the white herons, which are sometimes seen along the rivers of the
great West. Their faces were painted black, with red and yellow stripes
running horizontally. They were naked, save for moccasins and cartridge
belts; while each held a rifle in his hand, and had a tomahawk and
knife stuck into his belt, for close, hand-to-hand work. Their ponies
were of every color, shade, and description, but were fat and in good
condition, for the bunch grass was plentiful in the country watered by
the branches of the Republican. Some had lariats of buffalo thongs
wound around them, while each was held by a single strand looped around
the under lip. Roman Nose was about five paces in front of the centre
of the line, while slightly in advance of the left of the oncoming
column was the medicine man, an equally brave, but older chieftain.
Savage cries of encouragement sounded from the bluffs, where the women
and children were standing by thousands, to watch the annihilation of
the whites, and, as they echoed across the rolling prairie, Roman Nose
waved his hand to them assuringly. Then turning towards the breastworks
upon the island, he shook his clinched fist in savage defiance at the
enemies of his country, and raising himself to his full height, struck
the palm of his hand across his mouth as he uttered a wild, piercing
battle cry. Each warrior answered it; even those lying in ambush near
the river's edge took up the blood-curdling slogan.
When Wellington saw Ney's cuirassiers debouching from the huts upon the
hill of La Belle Alliance, he gave the order to form in hollow squares,
and said: "Reserve your fire until you can do damage, and make every
shot count. Never give in to the cavalry, lads. What will they think of
this in England?" With cool, Anglo-Saxon courage the men of the North
met the furious charge of the soldiers of France without wincing. Eight
attacks failed to break the devoted squares at Waterloo. It was this
that saved the day for England and her allies. Here, thousands of miles
away, were men of the same birth and breeding as those who stemmed the
onslaught upon the plateau of Mount St. Jean, and, although they were
to be charged by enemies that outnumbered them tenfold, they prepared
for the fray with the same bulldog determination which actuated the
redcoats at Waterloo. "The Indians are going to charge us," called
out Lieutenant Beecher. "You are right," was Forsyth's reply. "Let
the men get ready. Six shots in each rifle magazine, and one in the
barrel. Have the revolvers loaded and ready, and never, under any
circumstances, fire at the Indians until I give the word of command! We
can break their line. Of that I am certain. Only steady, men, steady,
and do not waste a single shot!"
As he ceased speaking, the gallant leader propped himself up in his
rifle pit, placed his rifle and revolver before him, and calmly waited
for the onrush of the followers of Roman Nose. And with a wild,
earsplitting yell they came on. A withering fire poured in from the
redskins in ambush, so that, for eight or ten seconds it fairly rained
bullets. Then came a sudden lull, as the gallant five hundred thundered
up the ravine towards the defenders of the island. They came nearer,
nearer. Now they were within a hundred yards, and the expressions
on their painted faces could be plainly seen. It was the time for
action,--a moment which Forsyth fully realized.
Sitting up in his rifle pit as well as he was able, and leaning
backwards upon his elbows, the grim and determined officer shouted,
"Now!"
Instantly the scouts scrambled to their knees, with their rifles at
their shoulders. Each man looked carefully along the barrel of his
piece, and then a ringing volley sounded above the wild yelping of the
painted followers of Roman Nose: the courageous.
_Crash!_
On came the red warriors, screeching like a pack of timber wolves in
the season of greatest hunger.
_Crash!_
In the centre of the line, a dozen ponies went down. Their riders fell
headlong upon the turf, but the rest did not falter. The Indians were
now but sixty yards from the breastworks.
_Crash!_
The ponies seemed to be falling over one another. In heaps, both
redskins and horses lurched headlong into the clear waters of the
Arickaree. Shrieks, groans, and savage yelping were mingled with the
shrill wails of the women and children who were witness to this, one of
the most glorious charges in history.
_Crash!_
Great gaps began to show in the ranks, as the Indians came within fifty
yards of the island of death. On the extreme left the medicine man
reeled on his pony's back and fell headlong into the stream, while his
followers galloped madly over his prostrate form. Roman Nose, with a
loud yell of defiance, swung his Springfield rifle over his head, as he
galloped furiously to the edge of the island. He reached the very end
of it, when
_Crash!_
The courageous Indian leader--the Custer of the Cheyennes--staggered
and reeled. He toppled over. He went down amidst the thunder of unshod
hoofs, and prostrate upon the sand he lay, while his intrepid warriors
leaped their foaming horses across his bleeding form. But on, on, they
came, while the cool-headed plainsmen took careful and deliberate aim.
