For the Jesuits told them long ago
As sure as the water continued to flow,
The sun to shine, and the grass to grow,
They would come again to the Papago.
I installed the priests in the old Mission buildings, and turned over
the goods intended for the Papagos for distribution at their
convenience.
I met an old friend at the Mission called "Buckskin Alick," who had
lived there all through the war without reading a newspaper or changing
his clothes. As nails were scarce, Buckskin Alick had constructed a mill
held together by rawhides, and was grinding wheat for the Papagos. In
the meantime he had taken up with a Papago girl, to the scandal of the
tribe. The priests told him he must marry the girl or leave. He
appealed to me for protection, but I told him I had resigned my
sacerdotal functions to the priest. He married the girl, and kept the
mill.
In 1863 a considerable number of prospectors had come into Arizona,
mostly from the California side, on account of discoveries of gold on
the Hassayamp. Old Pauline Weaver was the discoverer, as he had been a
trapper and pioneer since 1836. His name is carved on the walls of the
Casa Grande with that date.
The gold washers there were doing very well, and ranches began to be
established on the river. But the Apaches were not inclined to leave the
settlers in peace when they had some fine horses and mules, and some fat
cattle. So the Tonto Apaches made a raid on the Hassayamp, and carried
off nearly all the stock.
King Woolsey had come into the country then, and was a prominent man
among the settlers, and undoubtedly a very brave one; so he raised a
company to go after the Tontos. (As every one knows, "tonto" means
"fool.")
There were not more than twenty-five men, including some friendly
Maricopas. They were well armed, but their commisariat consisted
principally of panole and jerkey.
They followed the Indians across the Verde to a place about half way
between Globe and the Silver King, where they came to a parley. The
tanks there are surrounded by rough ledges of basalt rocks, and the
country in the vicinity is covered by scoriae, as though a volcano had
vomited the refuse of the subterranean world to disfigure nature.
The Indians came in slowly for a talk, but were insolent and defiant.
Delshay, the Tonto chief, demanded a blanket and some coffee and whisky.
The Americans had neither coffee nor whisky for their own use, and he
was quite put out about it, but partook of panole and jerked beef.
The parley was very unsatisfactory, as the Indians were surly, and made
demands which it was impossible to grant. There were about twenty-five
Indians at the council, and fifty or more on the surrounding ledges. As
the Indians became more hostile the situation became more serious, and
it was evident to the Americans that they were surrounded, and in
imminent danger of massacre.
Woolsey was not only a brave but a very intelligent man, and he saw at
once that either the Americans or the Indians were to be slaughtered, so
he said: "Boys, we have got to die or get out of this. Each of you pick
out your Indian, and I will shoot the chief for a signal."
The fusillade commenced, and all the Indians that could run stampeded.
The only American killed was Lennon, a half brother of Ammi White, my
Indian agent at the Pima villages.
Lennon had picked out his Indian and sent a bullet to his heart; but the
Indian in the agonies of death made a lunge at Lennon with his spear and
transfixed him. They both fell at the Bloody Tanks in the embrace of
death.
The Americans rescued Lennon's body, and having strapped it over a pack
mule, carried it away to the next camp, where it was buried with
Christian services at the foot of an aspen tree.
The Americans brought away twenty-four scalps.
After the Bloody Tanks affair some of the men engaged in it came into
the Pima villages, where I was in camp. J. Ross Browne, who was with me,
took down the account in short hand, and I made a list of the Americans
engaged in the expedition. I remember, when Browne got through with his
stenography, he asked one of the men if he had any Indian relics. The
man replied, "Yes, I have got some jerked years," and he presented
Browne about a dozen "jerked years" strung on buckskin.
I concluded to make a scout up country and see what was going on among
the Indians, and as there were no troops at my command I organized a
company of Pimas and Maricopas as scouts. They had recently received
arms and ammunition from the government, and I had uniforms and swords
enough for the officers. They soon learned to drill, and already knew
how to shoot.
The commissariat was not quite up to military regulations, but we set
out all the same, following along the Hassayamp to Antelope Peak, when
we turned east by Walnut Creek to the Verde over an infernal trail.
The way down the Verde was not much better, as the Black Cañon has never
been considered strewn with roses; but we hunted and fished to the
junction of the Verde and Salt River without seeing any Apaches.
The only "sign" we saw was cut on a tree,--twenty-four Americans and
twenty-four arrows pointed at them, which the Pimas interpreted to me as
the number of Americans the Apaches threatened to kill in retaliation.
