eagerly in, with poor old Concepcion in his wake.
“What’s the news? Have they got Geronimo?”
“Not yet; but they captured the camp. We’re to come on at once, doctor.”
“How far? Any of our men hurt?”
Jimmie asked Dutchy.
“Ten miles. Only Chiricahua hurt.”
“I’ve got to rest,” panted the doctor. “Go ahead with your mules. We’ll
follow. Any danger?”
“No danger,” said Dutchy, answering Jimmie. “Chiricahua hide till
to-morrow.”
Dutchy plainly was in a great hurry to get back――probably to share in
the plunder. Jimmie left the doctor and Concepcion to come as best they
could, and again hustled his mules to keep up with Dutchy. But that
proved impossible. The trail was a corker! How in the world Captain
Crawford and men ever had traveled it in the darkness was a wonder.
Dutchy disappeared. Only the trail remained, as guide. It dipped
into canyons, and wound over rocks and steep ridges. Jimmie wheezed
and puffed and sweat. He was empty from chin to knees, his legs were
leaden, he ached in every muscle. His mules repeatedly halted, and
stood heaving and straddled. But he pushed on. The captain had sent for
the packs, and orders were orders.
The sun set. He had been half a day covering these few miles! A damp
fog was descending, cloaking the mountains. If he missed the trail――――!
No! Good! He saw camp-fire light, glowing on the low clouds. At last,
in the gathering dark, he labored into the camp, to report.
Everybody there was asleep, utterly worn out. Jimmie peered about, and
wakened Chato and got a small chunk of pony meat from him; unpacked his
mules and went to sleep himself, in defiance of the cold rain that was
falling. He had done his stint. The doctor and Concepcion hardly could
arrive before morning.
It seemed to him that he scarcely had closed his throbbing eyes ere
he was aroused by excited cries and loud shouts. But he had slept,
for dawn was here――a wet, foggy dawn. Amidst the fog the scouts were
yelling shrilly; upon every side men were jumping up, grabbing guns,
and staring into the mist before.
“Look out! Somebody comes! Many come!” were shouting the scouts.
Tom Horn was up; so was Lieutenant Maus, and Lieutenant Shipp. From
where he lay exhausted, by his fire, Captain Crawford directed the
defense.
“Be careful! They may be some of Captain Davis’s men,” he warned.
“Don’t fire on them till you see who it is.”
“Wait for me to tell you, before you begin shooting,” repeated Tom
Horn, to the scouts.
He started to climb higher, for a better view. Lieutenant Maus and
Lieutenant Shipp were running to right and left, to take command of
their companies. Down below, beyond a little basin, forms were dimly
visible. They acted like soldiers.
On a sudden there was a resounding crash――the red flare of a volley
lighted the fog, and a storm of bullets pelted the camp. Jimmie,
wriggling for cover, leveled his gun, for the scouts were replying.
“Follow me, valientes (braves),” clearly called a voice, in good
Spanish, from the basin in front; and a line of figures moved swiftly
forward.
“Wait! Wait! Cease that firing! Stop your scouts, Horn!” shouted
Captain Crawford, on his feet. “It’s a mistake. Those are Mexicans!”
And so they were.
Captain Crawford leaped upon a rock, to wave a white handkerchief, in
signal, and call.
“No tiras! Amigos, amigos! Americanos! (Don’t fire! Friends, friends!
Americans!),” chimed in Lieutenant Maus, who spoke Spanish.
He ran down, into the open. The captain followed him. Under the lifting
mist they met four of the Mexicans. One was a strapping big officer,
evidently the commander; another was a slender young lieutenant; the
two others were officers, also. The line of men behind them had
halted, and stood uneasily. They looked like a wild lot, too.
Chief of Scouts Horn advanced. Lieutenant Maus talked earnestly with
the big officer, and interpreted to Captain Crawford. Tom Horn joined
them, to assist.
On either side of Jimmie the scouts were poking their heads above the
rocks, and cramming fresh cartridges into their Springfields. The
carbine breech-locks snapped briskly.
“Mexicanos!” hissed Chato, with avid face. “Kill them all.”
“You and I will kill that big man, first,” answered Ka-e-ten-na.
“See!” bade Dutchy.
A file of other Mexican soldiers were sneaking through a ravine, to
flank the camp.
Lieutenant Maus had seen; he pointed, and protested to the big officer.
“Watch those Mexicans, Shipp!” shouted the captain.
“No tiras, no tiras!” again appealed Lieutenant Maus, this time to the
scouts.
“No tiras!” boomed the big officer, as if in much alarm.