_Crash!_
The Indians were now galloping upon the firm soil of the island. They
were within twenty yards of their enemies. They began to stagger. They
hesitated. They faltered.
_Crash!_
The seventh volley of lead swept through their broken ranks, and,
throwing themselves upon the off side of their horses, with horrible
cries of disappointed rage, the great wave of painted warriors broke,
divided, and scattered in every direction. With a ringing cheer,
the scouts jumped to their feet, and, seizing their revolvers,
poured volley after volley into the retreating and demoralized ranks
of the running foe. The great charge of Roman Nose was over; the
impetuous warrior lay dead upon the field of battle; and his wild,
naked followers, crazed with anger and disappointment, collected in
groups, just out of rifle range, and shook their fists vindictively at
Forsyth's devoted band; who, again sinking to their rifle pits, made
haste to load for the attack which they knew would shortly come. The
charge of the five hundred had been as futile as the wild gallop of the
six hundred British hussars at Balaklava.
* * * * *
This was not all of the battle, but it was all of Roman Nose. Twice
again the Indians attempted to charge the island, but they were easily
driven away. Two scouts, meanwhile, had crawled through their lines
from Forsyth's command, had successfully escaped the watchful eyes of
the Indians, and carried news of the desperate situation to the United
States troops at Fort Wallace, Kansas, some hundred miles away. Colonel
Carpenter, with seventy men of the Tenth Cavalry, seventeen scouts, and
an ambulance, immediately marched to the rescue of the gallant Rough
Riders. On the morning of the ninth day of the siege of the island, one
of the weary men on watch suddenly sprang to his feet, shouting:
"There are moving men on the hills." Everyone who was strong enough,
and not sufficiently starved out from eating mule and horse meat,
jumped up in an instant.
"By Heavens! There's an ambulance!" cried Grover, the oldest scout. The
Rough Riders of '68 were rescued at last.
* * * * *
When Carpenter's men were looking for the besieged command of Sandy
Forsyth, one of the troopers noticed something white in a small valley
through which he was scouting. Calling one of his companions to him,
they galloped up to it, and found it to be a beautiful wigwam made of
freshly tanned, white buffalo skins. As one of them entered, he saw,
upon a brush heap, a human figure, wrapped in buffalo robes. Stripping
off the covering, his eyes fell upon the body of a splendid specimen
of Indian manhood. Over six feet in height, the savage had a stern and
royal look, a majestic brow, a firm and placid mouth, a magnificently
modelled torso, and limbs like whipcord. Rich garments had clothed
him, and heavily ornamented weapons were carefully placed near by. In
his breast was a deep, gaping wound from a bullet which had pierced his
heart.
"It is Roman Nose," said one of the scouts. "See the face. It is that
of a hero."
On the return from the rescue of Forsyth, the men stopped at the lonely
tepee in the valley. The arms and equipment were appropriated, as the
legitimate spoils of war, but the famed war chief was allowed to sleep
on undisturbed. With a regard for his great bravery, the frontiersmen
did not move the body of the courageous warrior from its bed of boughs.
Thus, alone, unguarded, and unwatched, the remains of the invincible
Cheyenne were left to the vultures and lurking gray wolves: the
scavengers of the wide, untouched and illimitable plains.
GERONIMO:
THE TERRIBLE APACHE
At the inauguration of President Theodore Roosevelt, March 4, 1905,
an aged Indian chieftain rode in the procession, clothed in rich and
gaudy attire. As he passed by the reviewing stand, I watched the
expression upon his face. It was stolid, imperturbable, sad, and as he
looked up at the figure of the Chief Executive of the all-conquering
Anglo-Saxons, he did not deign to give him a nod of salutation. With
a scowl upon his countenance, he rode up the broad avenue, while the
people gazed at him in some amazement. It was the renowned Geronimo:
the bloodthirsty Apache chief.