There was not a soul on the Verde, and not a white man nor a house on
the Salt River, from the junction of the Verde to its confluence with
the Gila. We camped at the "Hole-in-the-Rock," and next morning crossed
Salt River at the peak about Tempe, and crossed over to the Pima
villages, glad enough to get to that haven of rest. It was 100 miles to
Tucson, and 280 miles to Yuma, and not a soul nor any provisions
between the two places.
There was no great inducement to stay in the Territory at that time,
except for people who had an insane ambition for orchestral fame on the
golden harps of New Jerusalem. Many of the people had read about the
government of the United States, in school books; and perhaps had
enjoyed the felicity of hearing a Fourth of July oration in youth; but
these were myths of antiquity in Arizona. There was no government of any
consequence, and even what there was was conducted on the Democratic
principle, not for protection but for revenue only.
I anticipated the fourteenth amendment, and distributed the Indian goods
without regard to race, color or former condition of servitude. Anybody
that came along in need of blankets or tobacco was freely supplied. I
wound up the Indian service with loss of about $5,000 out of my own
pocket.
At camp on the Hassayamp, Henry Wickenburg came in with some specimens
of gold quartz he had found out to the west, at a place subsequently
called Vulture, and wanted me to buy the find. I said, "Henry, I don't
want to buy your mine, but I will give you twenty-five dollars' worth
of grub and a meerschaum pipe if you will go away and leave me alone."
I was also importuned to purchase Miguel Peralta's title from the King
of Spain for the Salt River Valley; but my experience with Spanish
grants in Texas, California and Arizona, did not incline me to invest,
even if the grant had been made by the Pope of Rome, and guaranteed by
the Continental Congress.
The only members of the Woolsey Expedition remaining in Arizona that I
know of are Peeples of Phoenix, Chase of Antelope, and Blair at
Florence.
The government of the United States can never recompense the people of
Arizona for the atrocities committed by the Apaches. It will never do to
make the plea that a government so vain-glorious and boastful could not
have conquered this tribe of savages, if the will to do so had existed.
Now, after forty years of devastation, the government pays the Apaches
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year in goods to maintain a
quasi peace. The settlers are not at any time secure against an Apache
outbreak, and there are at the present time some Apaches on the
war-path, which the government acknowledges its impotency to capture. "A
Century of Dishonor" was a well written book, and contains many
unpleasant truths.
In the meantime, while I was delivering the Indian goods, my colleagues
in the territorial government had crossed the plains, and established
the capital at a remote place in the northern mountains, which they
called "Prescott," in honor of the Mexican historian. Just as was
supposed, they quarreled all the way across the plains about who should
be the first delegate to Congress from a Territory they had never seen.
Upon my arrival at Prescott they were perfectly disgusted to learn that
I had already been declared a candidate, and was likely to get the votes
of the people. The political machine had not then been organized, and
the people had some say in the elections.
The election was held in due time, and I was elected the first delegate
to Congress from Arizona.
The "carpet baggers" worked the Territory for all it was worth, as is
evidenced by the public debt, which is three times as great as any State
or Territory in the Union, _per capita_. The Capital was moved from town
to town, as a political factor in the election of delegates, but now
rests at Phoenix, in the Salt River Valley, where it will permanently
remain, as no other place in the Territory can ever rival Phoenix in the
abundance of all that contributes to the comfort and happiness of life.
The soil is fertile, the climate healthful, and with water storage in
reservoirs a city will grow equal to any on the Nile.
At this time there was not an inhabitant on Salt River where Phoenix now
stands, and the Salt River Valley was a desolate and abandoned waste. It
had been occupied some thousands of years ago by a race who cultivated
the land by irrigation, and built houses and cities which have gone to
ruin. The most diligent search has developed but few evidences of the
extent of their civilization. They had not advanced very far, as they
left no relics of either iron, copper, or steel. The land in cultivation
would have supported a population of from fifty to a hundred thousand
souls.
It is an excusable ambition for a man, especially in the Western
country, to desire the honor of representing his State or Territory in
Congress.
It was necessary to cross the deserts to San Francisco, and thence via
Panama to New York and Washington.
I had scarcely taken my seat, when a distinguished-looking gentleman
(Roscoe Conkling) came up and introduced himself, saying in a very
pompous way:
"I observe you have drawn a front seat,--and as I presume you do not
wish to debate, I shall feel very much obliged if you will have the
courtesy to exchange seats with me."
I replied, "With the greatest pleasure, sir," and took a back seat, more
becoming to my station.
In a few days the chairman of the Committee on Mileage came around to my
seat, and said, "Poston, how is this?--your mileage is $7,200, and mine
is only $300."