“Bang!” From the Mexicans at the rear sounded a single shot. Instantly
the group in the basin scattered, each man for his own place. The
Mexican line came on at a trot, firing, loading and firing. Tom Horn
was left for a moment alone, as the captain and the lieutenant scurried
for the rocks.
“The captain, is killed!” shrieked Chato, at him. “Come back!” He and
Ka-e-ten-na fired together, and the big Mexican officer, running, threw
up his arm, and hurling his rifle far, plunged headlong.
“Give it to ’em,” yelled Tom, running also.
“Whang-g-g-g!” Everybody shot. The slender Mexican lieutenant fell
riddled. He had been hit thirteen times! The two other Mexicans were
behind a tree; the scouts’ bullets cut the tree almost down and the
twain crumpled in a heap. The whole Mexican line melted into sprawled
figures, some lax and motionless, some squirming for safety.
Lieutenant Maus arrived, panting.
“Head off those fellows on the right,” he rasped, to Lieutenant Shipp.
Away darted stripling Shipp, to prevent the flank attack.
“Crawford’s dead――shot in the brain!” gasped the lieutenant to Jimmie.
“He’s yonder, behind a rock. Horn’s shot in the arm. Those are Mexican
irregulars. What are they up to? But they began it.”
The scouts were still firing rapidly on every moving form. The Mexicans
were now hard to see.
“Give me orders to send out my men into the trees and rocks and we will
kill every Mexican!” shouted Chato, to Tom Horn.
“Don’t waste bullets,” cautioned Tom, in Apache. “Be careful. We are
many miles from more.”
“We will use the Mexicans’ guns,” retorted Chato.
“Give me the dead captain’s gun and belt and I will help you kill
Mexicans,” spoke a new voice. “Make me your prisoner and tell me to
fight.”
It was old Nana the Chiricahua chief. He had somehow tottered in, from
the rear――he was ninety years of age and lame from a broken hip.
“I fight the Americans no more,” he cackled. “But I will fight the
Mexicans any time. And so will all my people.”
He nodded backward; they looked, and there were many more of the
Chiricahua hostiles, at a short distance, peering and waiting. Geronimo
mounted upon a boulder and yelled across.
“If you are fighting the Mexicans, tell us what to do.”
That was an odd situation. If the Chiricahuas had attacked the camp
from the one side and the Mexicans from the other――――!
The Mexicans called, where they were concealed.
“Send somebody to talk with us.”
Lieutenant Maus and Tom Horn advanced again. Four of the Mexicans met
them half-way. One of the Mexicans was crying. His brother was the
slender young lieutenant who had been riddled.
Lieutenant Maus returned and talked with Lieutenant Shipp. The
Mexicans claimed that they had made a mistake. They had lost all their
officers――among them Major Corredor, who was the big man, and, they
declared, “the bravest man that ever lived.” They asked permission to
remove their dead.
Lieutenant Maus accompanied each body into the Mexican lines. The
Mexicans seemed to be afraid of the scouts.
Now noon was at hand, but instead of withdrawing, the Mexicans had
taken a strong position that threatened the camp. Many of them were
Tarahumari Indians, a Mexican tribe hostile to all Americans and
Apaches.
The camp was short of food and ammunition. Several of the scouts had
been wounded, one of them severely. Tom Horn’s arm hung useless.
Captain Crawford lay underneath a blanket, with a bandanna handkerchief
spread over his face. A piece of his forehead and a portion of his
brain had been shot out, but he still breathed.
Jimmie at last reported his arrival to Lieutenant Shipp.
“Yes, I’ve seen you,” answered the lieutenant. “You did well, but,”
he frankly added, “we’re all in a bad fix. If there’s war between the
United States and Mexico, our pack-trains are likely to be captured;
and while we’re fighting our way north, carrying Captain Crawford,
there’ll be nothing to prevent the scouts from joining the other
Chiricahuas and all together making off to do as they please. Where’s
the doctor? Lieutenant Maus has been asking for him.”
Doctor Davis and Concepcion came in, agog to know what had occurred.
They had heard the firing, again, and had hidden until it had stopped.
The doctor attended to the captain, and reported that he could not live
long. The other wounded were patched up. The Mexicans needed a doctor,
and he went over to them, as was his duty.
He was gone some time. On his return he said that the Mexicans had many
killed and wounded, but that he had been badly treated, with scowls
and insulting language.
Some of the Geronimo Chiricahuas were in sight, waiting. The officers
did not think it advisable to hold a council with them until the
Mexicans had been disposed of. Only old Nana was still tottering about,
cackling among the scouts. He was harmless.