This warrior had fought in many a desperate encounter with the whites
of Arizona and New Mexico, and, because of his strength of body and
ability to live in a country in which his pursuers could scarcely
exist, it was many years before he was eventually captured. Physically
he was somewhat "squatty," but with a tremendous girth of chest. His
muscles were as hard as bone, so hard that he could light a match
upon the bottom of his feet. His wants were few, and he cared for no
luxuries. War was his business, his life, and victory was his dream.
He would gladly travel hundreds of miles to attack a Mexican camp, or
an isolated village. He would incur every risk to run off a herd of
cattle, mules, or sheep.
[Illustration:
Courtesy of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institute.
GERONIMO.]
Geronimo, in his native wilds, wore no clothing save a narrow piece of
calico, or buckskin, about his loins, a headdress also of buckskin,
crested with the plumage of the wild turkey and eagle, and long-legged
moccasins, held at the waist by a string, and turned up at the toes by
a shield which protected him from stones and from the "cholla" cactus.
If he felt thirsty when on the warpath, he knew where to find the tiny
springs and brooks of the arid wastes, or, if he could find no water,
he would put a stone or twig in his mouth in order to induce a flow of
saliva. With this as a stimulus, he would journey onward for hours.
This crafty warrior would pitch his bivouac by nightfall at some
distance from any spring, where his pursuers would be least likely
to look for him. Generally it would be upon the side of some rocky
mountain, along which no trail would be left, and up which no pursuing
band of United States cavalrymen could ascend without making so much
noise that they would wake him long before they were near enough to do
any damage. He was familiar with every ravine, cavern, cañon, defile,
gorge, and place which was inaccessible to horses. When on a raid, his
followers often lived upon rats, mice, rabbits, and coyotes, and, if
very hard pressed, killed and ate the horses which they were mounted
upon. No wonder that they held out against the white men for months
after any other Indian tribe would have been annihilated.
As the whites took up ranches and settlements in Arizona and New
Mexico, there was continuous difficulty with the Apaches. Various
causes led to a final outbreak, and, much as one may regret the
fact, the actions of some United States officers who were on the
frontier were mainly the reason for Indian hostility. The Apaches
soon instituted a reign of terror in the Southwest, and there seemed
to be no cruelty too atrocious for them to commit. They made sudden
and daring raids upon the scattered ranch houses, burning them to the
ground, killing the inmates, and carrying off the sheep, cows, and
horses.
One day a ranchman of New Mexico was returning from a distant search
for a stray heifer, when, upon mounting a hill just beyond his ranch
house, he saw flames issuing from the roof and windows of his home.
Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped up to the front yard, anxiously
looking for signs of his family. As he did so, a wild yell came to his
ears, and gazing across the plain, he saw a band of four Apaches, with
his little son in their arms. Waving their hands at him defiantly, they
soon disappeared beyond the sloping hillocks, while he, terrified and
horrified at this unlooked-for assault, hastened to the garrison of
United States troops, ten miles away, to warn them of the raid and ask
assistance. Not long afterwards a squad of cavalry was in hot pursuit
of the redskins, guided by the heartbroken parent, who urged his horse
at top speed in the endeavor to overtake the marauders. But knowing
that pursuit was almost certain, the Apaches had rested their ponies,
and, as they were fresher and tougher than those upon the trail, they
soon left the latter far behind. Plunging into a shallow river, they
wheeled about, and, while one held the little boy in his outstretched
arms to let the heartbroken father know that they still had him, the
other shouted defiantly at the United States soldiers. Then, turning
suddenly, they were soon lost in the mountains.
This was but one of many such raids, so when General Crook took command
of the United States troops of Arizona, in June, 1871, the settlers of
the border country were in a frenzy of delight. At once this skillful
Indian fighter enrolled a number of friendly savages as scouts. They
were under a chief named Miguel, who was perfectly familiar with the
mountain haunts of the Apaches, and, like bloodhounds upon the trail of
criminals, were perfectly able to hunt down the followers of Geronimo
to their last resort. In December the American troops gathered in
the Tonto Basin, a mountain plateau surrounded by high ridges of the
Mogollen, the Mazatal and the Sierra Ancha ranges, heavily timbered
slopes deep with the winter's snow. For the first time since they had
been striving against the whites, the Apaches found themselves matched
in their own game. The allied scouts of Crook's army were as keen, as
daring, and as untiring as the followers of Geronimo, and piloted the
men in blue uniforms to the very heart of the bad lands, where was the
lair of these enemies of the border.
