soldiers, and many Apache scouts, and they are enough to give the bad
Apaches no rest. But I want you to punish your own bad people. You must
send out your own warriors, and keep sending them out until Chuntz
and Long-ear and Cochinay are killed or captured, and their people
surrender. It is not right that a few bad men should work so much harm
to everybody. I hope that you will consider what I have said. I am
done.”
All that summer of 1873 and into the next summer the San Carlos and
White Mountain police, assisted by cavalry and infantry detachments
patrolling the hills, harassed the outlaws. Wherever the Chuntz
people moved, in the Canyon of the Gila, the reservation Apaches were
ferreting them out.
Some of the outlaws sent in word that they were ready to surrender.
They were told that they might come in if they brought Chuntz, Long-ear
and Cochinay. Finally the outlaws were hunting their chiefs.
Cochinay was killed on May 26, 1874; Long-ear was killed on June 12;
Chuntz the villain was killed on July 25. A whole sackful of heads was
spilled by the Apache police upon the ground in front of Major John B.
Babcock’s headquarters, at San Carlos, to prove that “peace” was being
made!
Over at Verde, Delt-che had broken out and had been killed, in July.
So by mid-summer of 1874 the bad-hearted chiefs seemed all out of the
way, at last. Old Cochise, also, had died, in June, on the Chiricahua
reservation, and Taza was the head chief. He could be depended upon,
for peace.
Meanwhile Jimmie was helping to run the first telegraph lines in
Arizona, connecting military post with military post. He stayed in
telegraph work some years――during which a number of things happened.
XVIII
“CLUKE” GOES AWAY
The general’s plans had apparently worked out all right, when for no
especial reason, as far as Arizona could understand, the management of
the reservations was changed from the Military Department of Arizona to
the civilian agents appointed by the Indian Bureau at Washington. The
soldiers were to be retained only as guards and not as instructors.
The Indian Bureau started in to move the Apaches about. That had been
tried two years before, when in New Mexico Chief Victorio’s Warm Spring
Apaches had been ordered from the Cañada Alamosa to the hated Tularosa
tract. But General Howard had obtained from the President permission
for them to live again at their beloved Cottonwood Canyon.
In the summer of 1874 it was reported that the Camp Verde Indians were
to be taken over to the San Carlos reservation. The Camp Verde lands
were desired by the white people.
General Crook had much opposed this scheme. He was powerless, but he
sent a protest to the War Department, saying:
There are now on the Verde reservation about fifteen hundred
Indians; they have been among the worst in Arizona; but if the
Government keeps its promise to them that it shall be their
home for all time, there will be no difficulty in keeping
them at peace, and engaged in peaceful pursuits. I sincerely
hope that the interests that are now at work to deprive these
Indians of this reservation will be defeated; but if they
succeed, the responsibility of turning these fifteen hundred
Apaches loose upon the settlers of Arizona should rest where it
belongs.
All that winter of 1874–1875 the general (who had given his word) and
Chief Chalipun strove against the threatened change to the San Carlos
reservation. But it was of no avail.
In the spring of 1875 the general had been transferred to the
Department of the Platte, with headquarters at Omaha, Nebraska. He had
pacified the Snakes in the Northwest and the Apaches in the Southwest;
now he was needed to subdue the bold-riding Sioux and Cheyennes of the
great northern plains.
He took with him Lieutenant John G. Bourke, chief of staff, and other
officers whom Jimmie so well knew. Tom Moore, chief packer, was to
follow with the best of the pack-trains. The Third Cavalry already was
in the north; and the Fifth Cavalry was soon to go.
“Cluke has been sent away. The Apaches have lost their best friend,”
mourned Chief Chalipun; and submitted to being removed. So the Yavapais
and the Apache-Yumas at Camp Verde left their ditch and fields, and
went to a strange region――that of San Carlos.
Young Second Lieutenant George O. Eaton, of the Fifth Cavalry, was the
only man whom they would trust, to take them over. Even at that, on the
way they had a fight among themselves, and eighteen were killed and
fifty wounded.
The White Mountains were moved, next, down to the San Carlos. Their
reservation was to be closed.
Whatever the reasons of the Indian Bureau, Chiefs Pedro, Pi-to-ne and
others objected bitterly.
“These are our lands,” asserted Chief Pedro. “They were promised to
us by the great one-armed soldier-captain, Howard. When I went to
Washington, our White Father there told me again that if we were good,
these should be our lands forever. We have been good. We have done
as we were asked to do. We have raised more crops than all the other
Apaches put together. We have helped the soldiers fight our brothers.