“Give us the orders, and we will clean the earth of those Mexicans,”
implored Chato and Ka-e-ten-na, of Tom Horn. “Then we will all have
plenty of pinole (which was meal) and bullets.”
Another cold, rainy night settled down early. Lieutenant Maus directed
that camp be broken at daylight, for the march north. Captain Crawford
should be moved at once, and the pack-train that had been left must be
protected. After that, the Chiricahuas who did not surrender would be
hunted again.
In the morning, while a litter of reeds from the river was being made,
for carrying the captain, old Concepcion, who had been rounding up some
ponies, called that the Mexicans had him and demanded a talk with the
commanding officer.
Lieutenant Maus again met a squad. They led him aside, behind some
rocks, as if to get shelter from the rain――and presently a Mexican
brought a note from him. The note stated that he, too, was a prisoner,
until he could show papers to prove that he had permission to “invade”
Mexico. The Mexicans insisted also upon a supply of food, and mules for
their wounded.
Lieutenant Shipp and Chief Scout Horn conferred together. The Mexican
messenger was told to get four or five men and return for the mules
and rations. Lieutenant Shipp slipped around with his company of
scouts, to a position where he might pour a deadly fire into the
Mexican lines. When the five Mexicans returned to the camp, for the
mules and rations, they were suddenly ringed about with carbine muzzles.
“Now,” spoke Chief Scout Horn, “you call to your comrades. Tell them
that if our lieutenant is not released immediately, you will all be
killed!”
“Hi!” cackled old Nana. “That is good. Yes, you will be killed. But we
will not kill you quick. We will shoot you in many places, first.”
Carbine hammers clicked. Young Lieutenant Shipp’s scouts were crouched
and aiming, ready. All the scouts were yelling, while the five
Mexicans, calling piteously, pleaded that the lieutenant be released.
That, as Tom Horn said, “ended the row.” Here came the lieutenant,
angry but safe. The five prisoners were allowed to scuttle back.
“They’re an ugly lot,” announced the lieutenant. “They have over thirty
dead and a dozen wounded. Concepcion is still held. I’ve agreed to let
them have six mules in exchange, so they can pull out.”
The mules were Mexican mules, but the lieutenant required a receipt for
them, and the Mexican government paid the value of them to the United
States.
The Mexicans finally withdrew. Scouts were sent out, on their trail, to
watch them to a safe distance. The next morning, January 13, camp was
broken.
Captain Crawford was living, but unconscious. Four of the scouts
carried him in the litter. The trail was too rough and narrow for
any other method. The Geronimo Chiricahuas had disappeared, but they
stayed near. This evening Geronimo sent an old squaw into the new camp.
He requested the talk that had been agreed upon for the day when the
Mexicans had interrupted.
In the morning Lieutenant Maus took Tom Horn, Ka-e-ten-na, Dutchy, and
two or three other scouts, and, all unarmed, met Geronimo in council.
“Why did you come down in here, where I thought white men could not
come?” demanded Geronimo, direct.
“I came down to capture or destroy you and your band,” answered the
weary Lieutenant Maus, just as direct.
“I see you speak the truth,” replied Geronimo. He shook hands, sent a
long talk, of various complaints, to “Cluke,” and engaged to meet the
general at the border when the March moon was full.
“Do you think he will do it, Chato?” queried Jimmie.
“Yes. Ka-e-ten-na has told him what a big people the Americans are.
Besides, Geronimo is sending in old Nana, and some women. Chihuahua
wants to come in. Juh has been killed by the Mexicans. Pretty soon
Geronimo will have no one left.”
Nana arrived, again, and Geronimo’s wife, and one of Nah-che’s wives,
and another Chiricahua, and several children. Lieutenant Maus divided
his few rations with the Geronimo band, and proceeded. Matters looked
better.
But that was a long, sorrowful march, carrying Captain Crawford through
the three hundred miles of mountains and rain. He lived, unconscious,
for five days――he had an “indomitable will,” as had said Doctor Davis.
Without having spoken a word he died on January 17. Of course there was
no thought of leaving him behind, in the wilds, so his body was still
carried on, in the litter.
He was buried at the little Mexican town of Nacori, near the border,
until he might be reburied in the United States. The mayor of the town
promised to have the grave guarded.
The news of the expedition was telegraphed by helio to Bowie. Scout
runners already had been dispatched ahead.
Almost the first person encountered by Jimmie, when he rode stiffly
into Bowie, on the third of February, was Micky the Red-head, as lively
as ever, after his own long trip with the Captain Davis column.
“Where is Geronimo, Cheemie?” hailed Micky.
“He will come.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, we will go get him,” asserted Micky. “We will
bring him back little by little. You look as though you had been a long
way, Cheemie.”