Splitting into small detachments, the United States soldiers scoured
the barren wastes in search of their human quarry. The Apaches skulked,
like mountain lions, in the crevasses and coulies of the hills,
and, seeing that they were being surrounded, concentrated in their
strongholds, three of which were almost impregnable. These were the
fortress at the summit of Turret Butte, the cliffs of the Superstition
Mountains, and the cave in the cañon of Salt River.
Major Brown's command was near the latter place on December 28, 1872,
when one of the friendly scouts came up to the officer, saying:
"Heap 'Pache down below in cave. I show you there, if your men follow.
I live there once, but now heart bad against Geronimo."
"My men will follow any trail you lead them on," said the United States
officer. "We will be ready to fight any band of Apaches in Arizona in
fifteen minutes. Lead us to the fort."
The soldiers welcomed the news of a near-by fight with a cheer,
for they were tired of perpetual marching with no enemy in view,
and, starting from their bivouac in a small box cañon at the first
appearance of a certain star in the East, they pushed onward through
the night. At daybreak they were at the cañon of the Salt River, where,
in a cave halfway down the face of a vertical cliff, the Apaches
were in hiding. The trail leading to this stronghold was narrow and
dangerous, so narrow in fact, that, should the Indians have discovered
the presence of the whites before they reached some rocky hills, they
could have annihilated the command. "Men, will you follow me?" asked
the gallant Major, at this juncture. "We will," came from every throat.
"Then look to your carbines and ammunition," continued Brown. "Put some
crackers, bacon, and coffee in your blankets slung over your shoulders;
fill your canteens with water; give a look at your moccasins, and
follow me."
The friendly scouts gathered about little fires, and stuffed themselves
full of mule meat, while the soldiers were picketing the horses and
mules. Then their medicine men walked before them, telling them what
to do, how to shoot, and how to creep upon the enemy. This ceremony
was soon over, and, as the bright light of the guiding star began to
twinkle in the East, the soldiers and slinking redskins softly began
the descent to the cave of the Apaches.
Moving like a long file of spectres, the band of attackers crept down
the sides of the barren mountain. For an hour or more the progress
was leisurely. The air was chill and blew keenly through the scraggy
cedars, which, like ghostly sentinels, nodded and beckoned in the wind.
At the crest of each hill the column halted for a few moments, when
a warning "_Tzit! Tzit!_" hissed from the rear, signalled that the
last man had reached his place in line. Thus the black army of death
approached the sleeping followers of Geronimo.
Midnight had come, and all was silence. The sharp yelp of a coyote
sounded far off across the barren waste, and Nantje (the head Indian
scout) turned, seizing Major Brown firmly about the body. "Quiet,"
he whispered. "We have discovered a footprint in the soil!" All were
still, as the keen-eyed scout lay down upon the trail with some
comrades by his side, and, with their blankets over their heads so
that not the slightest gleam could escape, struck a few matches and
inspected the sign. "Ugh! Ugh!" growled Nantje. "It is a big bear's
foot. He has been here but an hour past. It is good luck for us, for
when a bear crosses the path of a war party, they will meet the enemy
and will be successful!"
Moving onward again for three or four hours, suddenly the warning,
"_Tzit! Tzit!_" sounded from the advance guard. "Ponies!" whispered
the scouts, and there in a small, grassy glade were fifteen Pima
ponies, which had been driven up the mountain by Apache raiders that
very night. "See," cried Nantje, "the sweat is not yet dry upon their
flanks. Their knees are full of cactus thorns, against which they have
been driven during the night. The Apaches have done this."
"Carefully, now," whispered Major Brown. "Advance with great caution,
and make no noise. We are within rifle shot of the enemy."
Although there was no moon, the stars gave out sufficient light to show
that the soldiers were in a country filled with huge rocks, behind
which a well-armed foe could fight for hours. In front was a deep
valley: dark, precipitous, vague. "You are at the place," said Nantje.
"A dozen picked men must be sent forward with me to climb down the
precipice in order to attack."
"All right," whispered the Major. "Fifty more will come behind you. A
strong detachment will hold the edge of the precipice to prevent any
of the hostiles from getting above and killing our people with their
rifles. As soon as these first detachments secure the field, the rest
of our force will come down."