We are contented here. But we are mountain Indians and we cannot live
down there in the low country where the water is bad and the air is
hot. The Pinals and the Arivaipas are not friendly to us, and the
Yavapai ways are not our ways.”
Finally eighteen hundred of them were herded down to the San Carlos.
Some hid out, and after a time many stole back from the San Carlos. The
soldiers at Camp Apache permitted them to stay.
The next year, 1876, the Chiricahua reservation was broken up. It
had no soldiers and no Indian police, and was too near the border.
Whiskey-sellers and outlaw Apaches sneaked in, but Taza said that if
the American government would help him he could keep the bad people out.
“Why does Washington punish good people on account of bad people?” he
asked, when told that the Chiricahuas must go.
At last, with about three hundred of his Chiricahuas, he went to the
San Carlos. Geronimo agreed to go, too; but he and Chief Whoa, who
had come in from Mexico, and old Nana, and Nah-che, and four hundred
others, ran off into Mexico.
The next spring they returned to visit Victorio’s Warm Spring band at
the Cottonwood Canyon reservation. Because of this, Chiefs Victorio and
Geronimo were arrested, and all the Indians were started, under guard,
for the San Carlos.
On the way Chief Victorio escaped, with forty warriors. After this he
made war on the Americans until he was killed in 1880. He claimed that
he had done no wrong, and that he never could trust the Americans again.
“The policy of concentration,” was what the Indian Bureau called its
scheme to place all the Apaches upon the San Carlos reservation. “A
policy of concentrated trouble,” Al Sieber said.
And that proved true.
Soon the San Carlos reservation contained about five thousand Indians,
good and bad; some working, some lazy. There were Yavapais, Tontos,
Coyotes, Apache-Yumas, Chiricahuas, Pinals, Arivaipas, Sierra Blanca
(White Mountains), and even a few Hualpais. They had different habits.
The Indian Bureau seemed to think that one Apache was just like another
Apache, but General Crook had known better.
Whiskey was being smuggled in or manufactured; white miners and
ranchers and prospectors were trespassing, and large sections of the
reservation had been lopped off for other uses; the agents were accused
of selling the Indians’ supplies outside, instead of distributing them
properly or storing them; the Indians quarreled among themselves, and
even some of the White Mountains had revolted.
So in the early morning of April, 1882, Jimmie Dunn, riding telegraph
line up along the Gila River from Camp Thomas, had plenty to think
about. Jimmie was a young man, now, with a limp (an honorable limp) but
with a good hard head.
Camp Thomas had been established just at the southeast corner of the
San Carlos reservation, or thirty-two miles up the Gila from the agency
quarters. Jimmie’s business as line-man was to ride between Thomas and
the second Camp Grant, and to see that the line was in order.
There was still constant trouble at San Carlos. The Apaches there
had no faith in the Government. The good ones saw little reason in
remaining good. Their only reward had been San Carlos, and they hated
San Carlos. The Chiricahuas especially were restive. A long time ago
Taza had died, while in Washington trying to talk for his people.
Geronimo was head chief, and Nah-che was his partner in everything.
Parties frequently broke away from the reservation, for Mexico. At this
very moment Chief Whoa and Nah-che were out again, with a band. They
had fled to join old Nana, who at almost ninety years was living wild!
Geronimo and two hundred of his Chiricahuas, and Loco and the Warm
Spring Apaches, were at the San Carlos, but likely enough they would
run away, too, whenever they took the notion. They despised the Taza
people as “squaws” and cowards; the other Indians, in turn, despised
them as trouble-makers.
General Crook was in the north. He had conquered the Sioux and the
Cheyennes, and was busy keeping them at peace.
General O. B. Willcox, of the Twelfth Infantry, commanded in Arizona.
The Sixth Cavalry had replaced the Fifth Cavalry. But there were not
enough soldiers, most of the white interpreters and scouts had been
discharged, and the Apache police were supposed to maintain order upon
the reservation.
The military telegraph had connected all the army posts. There was a
civil telegraph, also――for the railroad had arrived.
The Southern Pacific Railroad crossed the southern part of the
Territory, about by the old stage route. Through the northern part
of the Territory the Atlantic & Pacific Railroad was crossing the
great Mogollon Plateau, where General Crook had broken a trail in the
campaign of ten years ago.
The telegraph line had puzzled the Apaches very much, as “big
medicine.” They called it “pesh-bi-yal-ti”――“the talking wire.” But
they were learning to interfere with it by cutting it, and inserting a
little piece of rubber. Then the wire quit “talking.”
