Apaches to dig, and the agent declined to permit the digging. The
Indians believed nobody. Captain Crawford asked to be transferred to
his regiment, the Third Cavalry, and Captain F. E. Pierce, of the First
Infantry, was assigned to the military charge of San Carlos. He had
lost an eye in the Civil War.
In February of 1885 Major-General John Pope, who commanded the Military
Division of the Pacific, from San Francisco announced, to Washington:
If General Crook’s authority over the Indians at San Carlos be
curtailed or modified in any way, there are certain to follow
very serious results, if not a renewal of Indian wars and
depredations in Arizona.
Consequently, with matters at sixes and sevens, the outlook at Fort
Bowie was very gloomy.
In the middle of May Jimmie rode down toward the border, to see how
some of the pack-mules in pasture upon a ranch were getting along.
There was likely to be need of them soon, for the Indians certainly
were going to break out.
It was an all-day ride. The pasture was in some bottoms among the
hills, where there was good water and grass; so he cooked his own
supper and prepared to sleep out, beneath the stars.
He was just about to turn in, under his blanket, when he heard Chiquito
snort. Chiquito was his horse, picketed out to graze. The snort might
mean mountain lion, Mexican leopard, wolf, deer, or――――!
“What is it, Chiquito?”
Chiquito’s head was up, his ears pricked, he was staring into the
south. He knew a heap, Chiquito did.
Jimmie gazed, too, in the same direction. And there, far to the
southwest, across the Mexican line, he saw a red gleam on a high hill.
A signal fire, sure: Indian signal!
Jimmie scrambled to his feet and stood peering intent. Presently the
gleam was broken――and then repeated. Indians down there were signalling
for other Indians to answer. That was plain. Even Chiquito had known.
He was Indian wise.
Jimmie swept the dark horizon again and again, to catch the answer, but
none appeared. His view from the camp was not very good; but he must
find out what was going on; accordingly he snatched up his blanket and
ran through the brush to the crest of the slope above him.
Here he found the right spot, and squatted, with his blanket wrapped
around him, to wait. He did not dare to build a fire, lest it be seen.
This was a long, cold wait.
The fire in the southwest flared regularly at intervals of about an
hour. “Answer,” it kept saying. “Answer.” Jimmie eyed the north as well
as the south――and at midnight the expected happened. The signal in the
south had been answered, for it suddenly broke into a message.
There were one long flash and several shorter ones. Then, quickly
following, two flashes, and an interval, and two more.
As anybody ought to know, this spelled: “All right. We will wait two
days.”
The fire died. That was the end. Jimmie jumped to a conclusion. There
had been only the one fire in the south; so the answer had come from
the north, and he had somehow missed it. But the Indians in Mexico had
signalled to some Indians in Arizona, and were to wait two days!
The Chiricahuas had arranged to run away! Probably they already were
out, making for Mexico, to join runaways already there. Whew! Great
Scott!
Well, all that he could do was to wait until daylight, and then make
for Bowie. And the sooner the better, because he was right in the track
of runaways.
He went down to his camp, and got a half night’s sleep. In the morning
he did not wait to gather his mules; he saddled Chiquito at daylight
and struck out by the shortest way.
The country all seemed peaceful. Who might have foretold that he would
bump right into the hostiles? But that is precisely what happened. He
was loping up a shallow draw fringed by rocks and stunted pines――had
been riding two hours――when as he rounded a shoulder, on a sudden here
there came at headlong gallop a dozen steers.
He wheeled Chiquito to one side, quick; barely had time to get out of
their way――didn’t have time to get out of the way of the three young
bucks chasing them full tilt; and before he could spur Chiquito up the
flank of the draw, for cover, he was a “goner.”
With a yell and with guns leveled the three bronc’s had charged him; a
bullet sang by his ear; and he raised his hand for a talk. They arrived
instantly, reined short, around him. He didn’t know them, and they
appeared not to know him.
“Chi-kis-n,” he attempted. But they only scowled and talked among
themselves in Apache.
“Shall we kill him here?”
“That is best.”
“Stick him with your lance.”
“You talk foolish,” retorted Jimmie boldly, in good Apache. “There’s no
sense in killing me. You’ll only get in trouble by it. Take me to your
chief.”
“Who are you, that speaks Apache?”
“Never you mind who I am,” retorted Jimmie. “You take me to your chief.
If he says kill me, all right. But you’d better wait till he does say
so. You’re only warriors.”
“Where are the rest of your party, white man?”
“I’m alone.”
“What is your business?”
“I herd mules.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Fort Bowie.”
“We ought to kill him. He will tell on us if we let him go,” said one,
aside.