The Indians in the cave below were absolutely unaware of the approach
of the soldiers. They were in high good humor, and were dancing to keep
themselves warm. Several of the raiders who had just returned from a
trip of killing and robbing in the settlements near Florence, on the
Gila River, were bending over a fire, and stirring some deer meat in a
bubbling pot, while a few sleepy squaws were cutting faggots. Sheltered
in the bosom of these grim precipices, they fancied themselves secure
from any intrusion save that of the eagle, the hawk, the turkey
buzzard, or the mountain sheep. The fire danced upwards, sending the
fitful gleam of the flame over the rugged precipices of inky blackness;
while far below the glowing current of the rushing Salado sounded like
solemn music of an invisible orchestra. But, hark, as the first glint
of dawn reddened the horizon, a call sounded forth, and its echoes woke
the stillness of the grim solitude: "We have you surrounded. You cannot
escape. Surrender!"
Taken aback at this unlooked-for demand, the Apaches scattered, like
slinking wolves, into the cave. They then hurled back their savage
defiance in their own tongue. "We will die first. Not one of your
own party will escape from the cañon!" The death wail came from
the fortress, and then, out of the cave and over the great pile of
rock, which protected the entrance, swarmed the warriors. Although
outnumbered three to one, they fought like tigers. The bullets rained
down upon the rocks like hailstones, and, striking the roof and mouth
of the cave, glanced along and wounded a number of the women and
children. Sharp wails of pain and rage rent the air as the battle
continued.
Again the Apaches were summoned to surrender, or, if they would not do
so, to allow such of their women and children as they desired pass out
between the lines. But to this demand came yells of defiance. A little
boy, not more than four years old, now ran out of the cave and stood
dumbfounded at the affray. Without a moment's pause, Nantje rushed
forward, grasped the trembling infant by the arm, and escaped to the
lines of the troopers with the boy unhurt. A bullet struck the little
Apache, but did not injure him, and, as the new recruit reached a place
of safety, the troopers gave a yell of encouragement and appreciation
of the brave rescue.
The end of the fight had nearly come. A detachment left by Major
Brown at the top of the precipice to protect the retreat, in case of
necessity, had worked its way over to a high shelf of rock, overlooking
the cave of the Apaches, and began to tumble down great boulders,
which speedily crushed the greater number of these rude warriors of
the mountains. The rifle fire grew hot and savage; so savage that,
in twenty minutes, every Indian was dead at his post, and the troops
swarmed into the little fort. In the inner recesses of the cave were
the women and children, a number of whom had been struck by glancing
bullets and fragments of rock. They were seized, carried to the pack
train, mounted on horses and mules, and started for the nearest railway
station. The great fight in the mountains was over.
This was a crushing blow to the savages. Driven to bay in their
chosen fortress, where they thought that no one could reach them, all
of the warriors had been exterminated, while only one white soldier
had been killed. As Major Randall, two days later, delivered another
crushing blow to the hostiles, at Turret Butte, the remaining Apaches,
including Geronimo, soon capitulated to the governmental forces. But
this snakelike warrior was not to remain long in peace and quiet,
for he resented the control of the whites. In May he escaped from
Fort Apache, taking with him thirty-four warriors, eight boys, and
ninety-one women, who travelled one hundred and twenty miles before
camping. Thus and thus only they eluded the cavalry sent in pursuit,
and, although chased hundreds of miles, the band safely reached the
wild wastes of the Sierra Madre Mountains.
General Crook pushed hot upon the trail of the terrible Apache. The
thermometer registered one hundred and twenty degrees, and often more.
The air was like a fiery furnace, and the soil was like a hot stove,
under the feet of the troopers. Often the metal work upon their guns
became so hot that it could not be touched with the bare hand, and
sometimes, aflame with thirst, they would reach a tiny spring--the only
one for miles--to find it befouled by the retreating Apaches, so that
neither man nor beast could drink from it. Still Crook persisted and
finally captured the crafty Geronimo. He held him for only one night,
and then the slippery Apache escaped to the arid wasteland, leaving
his wife behind him in the hands of the soldiers. Several nights later
he stole into camp with four of his warriors, found his wife's tent in
the blackness, and, before the dozing sentries discovered him, was off
again into the wilderness, with his better half strapped before him on
his scraggly pony.