’ Cochise, too, an’ they weren’t
doin’ any harm.
“Now ’long comes Colyer, an’ he says to the Government: ‘The settlers
’round the Cañada Alamosa don’t like to have the Injuns thar. It’s
good cattle ground, an’ they want it for themselves. So to avoid hard
feelin’s I recommend we move the Injuns all up yonder to the Tularosa
country, which nobody wants!’
“Natur’ly, bein’ as the same Injuns had been promised the Cañada
Alamosa if they’d live on it, an’ thar’s plenty other land for the
settlers, they see no good reason for swappin’. They say that up at the
Tularosa the weather an’ land an’ water are as bad for Injuns as for
white men, an’ it’s ghost country. I tell ye,” concluded Joe, “when you
make an agreement with an Injun you got to stand by it, or he’ll never
believe in you ag’in. You can’t fool him, or he’ll fool _you_! I’m
curyus to see what kind of a man this Gen’ral Howard is.”
Jimmie, too, was “curyrus” to see this General O. O. Howard, who was
visiting the peaceful Yumas and Pimas in western Arizona and was
expected, any day, at Tucson. His next stop probably would be Camp
Grant itself, so that he might talk with the Pinals and Arivaipas.
Veteran Sergeant Warfield, who had served under the general in the
Union Army, at Antietam and Gettysburg and in other big battles, said
that he was a great man, had commanded as high as thirty thousand
soldiers, in the field; had lost his right arm, by two wounds, at the
battle of Fair Oaks; was a hard fighter and was very religious――knew
the Bible by heart and almost had resigned from the army to go into
“preaching.”
“But let me tell you this,” added the grizzled sergeant, to Jimmie:
“Arizony’ll find out that General Howard’s a man who’ll see that right
is done to both white and red. He’s got a heap of sense, and he’s as
square as a piece of hard-tack.”
“A great American soldier chief is coming to talk with the Arivaipa,”
informed Jimmie, to old Santos, at the reservation.
“What does he want?” demanded Santos, in Apache.
“He wants to make peace with all the Indians.”
“What good is peace?” retorted Santos. “The Arivaipa asked for peace,
and the white people and the Papagos killed our women and stole our
children. We are still at peace, but none of our women and children
have come back, and we are hungry. We would have done better to fight
like the Chiricahua and the Tonto.”
In a few days, or early in May, General Howard did indeed appear at
Camp Grant. He was traveling in a six-mule army ambulance, with an
escort of cavalry from post to post. Colonel Crittenden and staff rode
out a short distance to meet him. The four companies of Fifth Cavalry
and Twenty-third Infantry were drawn up, to receive him; their worn
uniforms brushed and every button and buckle polished.
General Howard certainly looked like a fine, soldierly officer. He was
as tall as, and rather heavier than General Crook; with full brown
beard and handsome, lion-like countenance; in dusty campaign hat, and
double-breasted blue coat with two rows of brass buttons down the
front, and shoulder-straps bearing the single star each of a brigadier
general (which was his regular rank), and with an empty right sleeve
pinned to his sword belt.
“Yep, I jedge he’s all right,” announced the ambulance driver, to an
inquiring group of soldiers and scouts, after the parade had been
dismissed. The driver was a lean, lank, exceedingly solemn man who
could not be induced to smile. “Only thing I have against him is his
callin’ me ‘Dismal Jeems’――him an’ his aide Cap’n Wilkinson. I dunno
why. All the way over from Fort Yumy I’ve tried my best to cheer ’em
up. I told ’em about every massacree along the hull road; told ’em
we were liable to be scalped, any mile; told ’em all the cheerfulest
things I could think of. But somehow I didn’t make a hit. The gen’ral’s
powerful pious, too――holdin’ prayer-meetin’ on Sunday an’ readin’ his
Bible whenever he has a chance.
“But the Yumas an’ Pimas cottoned to him, an’ down at Tucson the people
liked him fust-rate. The Pimas an’ Papagos have promised to come in to
a council with the Arivaipas here next week, an’ the Mexicans who have
the Arivaipa kids have promised to fetch ’em, an’ I s’pose when we all
get together thar’ll be a grand killin’ match. But I’m a cheerful man
an’ alluz aim to look on the bright side o’ things.”
With that, “Dismal Jeems” drew a more melancholy face than before,
sighed heavily, and slouched away to rub down his sweaty mules.
General Howard was not here to stay long, this time. He spent most of
one day at the agency; then he left for Fort Whipple, to confer with
General Crook. But he was coming back; he had set May 21 as the date
for the big peace council.
“What do you think of the soldier chief, Santos?” asked Jimmie. Old
Santos, ex-chief, usually was to be found sitting in the sun, on the
bench in front of the agency store. He did not live in the hills with
Es-kim-en-zin.
“The soldier chief is a good man. He pointed to the sky and said: ‘I
have a Father up there. So have you. There is only one Father. Your
Father and my Father are the same. So you and I are brothers.’ That
was a wise speech. We shook hands, and we are brothers. I am glad. His
words tell me that he is a wise chief, and his sleeve tells me that he
is a great warrior. Now I trust him, because he thinks as I do.”