“No. We’ll have to take him back,” said the oldest boy. “There is
plenty of time to kill him later.”
They snatched his rifle and revolver from the holsters, and on either
side and behind jostling him along, drove him up the draw. For the next
five minutes Jimmie figured that his chances were about one in one
hundred.
They rounded the turn; and here, in a little hollow, was a group of
twelve or fifteen men and women kneeling over two cow carcasses, and
butchering them. Several of the figures looked to see who was coming.
One of them was Nah-che. Jimmie’s heart beat less rapidly. His chances
were increased.
However, Nah-che, standing erect, was not at all pleased to see him.
“Why are you in here?” demanded Nah-che.
“I came down from Bowie to look at some mules. Now I was going back to
Bowie.”
“Did you know that some of us are off the reservation?”
“Yes. I saw a signal fire last night, in Mexico, and I read what it
said.”
“What did it say?”
“It said that they would wait two days.”
“That is right,” replied Nah-che. “I am sorry we met you, chi-kis-n,
because now you will be killed.”
“That may be so. But why do you kill me, chi-kis-n?” challenged Jimmie.
“I have done you no harm.”
“No; we fought against each other, but that was understood. If you will
promise me not to say a word about us at Fort Bowie I will let you go.”
“You know very well that I would not be a man if I gave any such
promise,” retorted Jimmie. “I shall not lie to you.”
“If white men never lied to us, then everything would be all right,”
said Nah-che. “They do lie to us, so you must die. I am sorry, but――――”
“No! No!” One of the squaws had rushed up. She was Nah-da-ste! “This is
the Boy-who-sleeps. I remember him well. He has slept in my lodge and
eaten my food. I won’t have him killed. You had better let him go. He
cannot harm us.”
“No. Fort Bowie is a long way off,” reminded Jimmie. “Besides, if you
are off the reservation, that is known by this time.”
“Maybe not. We cut the talking wire,” answered Nah-che. “But it is true
that Fort Bowie is a long way off. Anyway,” he added, “I don’t want to
kill you, and I cannot argue with women. You can go, chi-kis-n. By the
time you tell what you know, we shall be far in the other direction. So
go as fast as you please, but keep going straight, for you might not
find a chi-kis-n among other Chiricahua.”
“Good,” grunted Jimmie, as his rifle and revolver were passed to him.
“I ask one word. Tell me why you are leaving the Fort Apache country. I
wish the truth.”
“Everybody but Cluke is our enemy. We are lied about. Even Chato tell
lies on us, and gives us a bad name, because he hates Geronimo. If we
stay we will be locked up. That is what is said. Now go, for I will
talk no more.”
Jimmie took the hint, and spurred away. He knew better than even to
look back.
XXV
ON THE JOB WITH CAPTAIN CRAWFORD
One hundred and twenty Chiricahuas under Geronimo, Chihuahua, old Nana
and Nah-che were the ones who had run away. Chato had persuaded the
three hundred other Chiricahuas to stay. He did not approve of Geronimo
and Nah-che, or of further war.
The outbreak had occurred on the night of May 17. The Chiricahuas had
left in parties of twenty or so, to meet again across the border.
Lieutenant Britton Davis, of the Third Cavalry, had been in charge at
the reservation. As soon as he had discovered the loss, he had tried
to telegraph General Crook; but the “talking wires” had been damaged.
Before the message got through, the Chiricahuas were beyond the
railroad, with a clear field ahead.
Nah-che had spoken truly when he said to Jimmie that they ran away
because they feared being locked up. They knew that they were
watched. And in defiance of the general’s complaints that liquor was
manufactured upon the reservation, they had obtained a quantity of it
and drunk it――which of course made them liable to punishment.
The general came over to the reservation too late; but flying columns
had been sent out at once, from Apache and Thomas and Grant and Bowie.
Two hundred scouts from all the reservation bands were enlisted for six
months. Chato himself volunteered.
The columns dispatched were mainly for the purpose of keeping the
Chiricahuas away from the border until it might be patrolled, and the
principal band located by either the American or the Mexican troops.
Meanwhile as a crack pack-master Jimmie was decidedly busy at Fort
Bowie. Bowie had waxed to a bustling supply depot, and was likely to be
headquarters field base.
Tom Moore, who had been up north in the Department of the Platte, was
sent for by the general to be chief packer again in the Department of
Arizona. He brought down from Cheyenne, Wyoming, the best of the Platte
pack-mules, and was given a great welcome at Bowie by Jimmie and the
other “old-timers.”