“More than a thousand miles,” laughed Jimmie. And he felt it.
“That’s enough for _you_,” declared Chief Packer Tom Moore, when Jimmie
reported. “You stick around, now, and take things easy.”
The post was still talking of Captain Crawford’s one march of eighteen
hours with only the twenty minutes’ halt; and of his tragic death, at
the end, when he had won his goal.
Lieutenant Maus, with Lieutenant Faison and Lieutenant Shipp, Tom Horn
and the scouts, was ordered back below the border, to camp until the
Chiricahuas signalled for the talk.
Jimmie was laid up with his leg, for several weeks. And at Bowie the
general waited impatiently for the news from the lieutenant’s camp.
XXVII
THE WORST ENEMY OF ALL
The last week of March had opened. The moon was near the full. Tom
Moore, walking briskly, caught Jimmie bossing the repairs on some
aparejos, out at the Bowie mule sheds.
“Word’s come,” rapped Tom. “I’m to take a pack-train down to Maus
to-morrow, and the general will follow.”
“Is Geronimo there, Tom?”
“I don’t know; but he’s promised to be there in four days. Anyhow,
we’re to pack a lot of rations; and looks like we’re to feed some
Injuns and fetch ’em back. Do you want to go ’long and see the finish?”
“Sure thing, Tom.”
“Bueno! I thought you would, but I can use somebody else if you’re not
fit. All right, then. We’ll pull out at eight o’clock.”
The Lieutenant Maus command had been camped one hundred miles south of
Bowie, or ten miles below the border. But Geronimo had refused to meet
the general there, and had appointed the Cañon de los Embudos (Funnels
Canyon), twelve miles below the border and twenty miles west, where the
country was rougher.
Alchisé, Ka-e-ten-na, and Tony Besias and another official interpreter
went with the pack outfit. There were two old Chiricahua squaws, also,
from the bunch who had been taken prisoners at the Geronimo rancheria
last January. They, and Alchisé and Ka-e-ten-na were counted upon to
spread “good talk” among the Chiricahuas. Mayor Strauss, of Tucson,
who had been at Bowie discussing affairs with the general, joined by
special permission.
The general overhauled the pack-train on the second day out. He and
his staff, including Major Bourke and Captain C. S. Roberts, of the
Judge-Advocate Department, were in an ambulance. Captain Roberts had
brought his ten-year-old son, Charley, who was seeing army life in the
Southwest; and there was an escort of scouts, with the inevitable Micky
as scout sergeant.
Before the Lieutenant Maus camp was reached, the company had grown
larger. Two photographers named Fly and Chase had joined; and a
Mexican, José Maria Yaskes, who had lived with the Chiricahuas; and
several ranchers and cow-boys.
“All want to see Geronimo――but I guess the Gray Fox wants to see him
worst of anybody,” laughed Micky.
On the morning of March 25 Alchisé and Ka-e-ten-na sent up a smoke
signal, to tell the camp and Geronimo that the general was near.
Lieutenant Shipp, Chato and two others rode out to guide the detachment
in.
The Maus camp was well located, upon a mesa commanding water and grass,
in the canyon. Geronimo’s camp was just as strongly located, a half
mile away――on the top of a lava cone surrounded by bristly gulches.
The packers already in camp thought that there would be no trouble.
Geronimo had been over every day, to ask when the general was expected
for the talk; Chihuahua had sent word that he was prepared to surrender
at any time, and do exactly as the general told him to do.
“Chihuahua will leave Geronimo; Nana has left Geronimo; soon he will
have nobody,” Chato repeated. “Geronimo and Chihuahua are living
separate now. Nana is too old to run any more.”
After the general had lunched, there was sudden exclaiming and
pointing. A large party of Chiricahuas were descending from their cone.
“Geronimo!”
“Here comes the old rascal!”
The Chiricahuas rode on, up the canyon, and Chief of Scouts Horn met
them. He returned, and reported.
“Geronimo says he will talk with the general.”
Still, Geronimo did not enter the camp. He halted a short distance
out, amid some white-barked sycamores and shaggy cottonwoods, near the
river. The general and officers advanced, to hold the talk, and a crowd
followed, eager to hear.
There were the general, Lieutenant Maus, Lieutenant Shipp and
Lieutenant Faison; Surgeon Davis (who had recovered from his hard
trip); Captain Roberts and young Charley Roberts; Major Bourke; Chief
Packer Tom Moore, ex-Assistant Jimmie, Pack-masters H. W. Daly and
Harvey Carlisle, Packers Shaw and Foster; Mayor Strauss, of Tucson;
Photographers Fly and Chase; Tony Besias, old Concepcion, José Maria
Yaskes, and other interpreters; Chief Scout Tom Horn, Sergeant Micky
Free, Alchisé, Ka-e-ten-na, Chato, and others of the scout companies;
and even a little boy named Howell who had traveled along from a ranch
thirty miles away.
