THE OATH OF GERONIMO
AROUSED by the shouts, the shots and the scent of the savages, the
mules had, during the battle, staged a divertisement of their own. Some
had kicked themselves free of restraining leather while others had but
entangled themselves the more. Many were down.
Their taste for blood temporarily glutted, or for lack of more blood to
spill, the Apaches turned their attention to the mules. While some cut
loose those that were down, others rounded up those that were loose. In
the meantime Geronimo and Juh had inspected the contents of the wagons
which contained a general store of merchandise consigned to many a small
merchant in the villages of northern Sonora.
Selecting what met their fancy or the requirements of their wild,
nomadic life, they packed their spoils of war upon the backs of the
captured mules and set out in a northeasterly direction toward the
Sierra Madre. All that afternoon and all of the following night they
pushed rapidly on until they emerged upon the eastern slopes of the
Sierra Madre and looked down upon Chihuahua. Not until then did Geronimo
order camp and a rest. A hundred miles behind them the ashes of the
burned wagon train still smouldered. Ten miles in his rear a single
scout watched the rear trail from a commanding peak and far ahead
another scout overlooked Chihuahua.
Around the camp fire that day, while the mules browsed the lush grasses
of a mountain meadow, the warriors recounted boastfully their deeds of
derring do.
Geronimo, sullen and morose, sat apart. Shoz-Dijiji, the camp duties of
the neophyte completed, lay stretched in rest beside his savage sire.
Geronimo, puffing at a cigarette, looked down at the boy.
“Shoz-Dijiji has done well,” he said. These were the first words of
approval that had fallen upon the youth’s ears since he had taken the
war trail. He remained silent. Geronimo puffed upon his cigarette before
he spoke again. “Juh says that Shoz-Dijiji has a heart of water; that he
did not join the other braves in torturing the wounded or mutilating the
dead.”
“Shoz-Dijiji killed three of the enemy,” replied the youth; “one in a
hand-to-hand fight. The coyote attacks the wounded and devours the dead.
Which is braver?”
“You saw me after the battle,” said Geronimo. “Am I a coyote?”
“You are a brave man,” replied Shoz-Dijiji simply. “There is no one
braver than Geronimo. Therefore I cannot understand why you waste your
time with the dead and the wounded. These, I should think, you would
leave to the squaws and the children. I, Shoz-Dijiji, take no pleasure
in fighting with a dead man who cannot harm me. I should not think that
Geronimo, who is so much braver than Shoz-Dijiji, would find pleasure in
it.”
“Listen, my son, to the words of Geronimo,” said the war chief. “But
seventeen times had the rains fallen upon me when I was admitted to the
warrior class. Then I was a Ned-ni, as my fathers before me had been;
but I loved Alope, the slender daughter of No-po-so of the Be-don-ko-he
and she loved me. I gave No-po-so the many ponies that he had asked for
Alope and took her with me. Then it was that I was adopted into the
tribe of my good wife. I became a Be-don-ko-he.
“Three children came to us in the twelve years that followed and we were
happy. There was peace between us and the tribes that were our
neighbors. We were at peace with the Mexican towns in Chihuahua and
Sonora.
“Happy, carefree, contented, the Be-don-ko-he, with all their women and
their children, went down through Sonora toward Casa Grande to trade,
but before we reached our destination we stopped at the Mexican village
which we called Kas-ki-yeh, making our camp just outside the town.
“I had brought my mother with me, as well as Alope and our three
children. With the other women and children they remained in camp under
the protection of a few warriors while the balance of the braves went
daily into the town to trade.
“Thus we had been living in peace and fancied security for several days
when one evening as we were returning to camp we were met by several of
our women and children. Their burning eyes reflected the sorrow and
righteous anger that blazed within their breasts as they told us that
during our absence Mexican troops had attacked our camp, slain the
warriors that had been left to guard it, run off our ponies, burned our
supplies, stolen our weapons and murdered many of our women and
children.
“Mangas Colorado, chief of the Ned-ni, who was with us with a few of his
people, was the ranking war chief and to him we turned now, for this was
war. He told us to separate and hide until darkness had fallen, and this
we did, assembling again in a thicket by the river. Then it was, when
all had come, that I discovered for the first time that my aged mother,
my young wife, my three small children were among the slain.