The country was being scoured for good mules. These had to be broken,
some of them, and distributed. Troops were pouring in, until the
general had at his disposal forty companies of infantry and the same of
cavalry.
He was planning surely. He directed that heliograph stations, for
the purpose of telegraphing by mirrored sun-flashes, be established
upon hill-tops all along on both sides of the border. Then he went to
Washington, to get a better agreement with Mexico regarding a joint
campaign against the Apaches.
There was a brief period of quiet, except for hard work that kept
Jimmie, as well as others, on the move. The final break came about the
middle of October.
Jimmie saw the heliostat flashes which spread the news. He was riding
back to Bowie from a long trip down to a supply camp at the border.
Chancing to turn his head, when only a little way out from the camp,
he caught the flash of a message from a station in the south.
The regulation Morse dots and dashes (long and short flashes) were used
by the stations. Now he paused, to read. The station was at least ten
miles distant. The air was very clear, and his eyes were good eyes.
What was that? No practice message, this, or ordinary routine. The
first word――even the first three letters――stiffened him intent.
“H-o-s-t-i-l-e b-a-n-d h-e-a-d-g (heading) n-o-r-t-h f-o-r
D-r-a-g-o-o-n c-o-u-n-t-r-y. Q-u-i-c-k.” Signed.
Hah! “Wake up, Chiquito! Gwan with you!” The message read like
business, and stirring business. Evidently the Chiricahuas were getting
bold. But it did not seem possible that with all these troops, and the
railroad, and the telegraph, and the helio stations, and the armed and
watchful settlers, a raid could amount to much.
The helio stations were twenty or twenty-five miles apart. A message
had been sent from Nacori, in the mountains of northern Mexico, two
hundred miles to Fort Bowie, in an hour. But so fast moved this band
of raiders, and so cleverly they chose their trail, that by the time
Jimmie arrived at Bowie they not only had crossed the line but had
disappeared somewhere in Arizona!
Already the troops were in motion, trying to close in and head the
raiders off. It was reported that there were eleven warriors. They
were not even sighted again, until, suddenly, they struck the White
Mountain reservation itself――surprised a camp of the White Mountains,
killed twelve and carried away six women and children.
That, then, had been the object of the raid: to take revenge upon the
reservation Apaches for sending scouts against the Chiricahuas!
The White Mountains succeeded in killing one raider, during the fight.
He was Hal-zay, Nah-che’s half-brother. They cut off his head, for a
trophy. But the ten others completed their bold circuit, and in spite
of soldiers, settlers, telegraph, heliostat and railroad escaped back
into Mexico.
“I never would have believed it!” declared Chief Packer Tom Moore, to
Jimmie at Bowie. “It beats the Dutch! The general’s got every waterhole
covered, and every pass watched. Anyhow, now there’s a fresh trail, for
back-tracking on, where they came up by the shortest way. Crawford and
Cap’n Davis are going right down after the bacon, to stay till they get
Geronimo or his scalp. I’ve picked you for assistant chief packer with
one of ’em. Which do you say? Chances are even. You’re the boss.”
“Guess I’ll throw in with Crawford, Tom, if you put it up to me,”
promptly said Jimmie. Assistant chief packer! Wow!
Captain Crawford and Captain Wirt Davis were both good men, but as Tom
Horn, acting chief of scouts, had remarked: “Crawford’s my style of
fighter: the go-get-’em kind with a wolf jaw!”
“You’d better be makin’ up your best trains, then,” counseled Tom,
to Jimmie. “Three, I reckon. Crawford won’t wait on sore backs or
sore feet; and he’d rather bust every man and every mule and go on by
himself, than let Davis outdo him.”
When Captain Crawford arrived with his column at Bowie, from Fort
Apache, on November 15, Jimmie the assistant chief packer was ready for
him. The Captain Wirt Davis column was to be composed of cavalry and
scouts both; but Captain Crawford was taking only scouts.
These were one hundred Chiricahuas, White Mountains and Warm Springs,
from the Fort Apache reservation; but mainly Chiricahuas, with Chato
as their chief, and Ka-e-ten-na the traveler included. Micky Free was
going with the San Carlos scouts and Captain Davis. Captain Crawford
had selected so many Chiricahuas because his goal was the Sierra Madre
Range again, and the Chiricahuas knew all that country well.
The scouts formed two companies, under command of First Lieutenant
Marion P. Maus, of the First Infantry, and a gallant young “shave
tail,” Second Lieutenant William Ewen Shipp, of the Tenth Cavalry, only
two years out of West Point.
Another “shave tail,” Second Lieutenant Sam Faison, of the First
Infantry, who had graduated in the same class with Lieutenant Shipp,
was the adjutant, quarter-master and commissary, all three. Dr. T. B.