The council was held at the mouth of the Arivaipa Canyon, exactly as
General Howard had planned.
From their agency one hundred miles west, on the Gila River, the Pimas
came on time――twenty of them, with their teacher, the Reverend Mr.
Cook, and their interpreter, named Louis.
From their agency at Camp Verde, fifty miles west, some Tontos came;
and some Apache-Mohaves, from their agency at Date Creek, southwest of
Prescott; and a company of Papagos, from their homes south of Tucson.
From Tucson itself there came a large delegation of Americans and
Mexicans, headed by Governor A. P. K. Safford and the district
attorney. Many of the Mexicans were women, bringing the Arivaipa and
Pinal children whom they had adopted after the massacre.
The Pimas and the Papagos had long been enemies of the Apaches, so they
stayed together. The Tontos and the Apache-Mohaves had been enemies
of everybody, so they stayed together. The Mexicans had been enemies
of the Tontos and the Apache-Mohaves and the Arivaipas and Pinals, so
they stayed together. The Americans――the Tucson citizens and the scouts
and ranchers――were ready to back up the guard of soldiers, in case of
trouble. But General Howard’s purpose was to make peace between all the
peoples of the Southwest.
“Will there be a fight, you think, Jeem?” inquired little Francisco.
He and Jimmie had ridden over early on one of the ranch mules, to see
and hear whatever might happen. “The Arivaipa will fight to get their
children, and the Pima will fight the Tonto, and the soldiers will
shoot; won’t they, Jeem?”
“Who knows?” replied Jimmie. “No, they won’t!” he quickly added. “It is
all right, chico. Here comes General Howard. And see who is with him!
That is General Crook! Hooray!”
“Hooray!” echoed Francisco, who always tried to do what Jimmie did.
For with its six mules at a gallop, and with General Howard upon the
seat beside “Dismal Jeems,” the army ambulance had swung into the
pretty green valley along the Arivaipa Creek. Behind the ambulance
followed, in the road, a cavalcade of officers on horses and mules. The
first two were Colonel Crittenden of Camp Grant, and a sinewy, powerful
man, in a brown canvas suit, on a mule. General Crook himself!
He had come over with General Howard from Fort Whipple. So had
Lieutenant Bourke, and Lieutenant Ross, and Lieutenant George Bacon of
the First Cavalry, and others of Jimmie’s old-time officer friends.
General Howard and party climbed out of the ambulance; the other
officers left their mounts with the orderlies; and all crossed to the
stools and benches reserved for the “chiefs,” on the sod in the center
of the waiting circle.
“No Es-kim-en-zin yet,” whispered little Francisco. “They stay away. I
am afraid, Jeem.”
That was true. Only old short-legged Santos and a handful of decrepid
men and squaws were here; Chief Es-kim-en-zin and his warriors had not
appeared. General Howard and General Crook and Colonel Crittenden sat,
waiting. So did the governor and the district attorney. So did the Pima
and Papago and Apache-Mohave chiefs. Everybody waited. Agent Jacobs
plainly was worried, but it would not do to show any sign of impatience.
“Dismal Jeems,” the ambulance driver from Fort Yuma, circulated about,
wagging his head and prophesying that nobody would leave the spot
alive! Yes, a cheerful man was “Dismal Jeems.”
In about an hour, there was a sudden murmur of interest. From the mouth
of the Arivaipa Canyon emerged Chief Es-kim-en-zin, leading his band of
Arivaipas and Pinals. They were in their best paint, and advanced with
much dignity to the place assigned to them. Now the circle was complete.
For fifteen minutes no one spoke. General Howard evidently understood
that it was not proper to hurry a council. Presently he arose, and
through Concepcion Equierre the interpreter, who spoke English as well
as he did Spanish and Apache, invited the Arivaipa-Pinals to make a
talk.
Es-kim-en-zin was first. He made a very poor talk, because he
stammered, but he spoke thoroughly in earnest, and so did others of his
band. They wanted their children back again.
The Mexicans who now had the children were invited to reply. They said
that the children were being well brought up, as Christians; they loved
them and did not wish to return them to Indian life.
The governor and the district attorney spoke. They said that it was
better for Arizona and for the children to have the children brought up
in civilization. The district attorney added that most of the children
were orphans, and that therefore the Territory of Arizona was their
guardian. Their own people were unable to bring them up properly.
Es-kim-en-zin and his old men answered that it was true that many
mothers and fathers had been killed; but the Arivaipa people wept for
the little boys and girls who had been stolen from them, and would work
hard to take good care of the children of their race.
All the speeches in English and Apache were translated into Apache and
English by Concepcion Equierre, the agency interpreter; and again into
Spanish so that the Mexicans and the Papagos and Pimas might understand
what was going on.
That evening the Es-kim-en-zin Arivaipa-Pinals went back, six miles, up
into their canyon. The other delegations camped in the valley bottom
around the agency.
Jimmie and Francisco, on their mule, rode home with Joe Felmer.
