WAR CHIEF OF THE BE-DON-KO-HE
SHOZ-DIJIJI liked the new camp which lay in rugged, timbered mountains
south of the town of Casas Grandes, in the state of Chihuahua. There was
water there and game and the hated soldiers of the pindah lickoyee could
not follow. When they had settled down to the routine of camp life he
would tie Nejeunee before the tepee of Ish-kay-nay. Just now, with
several other braves, he was hunting, for the long march from the north
had depleted the stores of the Be-don-ko-he.
For three days the chase continued, covering mountains and plain, and
during that time the hunters brought in a variety and abundance of red
meats. In many a pot boiled savory stews of venison, antelope, beef or
mule, the sweet aroma of cooking food mingling with the scent of the
pine forest in the pure air of the high sierras, while below in the
plain many a frightened peon huddled his family about him behind the
barred door of his adobe shack the while he mourned the loss of his live
stock.
Their bellies filled, peace hovering about them, elated by their victory
over the soldiers of the white-eyes, the Be-don-ko-he rested in camp.
The warriors smoked and gambled, the women worked and gossiped, the
children played. Upon distant look-outs sentinels scanned the country
for the first sign of an approaching enemy.
The Be-don-ko-he felt secure. But a chain is as strong only as its
weakest link. Perhaps a sentinel was shirking; perhaps there were other
Indians who knew the Mother Mountains better than the Be-don-ko-he knew
them. How else might be explained the long file of armed men creeping
upward through a narrow, timbered defile toward the camp of the Apaches?
Twenty-four of them were Mexican regulars and with them were forty
Indian allies, hereditary enemies of the Be-don-ko-he.
Geronimo sat before a rude brush shelter, smoking, while Sons-ee-ah-ray
ground maize in a metate. Ish-kay-nay, sewing beads to the yoke of a
buckskin shirt, worked industriously at her side, while Shoz-Dijiji,
squatting in the circle, watched the girl’s nimble fingers and beautiful
face. Several children played about, sometimes listening to the talk of
their elders. At a little distance, her back toward them, sat Geronimo’s
mother-in-law. She took no part in the conversation, never addressed any
of them and was never addressed by them, and when necessary to refer to
her signs were invariably employed. Notwithstanding the fact that
Geronimo was very fond of her he might never speak to her—thus are
primitive peoples slaves to custom, even as we.
Shoz-Dijiji was narrating again his encounter with the three white men
and the white girl near Billings’ ranch.
“Why,” asked Geronimo, “did you not kill the white-eyed girl? It was not
wise to let her go back to her people and say that she had seen an
Apache in war paint.”
“Was she very pretty?” demanded Ish-kay-nay.
“Yes,” replied Shoz-Dijiji.
“Is that why you did not kill her?” There was a note of jealousy in the
girl’s voice. She could be jealous of a white woman.
“I did not kill her because I do not make war on women,” said
Shoz-Dijiji.
“Then you cannot successfully fight the white-eyes,” growled old
Geronimo, “for they make war on women and children. If you let their
women live they will breed more white warriors to fight against your
people. They know—that is the reason they kill our women and our
children.
“Listen! The soldiers attack our camps, killing our women and our
children. They do this today. They have done it always. Listen to the
words of Geronimo of the story of Santa Rita, that his father’s father
had from _his_ father’s father. A hundred rains have come and gone and
yet the blood is not washed away from the memory of the Shis-Inday or
from the hands of the pindah lickoyee.
“A hundred times have the deer mated; a hundred harvests have been
gathered since that day. The Mexicans worked the mines of Santa Rita
near the headwaters of the Rio Mimbres in those days, and their chief
was a pindah lickoyee named Johnson. His heart was bad, but he hid it
beneath soft words. He called our chiefs and told them that he was going
to give a great feast, asking them to send word to their people.
“Happy, the chiefs dispatched their runners to the scattered camps and
villages of the Shis-Inday summoning the people to assemble at the mines
on the appointed day. From all directions they came, bringing their
women and their children until a thousand Apaches gathered about the
barbecue pits of the pindah lickoyee.
“Less than a hundred yards away lay a pile of pack saddles. They looked
quite harmless. How were our chiefs to know that hidden beneath them was
a cannon, loaded to the muzzle with slugs, musket balls, with nails and
pieces of glass? They did not know. The pindah lickoyee lighted the fuse
himself. There was a loud noise and several hundred Apache men, women
and children lay dead, or maimed and wounded. Then the Mexicans charged
us.
“Four hundred were killed. What could our people do? They had come in
friendship and peace, leaving their weapons behind. Those who could
scattered and escaped.