Davis was the surgeon, Concepcion was the interpreter. Al Sieber, the
old war-horse, was retained to look after the reservations, but Tom
Horn was to be chief of scouts and had proved first-class.
Altogether, it was an honor to be in pack service with such an
expedition, especially as Captain Crawford had volunteered for the
Sierra Madre trip because it was the more dangerous of the two.
Lieutenant-General Phil Sheridan, commander of the United States Army,
had come out to Bowie from Washington, to see the columns off. He and
General Crook inspected the whole outfit, in a parade at the fort.
“Well,” reported Chief of Scouts Horn, after a conference in General
Crook’s quarters, “this is the idea: The general says we’re to go down
into Mexico and stay six months, if necessary, and when we strike a
trail we’re to follow it as long as it shows a single moccasin track or
pony track. Savvy? When we’ve killed all the bucks who don’t surrender,
and corralled all the women and children, we can come up home with our
batch. Then he’ll tell ’em what’ll happen next.”
The march veered west through the Dragoon Mountains, in the hope of
striking the up trail and following it down. But heavy rains had washed
out the signs, so the course was continued straight south, for the
Sierra Madre country again. The Chiricahuas were bound to be there, if
at any place.
Throughout the month of December the pack-train job was the same tough
job as that when General Crook led on, in 1883: up hill, down hill,
sliding, scrambling, falling, barking shins and bruising hoofs and
feet, amidst terrific canyons, thorny brush, sharp rocks, towering
cliffs, sun and rain, heat and cold. Tom Horn scouted far ahead with
a few picked scouts; the captain and his lieutenants and the plucky
doctor, and old Concepcion, rode keenly with the eager main body;
and Jimmie, assistant chief packer in place of Tom Moore, hustled his
toiling pack-trains of fifty mules each, so as to bring them into camp
on time every evening.
Now it was the first week in January. There was only one pack-train.
Captain Crawford had ordered that the two others be sent back to the
border, two hundred miles, with Lieutenant Faison, the commissary and
quarter-master, for supplies. So Jimmie had detached the trains of
“Chileno John” and Sam Wisser. He had stayed.
Chief Scout Horn had been gone two weeks; but he kept runners out with
news from him. He had discovered fresh sign: Indian and cattle trails;
cattle carcasses; and a recent camp. Ka-e-ten-na and Chato had just
come in. They brought word for Captain Crawford to push on, and join
the advance. Tom would be waiting――he knew that the Chiricahuas were
yonder before him.
The captain sent for Jimmie.
“We must reduce our packs again,” he said, “for a forced march. You
will pack four of your strongest mules with twelve days’ rations for
eighty men. The personal outfit will be cut down to one blanket for
each man. Take the shoes off the mules, to avoid noise. The rest of the
outfit will be left here, under guard of those men who are unable to
travel. Which of your packers have you in mind, to go on?”
“Jimmie Dunn, captain,” smiled Jimmie.
“It’s afoot, you know――and probably night marches. Will your leg stand
it?”
“Will we strike the hostiles, captain?”
“Sure.”
“That’s all my leg needs, to lengthen it out, then,” laughed Jimmie.
He felt that he was as fit as Captain Crawford. The captain looked
badly. So did the doctor; and old Concepcion the interpreter was about
done.
The scouts seemed unusually solemn, as if the report by Chato and
Ka-e-ten-na had much impressed them. They proceeded to make medicine.
In the light of a small fire old No-wa-ze-ta the medicine man unrolled
the strip of sacred buckskin that he carried; one by one the scouts
kneeled before him; he mumbled over them and held the sacred buckskin
to their lips. After that they held a council.
“Some of the soldiers chiefs at Bowie say maybe your Chiricahua will
not fight,” said Jimmie, sitting beside Chato, in a blanket, and
watching. “They say maybe you will pretend to fight, but all the time
you will be sending word to Geronimo to keep away.”
“That is not true,” declared Chato. “We will fight. We are ready.”
About midnight camp was broken. Through the cold and the darkness Chato
and Ka-e-ten-na guided. Each officer and man was in moccasins and
packed his own blanket. Jimmie drove the four mules.
About noon the signs mentioned by Tom Horn were found: a trail, and the
bodies of butchered cattle. That evening Ka-e-ten-na pointed ahead.
“Espinosa del Diablo,” he said. “Maybe we cross. Very bad country.”
Espinosa del Diablo was Spanish for Devil’s Backbone――a high mass of
jagged ridges.