“Without ponies, without weapons, our force reduced, surrounded by the
enemy and far within his country, we were in no position to give battle.
In silence and in darkness, therefore, we took up the long trail toward
our own country, leaving our dead upon the field.
“Stunned by the sorrow that had overwhelmed me I followed behind the
retreating tribe, just within hearing distance of the soft footfalls of
moccasined feet. For two days and nights of forced marching I did not
eat, I did not speak, and no one spoke to me—there was nothing to say.
“At last we arrived at our own kunh-gan-hay. There was the tepee that I
had made for Alope, a tepee of buffalo hides. There were the bear robes,
the lion skins, the other trophies of the chase that I had placed there
for her. There were the little decorations of beads and drawn work on
buckskin made by Alope’s own slender fingers. There were the many
pictures that she had drawn upon the walls of our home, and there were
the playthings of our little ones.
“I burned them all. Also I burned my mother’s tepee and destroyed all
her property. It was then I took an oath to be revenged upon the
Mexicans, to kill them wherever I found them, to give them no quarter
and to show them no mercy.
“My mother, Alope, our three children have been avenged many times over,
but the end is not yet. Now, perhaps, Shoz-Dijiji too will see the same
pictures of the mind that Geronimo sees when the war trail crosses the
path of the Mexicans—an old woman and a young woman lying in their
blood, three little children huddled together in terror before the
bullets or the gun butts of the Mexican soldiers stilled their sobs
forever.”
The wrinkled war chief arose and walked silently away. In silence
Shoz-Dijiji sat—in silence and in thought.
And all during the long, arduous marches that followed he thought upon
what Geronimo had told him until he too came to hate the enemies of his
people with a bitterness that was but to be increased with each closer
association with them, whether in war or in peace; but Shoz-Dijiji
discriminated less between Mexicans and Americans than did Geronimo, for
he knew that upon the whole the former had sinned against them less than
the latter.
Always watching for attack from in front, for pursuit from the rear, the
Apaches drove the laden mules northward toward home, keeping as much to
inaccessible mountains as the limitations of the mules permitted;
passing the few habitations that lay in their way silently by night,
with the single exception of an isolated Mexican ranch not far from the
border. This they attacked by day, slaying its owner, his wife and
children.
Again Shoz-Dijiji and Gian-nah-tah conducted themselves well, thus
having two engagements to their credit of the four necessary before they
could be accepted into the warrior class; but again Shoz-Dijiji
abstained from torture or mutilation, though he watched Juh, the
butcher, with interest, if nothing more.
The meager loot from the pitiful Mexican home they loaded upon a spare
mule, set fire to the interior of the adobe house and continued their
way, leaving the wounded but conscious Mexican staked out upon a bed of
cactus within sight of the mutilated remains of his family, to die of
thirst.
As they passed on toward the farther hills Shoz-Dijiji saw a coyote
giving them a wide berth as it slunk down toward the ranch.
That night they crossed the border into New Mexico and camped in
timbered mountains by a running spring. Here they killed a mule and
feasted, for at last they felt reasonably safe from pursuit.
A few days later they came to their home camp and that night there was
dancing and feasting in honor of the victorious warriors and a great
deal of boastful recounting of valorous deeds and displaying of loot.
Another mule was killed and cooked and presents were given to each
member of the tribe. It was a memorable night. Tomorrow the work of the
squaws would commence, for all the remaining mules must be killed, their
meat jerked, their hides cured and the meat packed away in them for
future use.
Little Ish-kay-nay, cross-legged upon the ground, tore at a large piece
of mule meat with her strong, white teeth. A lock of glossy black hair
fell across her face and tickled her nose. She pushed it back with a
greasy hand.
But if her teeth were occupied with the feast her eyes were not—they
followed the figure of a handsome youth who moved about with the swagger
of a warrior, though it was noticeable that he kept out of the paths of
the warriors, swaggering most where the squaws and the children might
see.