“Now the pindah lickoyee tell us that it is wicked to kill women and
children. They mean that it is wicked to kill the women and children of
the lickoyee. It is all right to kill the women and children of the
Shis-Inday. But we do not forget. You must not forget. Kill them, that
they may not breed warriors to kill your women and children.”
“Yes,” cried Ish-kay-nay, “kill them!”
“I will kill their warriors,” replied Shoz-Dijiji, quietly. “Let the
women and the old men kill their women.”
Geronimo shook his head. “Wait,” he said, “until they have killed your
women; then you will have the right to speak.”
A volley of rifle fire brought a sudden end to the conversation. Bullets
pinged and whistled among the trees. War whoops reverberated among the
lofty peaks. The Be-don-ko-he, taken entirely by surprise, scattered
like rabbits, the warriors seizing their weapons as they fled. Two fell
before they could gain cover.
Geronimo rallied his force and led it forward. Taking advantage of trees
and rocks the Apaches advanced against the enemy’s line. Shoz-Dijiji
fought beside his fierce sire. The war chief led his warriors to within
ten yards of the Mexicans and their allies and then, at his command,
they stepped into the open from behind rocks and trees and fired
point-blank at the foe. At places the lines touched and men fought hand
to hand. Geronimo struck down a Mexican with his clubbed rifle, but
another sprang upon him with upraised knife before he could recover
himself after delivering the blow. An Indian raised his rifle to the
level of Shoz-Dijiji’s breast, the muzzle but a few inches away.
It was the proximity of the weapon that saved the son of the war chief
from death. With his left forearm he struck up the rifle, grasped it,
wrenched it from the grasp of his adversary, and, swinging it behind
him, brought it down upon the other’s skull; then he wheeled and leaped
upon the back of the Mexican who was lunging at Geronimo’s breast with
his long hunting knife.
A sinewy arm encircled the fellow’s neck and he was torn from his prey,
whirled about and thrown to the ground. Before he could recover himself
a hundred and seventy pounds of steel and iron fell savagely upon him,
his knife was wrested from his grasp and he shrieked once as his own
blade was buried deep in his heart.
Shoz-Dijiji sprang to his feet, saw the opening that had been made in
the enemy’s line, saw Gian-nah-tah and another fighting near him, called
them and broke through to the rear of the foe. Like a red demon he fell
upon the Mexicans and their henchmen; his savage war whoops rose above
the din of battle as with the clubbed rifle of an enemy he mowed them
down, while the very ferocity of his expression appeared to hold them in
a spell of awful fascination.
At last, splattered with the blood and brains of his adversaries, the
Black Bear paused. Erect in the midst of the carnage he had wrought he
stood like some avenging angel, his fierce eyes casting about for more
to slay. There were no more. To the last man the enemy lay dead upon the
field, dead or mortally wounded. Already the squaws were moving among
them. Shoz-Dijiji thought of the dying women, the mangled children at
the copper mines of Santa Rita, and the screams of the tortured brought
no answering pity to his heart.
Some warriors gathered about him. He suddenly became aware that they
were calling his name aloud; they were acclaiming him. It was unusual,
for more often does the Apache boast of his own exploits than those of
another; but there could be no mistaking. Geronimo came and laid a hand
upon his shoulder. “The warriors of the Be-don-ko-he have chosen
Shoz-Dijiji as a war chief,” he said, “and they have chosen well.”
Then the Black Bear understood. It had come! He thrilled, as what
red-blooded man would not thrill to be chosen a war chief by such
warriors as these! He had known that it would come—he had dreamed that
it was his destiny. This was the first step and it had come years before
he had hoped to achieve it. Shoz-Dijiji was very proud, but he was not
half as proud as terrible old Geronimo, or as little Ish-kay-nay.
That night moans and wails mingled with the exultations of the
victorious tribe, for twelve warriors had fallen in the battle. At the
council Shoz-Dijiji’s elevation to the rank of war chief was confirmed
amidst flights of oratory, and Gian-nah-tah was admitted to the warrior
class in recognition of his bravery upon the field of battle.
Their dead buried, the loot gathered from the bodies of the slain
foemen, the tribe packed its belongings and set out from this camp,
which they called Sko-la-ta, toward the northeast. Through the lofty
mountains they made their way, and when they came out down into Sonora
they were joined by Juh and a band of Ned-ni. The two tribes decided to
go to the town of Nacosari and trade with the Mexicans.