“It’s goin’ to be nip an’ tuck,” asserted Joe. “As I understand,
Gen’ral Crook he agrees with the gov’ner an’ deestrict attorney that
the children are better off as they’re livin’ now. It may mean less
Injuns to fight, later. On the other hand, I heard that teacher-man
Cook talkin’ with his Pimas; an’ seems as though the Pimas, who are
’most like white folks an’ hate the ’Paches, too, sorter think the
kids ought to be given back to their own kin. The Papagos’ll be ag’in
it, ’cause they helped steal the children, an’ have used ’em. The
Tontos an’ Yavapais, bein’ ’Paches, will feel like the Arivaipas do.
But I have a notion Gen’ral Howard’ll find a way, so everybody’ll be
satisfied.”
It was not until the third day of the council that General Howard found
the way. Meanwhile both parties were growing angry. Chief Es-kim-en-zin
announced that he could see no good in so many long talks. The general
spent the second night among the camps, and slept on the ground there.
In the morning he made his final speech.
“The good Mr. Cook, of the Pimas, agrees with me that the children
ought to be returned to their own people,” he said. “Some of them are
being brought up as slaves and servants, and they all were carried off
by force, which is not right. But the district attorney from Tucson,
and the governor, and other honest persons, think differently, and
I should listen to their words, also. So we will take the matter to
Washington. I will appeal to my chief, who is the Secretary of the
Interior; and the district attorney may appeal to his chief, who is the
Attorney General of the United States. And these chiefs will appeal to
President Grant, who is the greatest chief of all.
“While the President is deciding, the children shall stay here at the
agency with a good Christian white woman whom I have engaged. They will
be well cared for, at government expense. Their relatives and friends
from the Arivaipas may visit them often, and their Mexican friends may
visit them often; and our Great Father at Washington shall say who may
keep them.”
A cheer started, but the district attorney sprang to his feet.
“We wish to keep the children until the President decides. We will
guarantee to do whatever he directs.”
“No guarantee is needed, from either side,” severely answered General
Howard. “Here is General Crook. With his army and his authority he will
see to it that justice is done exactly as I have outlined!”
“Good!”
“Bueno, bueno!”
“Inju!”
The word was repeated in a perfect storm of languages. The gathering
was all excitement and relief. Everybody seemed to approve of what the
general had said; that is, everybody except the district attorney and a
few scouts and ranchers who did not believe in yielding peace terms to
any Apaches whatsoever.
The Arivaipa-Pinals and the Papagos and the Pimas and the Apache-Mohaves
and the Tontos hugged one another; some of the Mexicans hugged some of
the Indians; General Crook and the officers laughed. It was a happy
solution of a serious problem.
“Kinder like a love-feast, after all, warn’t it!” remarked Joe Felmer.
“Huh! Wall, I reckon the gen’ral knows how the President’ll decide.”
Probably General Howard did, for in due time the children were given
over to the Es-kim-en-zin band, by orders from Washington, and
Es-kim-en-zin always remained at peace.
Amidst the hurly-burly of excitement Jimmie found himself close to
General Crook, who was talking earnestly with Joe Felmer and old Jack
Long. That was his style; he did not go much on red tape, but spoke
direct to officers and enlisted men alike.
Here in his travel-stained canvas suit without any mark of rank on it,
he scarcely would be taken, again, for a general commanding all the big
Territory of Arizona. He was thinner than when Jimmie had last seen
him, before; his face was lined, and he looked as though he had been
working hard, and worrying too.
His eyes, glancing aside, fell upon Jimmie, and recognized him. To
the beck of the general’s finger Jimmie stepped forward and stood at
attention.
“This is your boy, is he, Felmer?” The general seemed to remember
everything.
“Yessir, that’s what I call him.”
“He’s wearing rather more clothes than when I first met him,” commented
the general drily. “What are you going to make of him?”
“Wall, he’s ondecided ’twixt scout an’ packer,” drawled Joe. “He’s a
leetle small yet, but he’s growin’.”
“Yes, an’ he’ll have plenty time to grow while we’re all standin’
’round waitin’ on the Government’s Arizony pets to come in to their
feed canvas when they’re called!” grumbled old Jack. “He’s liable to
die of old age, if he ain’t sculped fust.”
“Tut, tut!” sharply reproved the general. “General Howard’s doing good
work. He’s the right man. But this is not saying that there won’t be
use for the army. As for you, my boy,” he continued, to Jimmie, “keep
on learning to the best of your ability, so that you’ll be ready for
whatever comes.”
“Yes, sir,” promised Jimmie.
IX
THE HORRID DEED OF CHUNTZ
General Crook had ridden back to Fort Whipple, on his mule “Apache,”
and General Howard had left in the ambulance driven by “Dismal Jeems,”
for Camp Apache and the White Mountain reservation.
He had another good scheme. He was collecting Indians from among the
tribes, to take them with him to Washington and the Great White Father,
that they might understand how many and powerful the white people were.
Old Santos had agreed to go, for the Arivaipas. The Pimas were sending
their teacher, the Reverend Mr. Cook, and Louis the interpreter,
and the young chief Antonito. The Papagos were sending their chief,
Ascencion. The Date Creek Apache-Mohaves or Yavapais were sending
Charlie and José.
Concepcion Equierre went from the Arivaipa agency, to translate Apache.