Closer and closer to Ish-kay-nay his wanderings led him, yet he seemed
quite unconscious of her presence, until presently, without a word, he
came and squatted at her side. He did not speak. Ish-kay-nay did not
speak. Perhaps each wondered at the change that had come over their
relations. When the youth had gone away a few weeks before they had been
playfellows. There had never been reserve between them. Ish-kay-nay had
seemed like another boy to Shoz-Dijiji.
Now she seemed different. It seemed to Shoz-Dijiji that he was almost
afraid of her. To Ish-kay-nay there seemed a difference, too, but, being
a woman, she was less mystified than Shoz-Dijiji and she was not afraid.
She must only appear to be afraid.
Presently, timorously apparently, she extended her piece of mule meat
toward him and with his teeth he tore off a mouthful. Enjoined from
speech by necessity they sat there, side by side, chewing upon the tough
and fibrous flesh.
Ish-kay-nay looked up from beneath her tousled shock, caught his eye and
smiled. Then she looked down quickly and giggled. Shoz-Dijiji grinned
and leaned a little closer until his naked shoulder touched hers. Again
Ish-kay-nay looked up to smile, and down to giggle, shrugging her
shapely shoulders.
Laboriously the youth untied a soiled bundle that he had carried for
many days fastened to his loin cloth. It was wrapped in a bit of the
tail of a cotton shirt that Manuel, the freighter, had bought in
Guaymas.
A vile odor pervaded it, an odor that waxed in insolence and insistence
as Shoz-Dijiji, with exaggerated deliberation, slowly unwrapped the
package, while Ish-kay-nay, now leaning quite brazenly against him,
watched with increasing interest. Neither appeared to note the odor
which arose like material matter as the youth threw aside the last fold
of cloth and held up to the girl’s admiring gaze three putrid scalps.
“I, Shoz-Dijiji, have slain the enemies of my people,” he said. “Upon
the war trail with the warriors of my tribe I have slain them and here
is the proof.”
“Shoz-Dijiji will soon be a great warrior,” whispered Ish-kay-nay,
snuggling closer.
The boy opened the buckskin bag in which he kept his treasures. From it
he drew a silver crucifix and a rosary. “Take these, Ish-kay-nay,” he
said. “Shoz-Dijiji took them in battle for Ish-kay-nay.”
The eyes of the little savage maiden were wells of gratitude and pride,
and as Shoz-Dijiji slipped an arm about her she looked up into his face
and pressed closer to him. Now she did not giggle, for the light of a
great understanding had suddenly flooded the consciousness of
Ish-kay-nay.
For some time they sat there in silence, oblivious of the yells of the
dancers, the beating of the es-a-da-ded, wrapped in the dawning
realization of the wonder that had come into their lives. It was
Shoz-Dijiji who first spoke.
“Ish-kay-nay will soon be a woman.”
“At the next moon,” replied the girl.
“Twice again must Shoz-Dijiji take the war trail with the braves of his
tribe before he can become a warrior,” continued the youth. “Not until
then may he tie his pony before the tepee of Ish-kay-nay, to await her
answer to his suit. Ish-kay-nay is beautiful. Many warriors will desire
her. Already has Shoz-Dijiji seen them looking at her. Will Ish-kay-nay
wait for Shoz-Dijiji?”
“Until Chigo-na-ay gives forth no heat and the waters cease to run
Ish-kay-nay will wait,” whispered the girl.
During the month that followed the tribe travelled to a small salt lake
that lies in the Gila Mountains, and there replenished its supply of
salt. There were Navajoes there, too, and a small band of Pimos, but
there was no fighting, for such is the unwritten law of the Indians who
have come hither for ages after their salt.
Even the birds and the beasts are safe here, for no creature may be
killed upon its sacred shore. Here the gossip of the wild country passed
from mouth to mouth, the braves traded or gambled, the squaws recovered
the salt, and when the supply was garnered each tribe took up its
separate way in safety back to its own country.
Shortly after they reached home the father of Ish-kay-nay, being a man
of importance and considerable means, sent runners to the Apache tribes
living nearest them, inviting all to a great dance and feast in honor of
the coming of his daughter into the full bloom of womanhood, for
Ish-kay-nay was fourteen and no longer a child.