A sharp eye was required to see such a break, which usually was near
a pole or tree up which the Indians had shinned. Jimmie had the eye.
Also, he was not afraid. He was accustomed to the country, and to the
Apaches.
Sometimes he saw parties of them. If they were running away, they
were in too much of a hurry to stop. If they were hunting, they were
friendly. However, the run-aways did not cross hereabouts. They took
another route, further east, along the New Mexico western border.
As a rule, Jimmie rode with a partner; but to-day his partner was ill.
Jimmie felt capable of repairing any break by himself, whether the
Indians had made it, or whether the limb of a tree had fallen. The line
had to be ridden, anyway.
The military road was very quiet. It stretched on, up hill and down,
through timber and open parks, with the Gila River on the left, and far
on the right, or the south, the dark Pinaleno Mountains, beyond which
lay Camp Grant. Pretty soon the telegraph line would head down there.
He would ride on until he met another rider, coming from Grant.
The San Carlos reservation was behind, to the northwest, on the other
side of the Gila; and away in the north, beyond a high ridge, was the
White Mountain reservation, with old Camp Apache that was now Fort
Apache.
He was about ten miles out of Camp Thomas, and jogging easily. The only
moving things that he had sighted were rabbits and squirrels, and once
or twice a deer. But now when from a rise he looked across the Gila, he
saw, in the distance to the north, a great cloud of dust.
That froze him. It appeared mighty suspicious. Many people, and horses
or cattle, would stir up such a dust. In that case, Indians! This was
not white man’s country.
If they were Indians, they were moving very fast, and striking east,
like run-aways from San Carlos. Or was it cavalry, riding hard? But if
it was cavalry, that meant Indians, too.
Well, he’d soon find out. The Gila, running bank full, was some
distance below; the country beyond, approached by the dust, was open
and rolling. He had a fine view. So sitting his horse, Jimmie whipped
off his field-glasses and leveled them. Ash Flats sprang into the
field; and here surged the brown dust, and under it, into the clear of
a little swale, streamed a mass of hastily scurrying figures.
Indians, sure!
XIX
JIMMIE SENDS THE ALARM
First there were fifteen or twenty mounted warriors, as an advance
guard. Then there followed about one hundred and fifty other warriors,
all with rifles, and stripped and painted to fight. Then there trooped
and jostled a large procession of squaws and children, mostly afoot,
herding a tremendous bunch of loose horses and mules, and packing camp
stuff.
There must have been five hundred squaws and children, and six or seven
thousand animals, not counting dogs! A small guard of warriors were
riding the rear flanks of the march. It certainly was a big outbreak of
the San Carlos Chiricahuas, and they were hot-footing for Mexico!
Whew! Where were the police and the soldiers, then? Jimmie swept the
landscape for sign of them, and saw nothing. He clapped his glasses
closed. His eyes leaped to the nearest telegraph pole. His duty was
clear. He ought to send word at once to Camp Thomas.
Just as he was about to swing down, tie his horse, and climb the pole,
he sighted, with a last glance of his eye, four Indians swimming the
river below, with their ponies. Either he had been seen, or else they
were coming to cut the wire. Maybe both.
Already the foremost was urging his pony up out of the water’s edge,
to the bank on this side. Of course they had seen him, as he sat! But
he still had a chance to race back, to the fort, and give the alarm.
No; that would lose an hour, or more. Likely enough the wire from San
Carlos to the fort had been cut; at the rate that those Chiricahuas
were traveling, every minute was precious if they were to be headed off.
He ought to climb the pole and tap the wire. If he could not raise
Thomas in the one direction, he might raise Grant, in the other. But
he’d have to work fast. Lives were at stake, for no settler could stop
those bronc’s.
Jimmie resolutely tumbled off his horse, in a jiffy strapped on his
climbing irons, left his horse, and his rifle in scabbard (a rifle
would be of no use up there), and ran for the pole. And this was
a brave act, for he might easily have run, horseback, in another
direction――back to Camp Thomas, or to hide in the farther timber until
the Indians had gone after cutting the wire.
At top speed he shinned up the pole, and digging in, rapidly unshipped
his line-man’s little sending kit, in order to break in on the wire and
call the Camp Thomas operator. He did not dare to watch the movements
of those four Indians.
No doubt the four were coming full tilt, up from the river and through
the brush; but if he tried to watch them he would be nervous and make
false motions. The thing for him to do was to clamp on to that line,
and _get there first_. That required swift, sure work, and all his
attention. So he endeavored not to think of the four Indians.