Early in the morning two more of Tom Horn’s scouts came in. The light
of Indian camp-fires had been sighted, reflected in the sky, and Chief
Scout Horn urged the captain to hurry.
The command made a short march, rested until late afternoon, and
started on again, to march by night. The country steadily grew worse,
with deep, dark canyons, steep rocky hills, heavy brush, and a river
which was constantly being forded. Moccasins were soaked and soon cut
to bits.
From now on, the camps were not ordered until midnight. Only small
fires of dry wood were permitted; and under one thin blanket apiece
nobody was able to sleep, before the sun rose. In fact, it was as
miserable a time as Jimmie ever had experienced.
More messages arrived from Tom Horn. He had located the Chiricahuas――had
smelled the mescal steam, had seen the fires. “Hurry!” he bade. He had
only two scouts with him.
Captain Crawford lengthened the marches, to all night and half-day
stretches. Some of the Apache scouts, tough as they were, began to
straggle and limp. Doctor Davis and old Concepcion could barely hobble.
At sunset of January 9, “Dutchy,” another of the Horn scouts, appeared.
Dutchy said that the Chiricahua camp was but twelve miles away. He
and Tom and the other scout had reconnoitered it――had witnessed the
Chiricahuas moving about, herding their horses. They did not suspect
that any enemies were near.
Tom and the other scout had no blankets, and nothing to eat but a
little meat――the three of them had had nothing else for ten days; now
he, Dutchy, was to bring the captain on at once, while the two watched
the Chiricahua camp.
Hurrah! The news put vim into the command. The end of the marches was
at hand. Evidently Geronimo had no idea he could be found away in here.
Captain Crawford issued rapid orders.
“Twenty minutes’ halt. No fires. Let the men eat bread and raw bacon.
Examine arms carefully. Pack-mules to remain here, with the packer,
Doctor Davis and the interpreter. All available men to be ready for a
night march, and attack at daylight.”
That was hard luck for Jimmie――but Doctor Davis and Concepcion were
completely exhausted, and somebody had to stay with the mules, to move
them on in a jiffy when sent for.
In precisely twenty minutes the command set out, guided by Dutchy. It
had been the first halt in six hours! As in the twilight they clambered
up a rocky, narrow trail, Jimmie saw that Lieutenant Maus was helping
Captain Crawford. Even at that, the captain was obliged to pause, once
or twice, and lean upon his carbine. He used his carbine as a staff.
“His indomitable will is all that keeps the captain going,” remarked
Doctor Davis.
“Muy hombre (Much man),” groaned old Concepcion.
The darkness closed in quickly. It was a bitter cold night. Concepcion
and the mules moaned, the doctor’s teeth chattered, and wrapped in his
single blanket Jimmie shivered. The brush stirred with the stealthy
tread of prowling animals, a leopard shrieked, at intervals, and the
still air stung.
With the first grayness Jimmie was up, to unlimber, and listen. The
attack upon the Chiricahua camp was due. The moments dragged. The
doctor and Concepcion seemed to have dropped asleep at last, but they,
also, shivered in their uneasy slumber. This was the coldest period of
the night――just at dawn.
XXVI
FOES OR FRIENDS?
Gradually the shadows upon the rocks and timber paled; and then,
suddenly――hark!
Rifle-shots! A spatter――a volley――more and faster, rolling and
echoing among the crags! The attack had been made. Throwing aside
their blankets, up sprang the doctor and Concepcion, bewildered and
staggering, but awake.
“Fighting!” exclaimed the doctor. “They’ve struck the hostiles! Good!”
“Much shooting, much shooting,” stammered old Concepcion.
For fifteen minutes the rapid firing continued. It lessened, to
dropping, scattered shots, and in about an hour ceased altogether. The
sun rose.
“What’ll we do now?” demanded the doctor, of Jimmie. “Crawford’s licked
them, don’t you think?”
“Sounded like it, doctor. But we’d better be watching sharp. Some of
the bronc’s are liable to come this way.”
There was another period of anxious waiting. They took turns doing
look-out duty from a high rock. With Concepcion’s aid, Jimmie packed
the mules. About ten o’clock he could stand the suspense no longer.
“If we moved on we probably would meet the word from the captain, and
get there all the sooner with the packs, doctor,” he proposed.
“All right. But Concepcion and I can’t move fast.”
They toiled on, following the trail. At noon they met Dutchy.
“The soldier-captain says to come, with mules and medicine-man and
Concepcion.”
“Did you whip the Chiricahua?” queried Jimmie.
“Yes. We ran them like turkeys. Capture everything――many horses.
Chiricahua get away, but they send word they will talk to-morrow.”