Chihuahua was here, smiling and good-natured. So was Nah-che――not
smiling, but on the contrary looking grim and anxious. Jimmie saw
Porico, or White Horse, Geronimo’s brother. No squaws had come over,
and only a few of the warriors sat together; the majority were
scattered, well armed, wearing two cartridge-belts, and prepared to
fight and flee, if an attempt were made to seize them.
Everybody except the general, Chihuahua and Micky appeared to be rather
on edge. And no wonder. After all these months of worry and work,
growing old chasing Geronimo on the heart-breaking trails, was this the
end at last? Jimmie suddenly felt old, himself. How far had he trailed
the fighting Apaches? Two thousand miles, at least!
“Ka-e-ten-na says the Chiricahua will shoot if we try to hold
Geronimo,” whispered Micky. “They made Maus promise that the Gray Fox
would bring no soldiers down. That is bad.”
“But the scouts will fight.”
“Yes, they will fight,” nodded Micky.
Geronimo was speaking, as he sat twisting a strand of buckskin in his
nervous hands.
“Everybody on the reservation was unfriendly to me. Chato and Micky
Free stirred up trouble against me; they lied about me to the
soldier-captain Davis, and he spread the lies. The papers told bad
stories on me. They said that I ought to be arrested and hung up. I
don’t want any more of that talk. Why don’t you speak to me and look
with a pleasant face? What is the matter, that you don’t smile on me?
Why did you give orders to have me put in prison? I had tried to do
right. Remember that I sent you word I would come from a long distance
to speak with you here, and you see me now. If I thought bad or had
done bad, I would not have come.”
[Illustration: “WHY DON’T YOU SPEAK TO ME AND LOOK WITH A PLEASANT
FACE?”]
General Crook made no bones about answering.
“I gave no orders to have you arrested. If you left the reservation
because you were afraid, why did you sneak all over the country killing
innocent people and stealing horses? Your story is all bosh. You sent
up your people to kill Chato and Lieutenant Davis. Everything that you
did on the reservation is known. There is no use in your trying to
talk nonsense. I am no child. You promised me in the Sierra Madre that
the peace should last, and you have lied. How do I know but that you
are lying now, when you say you want peace? Have I ever lied to you?
You must make up your mind either to surrender or to stay out on the
warpath. If you stay out, I will keep after you and kill every one of
you if it takes fifty years. I have said all I have to say. You had
better think, to-night, and let me know in the morning.”
The perspiration had burst out upon Geronimo’s face and hands. He would
have said more, but the general arose, as signal that the talk was at
an end. Only the two photographers were happy; they had taken a number
of excellent pictures.
This evening and night the two camps remained apart. In the Maus
camp there was a great deal of discussion. Nobody might yet foresee
what the Chiricahuas under Geronimo would do.
“A thousand troops couldn’t get those bronc’s, where they’re located,”
asserted Tom Moore. “They’d scatter like quail and be off into Mexico,
at first sign of trouble. Anyhow, Maus agreed not to attack ’em, and
while the general mightn’t have made any such agreement himself, he’s
bound to stick by it.”
“You and I will go over in the morning, Cheemie,” said Micky. “We will
see for ourselves.”
So they did. Major Bourke, Mayor Strauss, of Tucson, Pack-master
Carlisle and others likewise went. It was indeed a strong position,
well up among broken lava, with every jacal or hut defended by a cactus
fence. A number of jagged rifts had to be crossed, and there were
ravines leading away.
No army officer, Major Bourke alleged, could have chosen a better
situation or made more of it.
Geronimo and his warriors were in council, and could not be approached.
None of the Chiricahuas would talk; even Nah-da-ste declined to speak
to Jimmie, but hid her face.
Young Charley Roberts was the only visitor who could attract attention.
The little girls followed him around, giggling, and passing compliments
upon him. It reminded Jimmie of the time, long ago, when he had been
giggled at in a Chiricahua camp.
Nothing happened this day. Matters looked bad. In the morning Alchisé
and Ka-e-ten-na came into camp. They had been spending their time in
the Geronimo camp, to spread peace talk. Ka-e-ten-na was to tell the
Chiricahuas of the sights that he had seen in San Francisco.
They brought word from Chihuahua that whether Geronimo decided to
surrender, or not, he himself would appear with all his band at noon,
and do as “Cluke” said to do.