On an open plain near Nacosari the Apaches were surprised by three
companies of Mexican troops, but, after the manner of Apaches when they
do not wish to give battle, they scattered in all directions and, firing
as they rode away, eluded concerted pursuit. When they had out-distanced
the troops they reassembled in the Sierra Madre and held a council. Juh
reported having seen Mexican troops at several points and Geronimo well
knew that they had been dispatched against him in Chihuahua. It was
therefore decided to disband as it would be impossible to maintain a
large camp secure from detection while an active campaign was in force
against them.
Scattering into single families or small groups of unmarried warriors,
they spread out through the mountains of Chihuahua, Sonora, New Mexico
and Arizona to await the withdrawal of the troops. For four months they
lived by hunting and trading, entering villages as friendly Indians,
always careful to commit no depredations, that the fears of the enemy
might be lulled into fancied security.
Shoz-Dijiji, happiest when farthest from the haunts of whites, spent all
his time hunting in the depth of the mountains. He was much alone, and
many were the long nights he spent in some rugged, granite aerie praying
to Usen and making strong medicine against future days of war. He
dreamed always of war or of Ish-kay-nay or of the goal of his
ambition—to be war chief of all the Apaches. The next step, as he
planned it, was to become head war chief of the Be-don-ko-he, after
Geronimo became too old to lead the tribe in battle, and after that he
would win to the final goal.
Occasionally he saw Mexicans in the mountains, and it amused him to
wonder what their reaction would be could they guess that a war chief of
the Apaches was lying behind a rock or bush above them looking down upon
them; but not one of them ever guessed that such potential death lurked
thus close.
On several occasions he ventured down upon the plains after antelope. On
one of these excursions he had approached a hacienda belonging to a very
rich Mexican who owned a herd of horses that was famed throughout all of
Mexico, and of which the owner was justly proud. Shoz-Dijiji often
watched this herd from a distance as it grazed under the watchful eyes
of numerous well-armed vaqueros. It interested him to note the care that
was exercised by day and by night to protect the herd against theft; it
pleased his vanity to guess that these precautions were directed by fear
of his people.
He saw the herd rounded up each afternoon and driven within a walled
enclosure, protected by heavy gates; and after dark he came down and
prowled about until he was familiar with the surroundings of the
hacienda and the habits of its dwellers. He knew when and where they ate
and slept, and the hour that the horses were turned out each morning.
These things he did not learn in a single visit, but after many visits.
He did not know that he might ever put this knowledge to use, but,
Apachelike, it suited him to know more of the enemy than the enemy
guessed.
In the mountains he had occasionally come upon woodchoppers at work, and
when he heard the sounds of their axes he came and watched them, though
they never knew that they were watched. He knew where they came to cut
wood; he knew the habits of every one of them; he could recognize their
faces; he knew how many burros each owned. He knew where they lived and
where they took their wood. Whenever it suited him he could kill
them—that thought gave him pleasure—but Geronimo had warned them all
against depredations of all kinds until the enemy had recovered from the
effects of the last raid.
There was one woodchopper who always came alone. He had five burros. All
day long he would chop, chop, chop. In the evening he would cook a few
beans, smoke a cigarette, roll up in his blanket and sleep until
morning. In the morning he would roll a cigarette, cook a few beans,
roll another cigarette, load his five burros and start down the trail
toward Casas Grandes. Every tenth day Shoz-Dijiji could expect to hear
his axe ringing in the forest.
He knew him and his habits so well that he no longer took the trouble to
spy upon him. But one day the chopping ceased shortly after it had
commenced and there followed a long silence. Shoz-Dijiji was several
miles away hunting with bow and arrows. Had the chopping continued all
day Shoz-Dijiji would not have given the woodchopper a second thought;
but to the suspicious mind of the Apache the silence was ominous. It
spoke of a change in the habits of the woodchopper—it augured something
new, an altered condition that must be investigated.
Shoz-Dijiji moved quickly but warily among the trees and rocks along the
shoulder of a mountain to the point from which he had often watched the
woodman in his camp. Looking down he saw the five burros, but at first
he saw no woodchopper.
What was that? The Apache cocked an attentive ear. The sound was
repeated—a low moan coming up out of the canyon. It was then that
Shoz-Dijiji saw a human foot protruding from beneath a felled tree,
revealing the lonely tragedy below. He listened intently for several
minutes until every sense assured him that there were no other men
about, then he descended to the camp, walked around the tree and looked
down at the woodchopper.
The Mexican, lying upon his belly, saw the moccasined feet first and
guessed the worst, for the moccasins of no two tribes are identical.