For days the preparations went forward. The young bucks grinned and
giggled at Ish-kay-nay, who tittered and hid her eyes behind her hand.
And Shoz-Dijiji laughed in his blanket.
The roasted mescal had been mixed with water and allowed to ferment.
Other pulpy sections of the maguey were being steamed in rock-lined
pits, the stones in which had first been superheated with leaping,
crackling greasewood fires before a layer of maguey was laid upon them
and covered with wet leaves and grasses, upon which was laid a second
layer of maguey, another layer of leaves and grasses, thus alternating
until the pit was filled and the whole covered tightly over with earth
from which protruded several of the long bayonet spikes of the mescal,
the lower ends of which were embedded in the roasting pulp.
For three days had the maguey been cooking. The tribes were gathered.
The fermented mescal was ready and, lest their hospitality be impeached,
Ish-kay-nay’s mother had brewed an ample supply of tizwin against the
needs of the occasion. The Yuma slave woman cooked tortillas by a fire
of her own making. There were jerked venison, lion, bear and beef; fresh
turkey, grouse and mule; there were cakes of the meal of ground mesquite
beans; there was the sun-dried fruit of the Spanish bayonet.
During the afternoon the squaws were engaged in the final preparations
for the feast; the braves, with mirror and pigment, were making
themselves gorgeous for the ensuing nights of dancing, feasting and
celebration, or, the painting done, arraying themselves in their finest
buckskin, beaded, and silver or turquoise hung; placing necklaces, often
to the number of a dozen, about their savage necks; adjusting earrings
of silver or turquoise.
Little Ish-kay-nay was being prepared, too. She had donned a new and
elaborately beaded robe of buckskin, the skirt of which was fringed with
tiny silver bells, as were the sides of her high moccasins; and she was
hung heavy with barbaric necklaces, some of which merely encircled her
throat, while others fell below her waist.
Much of her wealth of silver and turquoise was hidden by the long, heavy
fringe that fell from the edges of her voluminous sleeves and,
encircling her skirt above her knees, swept the ground about her richly
beaded moccasins; but there was enough in evidence to fix the wealth and
social status of her sire.
Lengthening shadows heralded the coming of the guests. By ones and twos
and threes they came, Chi-hen-ne, White Mountain, Chi-e-a-hen,
Cho-kon-en and Ned-ni, to the camp of the Be-don-ko-he, to celebrate the
coming of Ish-kay-nay, the bud, into the full flower of womanhood. A
full September moon shone down upon them as they gathered about the open
space from which the grass had been cut for the dancing. The potent
mescal and tizwin was passed freely among them.
In nearby tepees the braves who were to start the dance put the last
touches to their toilets. In a great lodge at one side of the dance
ground the chief men of the six tribes assembled and there too sat
Ish-kay-nay, looking very small; but, being Ish-kay-nay, neither
overawed nor fearful. With poise and dignity she sat among the great,
but doubtless in her elfin heart she was laughing at some of the grim
old chieftains, as youth, the world over, is prone to laugh at age.
The squaws had drawn the bayonet stalks from the roasting maguey and
sampling the lower ends had found them cooked to a nicety. Now they were
uncovering the feast. A fire was burning in the center of the space
reserved for the dancing, and at one side a dried hide had been laid
upon the ground. About this sat several old warriors armed with long,
tough sticks. Gently they began beating upon the surface of the bull
hide. Just behind them two other old warriors smote es-a-da-deds.
Ish-kay-nay’s father began to sing in time to the beating of the crude
drums, his voice rising and falling monotonously as he chanted of the
beauty of Ish-kay-nay, of her docility, of her strength, of her many
accomplishments. Gradually the guests joined in, chanting in unison with
him a wordless chant that drowned out the balance of the list of
Ish-kay-nay’s attractions.
Suddenly there burst from the tepees at the head of the dance ground a
series of blood-curdling whoops and yells. The beating of the drums
increased in tempo and volume until the sound rolled forth in thunderous
waves. From several tepees young men sprang, leaping high in air,
turning, twisting, bending, whooping. Onto the dance ground they rushed,
circling the central fire—weird, grotesque, barbaric figures disguised
beneath the heads and skins of bear and deer and buffalo and lion.