Never had he felt so high in the air, and so much exposed. Almost any
other pole would have been better, but none had been as near and
convenient. He made a splendid mark, like a hawk roosting in a dead
tree.
“Ping!” A bullet! They were shooting at him! “Pung!” That was the
report, following. “Whing!” “Pung!” But he must not mind the warning.
He needed only a minute more. As he worked rapidly his fingers seemed
all thumbs. He did not dare to take his eyes off them. “Thud-bang!” The
bullet shook the pole, and the report was so close that the shooter
could not be far away. He heard shrill yells, somewhere below――――
“Whack-bang!” A heavy hammer fell on the top of his shoulder, and well
nigh knocked him from his perch. He clung desperately, wrapping himself
tighter――his shoulder stung and was oddly warm――but it was his left
shoulder, he was on the wire at last, and was sending with his right
hand.
“D,” “D,” “D,” he called Camp Thomas.
There was thud of hoofs below, a chorus of angry yells――“Whish-bang!” a
bullet fanned his cheek――“Ping-bang!” another cut a large sliver from
the pole close to his neck――“D,” “D,” “D,” he kept calling, even while
he glanced aside.
The four Indians were into the road and tearing for him, rifles leveled
upward――he saw smoke, heard the bullets――but the Thomas operator had
answered.
“I――I D,” “I――I D.”
Now for the ten seconds’ grace!
“Injuns out. Big band――――”
Camp Thomas broke.
“Repeat. Who are you?”
“Too nervous. Steady, boy,” cautioned Jimmie, to himself. He was not an
expert operator, anyway. But this was a crisis.
He hastily started to repeat. The four Indians were right at the foot
of the pole, yelling at him.
“Get down, get down!” they ordered, furiously, in Apache. He gazed
full into their upturned, painted faces――and into the muzzles of their
rifles; and he grinned sickly and continued to send.
“Injuns out. Big band. Sig., Dunn. Injuns out. Big Band. Sig., Dunn.
Injuns out. Big band. Sig., Dunn.”
Would Camp Thomas never O. K.? Would those muzzles below never belch
their balls and rip him and hurl him headlong?
“No tiras (Don’t shoot)!” suddenly yelped one of the voices, from one
of the painted faces.
Nah-che! And Chato (Flat-nose), too! The muzzles were lowered――the
scowling Chato’s last of all.
“Come down, chi-kis-n,” ordered Nah-che.
But Jimmie only shook his head, while he worked his key.
“Come down or we shoot you down,” blared Flat-nose; and he drew a
deadly bead.
But Thomas had broken in at last.
“O. K. Where?” ticked Camp Thomas.
“Ash Flats. Head east. Bronc’s and squaws.”
“O. K. Get off wire,” answered Camp Thomas.
“Bang!” sounded Chato’s rifle, and Jimmie’s little instrument flew
into fragments. But Jimmie cared not, now. He went sliding painfully
down; landed right in the midst of the four Indians, staggered――two of
them were afoot, waiting for him――they sprang at him, and wrenched his
revolver from its holster. They acted as though they were going to kill
him, or take him along, when Nah-che interfered.
“No!” he ordered, while Chato scowled. But Nah-che was obeyed, because
he was a grown warrior and son of Cochise. “What were you doing,
chi-kis-n?” he demanded.
“I talked with Camp Thomas,” answered Jimmie, defiantly.
“What did you say?”
“I said that the Chiricahua were running away.”
The three other Indians murmured angrily. The two young bucks besides
Nah-che and Chato Jimmie did not know. He had not seen Nah-che and
Chato for several years, either. They had grown. Chato was ugly,
because of his flattened nose, but Nah-che was supple and handsome.
“No matter,” said Nah-che, to his companions. “This is my brother.
He did right. He is brave. He shall not be harmed. Give him his gun
and let him alone. We are not afraid of the soldiers.” He addressed
Jimmie. “Yes, chi-kis-n, we are running away――all the Warm Springs and
Chiricahua except the Taza band. There are many of us, and we know
there are not enough soldiers in Arizona to stop us. We can whip the
Camp Thomas soldiers first, and whip the rest as they come. Geronimo is
with us, and Loco, and one hundred warriors who belong to Juh and me.”
“Why are you running away, chi-kis-n?” asked Jimmie. “I thought you and
Juh were already run away. People said you were in Mexico.”
“We were,” replied Nah-che. “We live in Mexico. That is the only place
for us. Nana is there, too; and Chihuahua. Now Juh and I have come up
to help Geronimo and Loco get away.” He began to talk hotly. “Why do we
all run away? That is a foolish question. We will not be moved around
so, and put in sickly places among Indians who don’t like us. We would
have stayed at our home in the Dragoon Mountains, and have been happy.
A few of us drank whiskey sold us by bad white men, and we all were
blamed. The San Carlos is not a good place. The White Mountains tell
false stories about us, the agents steal our rations from us and we go
hungry. The white traders would rather sell things to us, and cheat us.
So Juh and I ran away. Now there is talk that the white men want all
the San Carlos country, because of mines, and that the Apaches will be
taken away, many miles, to a strange land. Geronimo says he has been
told to come to Camp Thomas, for a talk――and if he goes there, he will
be put in prison again; maybe killed, like Mangas Coloradas was killed.
We would rather die on the warpath than die in prison or in a strange
land. So we all, the Chiricahua and the Warm Springs, except Taza’s
squaw-people, will live in the Mexican mountains. There we can lead
our own life. The Mexicans dare not fight us, we have plenty guns and
plenty food, the American soldiers cannot cross the line, to follow
us.”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” retorted Jimmie. “Crook will come, and he
will go anywhere.”
“Cluke is a good man. If he had stayed, maybe there would be peace
instead of war,” responded Nah-che. “There has been one other good man,
at San Carlos. He was the soldier-captain Chaffee. Why does the White
Father at Washington let us be cheated, like children, by dishonest
agents? Why does he listen to bad tongues, that say we must not stay
where we were promised we might stay? But good-by, chi-kis-n. Now there
is war between us. The Chiricahua are never coming back to be cheated
again. You have been chi-kis-n; but you are American and I am Apache,
so when we meet in war, look out for yourself. It will be man to man.
We are no longer boys.”
Nah-che wheeled his pony. With a whoop, away they four tore,
flourishing their guns.
Jimmie gazed after only for a moment. Then he was aware that all his
left shoulder and arm were red and paining. The bullet had slashed a
furrow an inch deep through the muscles of the upper arm, but the blood
was clotting and he did not pause to tie a bandage on.
He unstrapped his climbing irons, kicked them off as he stooped to pick
up his revolver, and hobbled for his horse; mounted and raced for Camp
Thomas.
Camp Thomas had only two reduced companies of the Sixth Cavalry.
When he got there, the two companies were drawn up in column of twos
in front of the adjutant’s office, as if ready to start out. Micky
Free was here, with a party of White Mountain and Tonto scouts. The
telegraph instrument was clicking rapidly.
“Hello, Cheemie!” intercepted Micky, gaily, in his Spanish. “You been
fighting, what?”
“Not much,” panted Jimmie, pulling short. “When do you start?”
“Pretty soon, when the talking wire is done. They are telling what you
said, to the other posts. You did good work, Cheemie. The wire from San
Carlos is cut, but Tom Horn (he was a white scout and packer at San
Carlos) brought more news by horse, and Sibi has been here. Now they
are out, spying on the trail, and we will follow. It has been a big
outbreak.”
“Were you there, Micky?”
“No; but I heard it, and the agency Indians have signaled, and Tom Horn
was there. All the Chief Loco Warm Springs and the Geronimo Chiricahua
have gone. They number seven hundred. The trouble was this. You know
Stirling?”
Jimmie nodded. Mr. Stirling was chief of the agency police. These were
not scouts, but Indians appointed by the agent as policemen.
“Some days ago Stirling tried to arrest a Chiricahua who had been
making whiskey. The Chiricahua ran and Stirling missed him and hit a
squaw. That turned the Chiricahua bad, although Stirling said he was
sorry. They have been getting bad anyway, because there is talk that
all the Indians are to be moved far away, so that the Americans can dig
coal on the reservation. Last night Juh and Nah-che sent in word that
they were near, waiting to help Loco and Geronimo. This morning the
Chiricahua and Warm Springs began to pack up, and Stirling and Navajo
Bill, a policeman, charged them alone, to break them up. The Chiricahua
had been waiting for this. They shot Stirling one hundred times at
once, and a squaw cut off his head and it was kicked about like a ball.
He was a very brave man, that Stirling. Navajo Bill wasn’t hurt, but
another policeman was killed, and one Chiricahua. Now the Warm Springs
and Chiricahua are out――and I think they will keep right on going.”
“Yes,” answered Jimmie soberly. “I met Nah-che. He came while I was
talking on the wire. He says that all the soldiers in Arizona cannot
stop them.”