Four times about the fire they danced when other warriors armed with
lances, bows and arrows sprang upon the dance ground and circling the
other dancers threatened them with their weapons. Unintimidated the
beasts danced on until at last the hunters threw down their weapons.
At this signal the young women of the tribes joined in the dance. As the
first of them ran upon the field the young bucks gave voice to a wild
yell that rolled out across the still Arizona night to reverberate and
echo in the gloomy canyons and gorges of the moon-mysteried mountains
that hemmed them about. They crouched, they leaped, they shook their
shoulders and their hips as they formed a circle about the fire, facing
outward, as the girls took their places in an outer circle, each girl
opposite and facing a warrior.
The drums boomed, the dancers bent double, whirled about first upon one
foot and then upon the other. The men advanced, the girls retreated to
the outer edge of the dance ground. Among them, grotesque, painted,
decked out in the finery of their most gorgeous medicine headdress,
their finest izze-kloths, whirling their tzi-ditindes, the izze-nantans
whirled and leaped and danced, sprinkling the sacred hoddentin upon the
youths and maidens.
Nakay-do-klunni was there with Nan-ta-do-tash and many another famous
medicine man of the six tribes of the Apaches, speaking volumes for the
wealth and power of the father of little Ish-kay-nay. Now the men
retreated, backing toward the fire, and the girls advanced, and thus,
forward and back, they danced for hours, chanting the sacred songs of
their people, doing honor to Ish-kay-nay.
And all the time the girl remained in the great lodge, taking no part in
the festivities and catching but an occasional glimpse of what was going
on without. At the end of the fourth night the food was gone, the mescal
and the tizwin had been consumed, the dancers were exhausted and the six
tribes repaired to their several camps to sleep off the effects of their
prolonged orgy. On the following day Ish-kay-nay’s eyebrows were
carefully plucked—the last official symbol of her emergence from
childhood to the marriage market. A month later her eye lashes would be
pulled out.
Shoz-Dijiji was not happy. He had had no part in the festivities, other
than a free hand at the food, and he had tried to smoke—with dire
results. This he might have done long before, having killed big game and
won the right to smoke like a grown man; but he had not cared to until
recently. Seeing Ish-kay-nay stepping suddenly from childhood to
womanhood had awakened within him, or rather had stimulated within him
an already overwhelming desire to appear mature.
From the tepee of Geronimo he had taken a few leaves of tobacco and
these he rolled in the dried leaf of an oak. With an ember from a camp
fire he lighted his primitive cigarette, and for several minutes he
derived great satisfaction from parading nonchalantly about, puffing
clouds of smoke to the moon; but shortly he crawled away out of sight
and lay down behind a bush. For a while he was quite helpless, but
presently he was able to unwrap his tzi-daltai, and to it he prayed that
the bad spirit that had entered his stomach with the smoke be driven
out. He prayed for a long time, until he fell asleep; and when he awoke
he knew that his medicine was strong medicine, for the sickness was
gone, leaving him only a little weak and a bit wabbly upon his feet.
Perhaps the sickness helped to make Shoz-Dijiji unhappy, but there were
other causes, too. One of them was the attitude of the young warriors
toward Ish-kay-nay, and that of some of the old warriors, as well. Never
before had Shoz-Dijiji realized how wonderful and how desirable was
Ish-kay-nay, and he saw that other youths and men thought that she was
desirable. Once, shortly after the great feast, he saw ten ponies tied
before her tepee, and among them was the war pony of Juh, the chief of
the Ned-ni.
For four days he watched them standing there, as their owners watched
them; but Ish-kay-nay did not come forth and feed any one of them or
lead one to water, and at the end of the fourth day, disgruntled, the
disappointed swains came and took away their ponies. After that
Shoz-Dijiji was happier and when it was dark, that very night, he found
Ish-kay-nay and sat down beside her and held her hand and heard her say
over again that she would wait for him—forever.