Turning his head painfully his eyes moved slowly upward to the savage
face. With a moan of hopelessness he dropped his head to the ground and
commenced to pray. Realizing that not even God could save him from death
at the hands of this Apache, he concerned himself only with matters
pertaining to the salvation of his immortal soul and to be on the safe
side he prayed not only to the gods of his conquerors, but to strange,
heathen gods as well—gods whose names were old before Nazareth.
Shoz-Dijiji saw that a not overlarge tree had fallen upon the
woodchopper, pinioning him in such a way that he could not release
himself. He also guessed that the man was injured. Laying hold of the
tree the Apache, already a giant in strength, raised it easily from the
prostrate form and dragged it to one side. Then he approached the
Mexican and with quick, sensitive fingers examined his body and limbs.
One leg was broken. Otherwise the man was not seriously hurt. However
the broken leg would have proved fatal were help not forthcoming.
The Apache cut away the trouser leg from the injured member, and tore
the cloth into strips. He fashioned splints from twigs and small
branches, and while his victim screamed he set the broken bones,
adjusted the splints, bound them in place with the strips he had torn
from the man’s trousers.
By this time the Mexican was almost convinced against his better
judgment that the Apache did not intend killing him. It was quite
inexplicable, but it seemed a fact, and he waxed eloquent in his
gratitude; but to all that he said Shoz-Dijiji returned but one reply:
“No savvy,” albeit he perfectly understood.
He built a soft bed of pine branches and threw up a rude shelter of
boughs above the injured man. After that he filled the Mexican’s water
bottle, placed it beside him and went away as silently as he had come,
leaving his hereditary enemy still only half convinced that it was not
all part of a diabolical plot to save him for future torture.
Why was it that the Apache did not kill this helpless Mexican? Perhaps
he was moved by sentiments of compassion and brotherly love. Far from
it. The war chief of all the Apaches had warned them not to kill, that
the fears and anger of the foe might be allayed, and that, thus lulled
into the lethargy of false peace, they might become easier prey upon the
occasion of some future raid.
Shoz-Dijiji hated the Mexican with all the bitterness of his savage
nature, but he saw here an opportunity to carry Geronimo’s strategy a
step further than the wily old chieftain had instructed, and by playing
the good Samaritan to impress upon this Mexican and all to whom he
should have an opportunity to narrate his adventure that the Apaches not
only were not upon the warpath, but were thoroughly friendly.
Just before dark Shoz-Dijiji returned with fresh venison which he cooked
and fed to the woodchopper; then he lifted him to the back of one of the
burros, unmoved by the screams of agony this necessary handling
produced, and, followed by the remaining animals, started down the trail
toward the valley, leading the beast upon which the moaning man rode. At
times Shoz-Dijiji had to support the Mexican to keep him from falling
from his mount, but with infinite patience he pursued the course that he
had laid out.
It was dawn when they came to the edge of the village of Casas Grandes.
Without a word Shoz-Dijiji dropped the lead rope, turned, and trotted
back toward the mountains. When the woodchopper reached his own home and
told the story his wife would scarce believe him. Later when the news
spread even the chiefs of the village came and questioned him, and a few
days later when there were some friendly Indians trading in the town the
chiefs spoke to them about this thing and told them that the people of
Casas Grandes would like to be friends with the Apaches, but they did
not know how to get word to Geronimo.
As it happened these “friendly” Indians were Be-don-ko-he, so the word
came promptly to the old chief with the result that a message reached
the chiefs of the village of Casas Grandes stating that the Apaches
would like to make a treaty of peace with the Mexicans, and runners went
out from the camp of Geronimo and the word was carried among the
scattered bands. By ones and twos and threes they came from all
directions to the appointed place in the mountains above Casas Grandes,
and when the day of the treaty making arrived they moved down to the
village. Nervous, the chief men met them; nervous, the villagers looked
on askance, for the fear of the Apache was as inherent in them as their
fear of the devil.
They sat in solemn council, the Mexicans and the Apaches, and there was
much talk and hand shaking, during which they all promised to be
brothers and fight no more. Afterward they commenced to trade and the
Mexicans offered mescal to their guests with a free and generous hand.
This innocent-looking, but iniquitous beverage is more potent than
bullets and it was not long before nearly all the warriors of the
Apaches were helpless. It was then that two companies of Mexican troops
entered the town and attacked them.
Shoz-Dijiji, asleep behind a corner of an adobe wall, knew nothing of
all this until he recovered consciousness the following morning and
discovered that he was a prisoner and that twenty of his fellow warriors
had been killed in the slaughter of the previous day. He also learned
that the women and children of the Be-don-ko-he, who had been taken
prisoner, were to be kept as slaves, while he and the other braves were
to be shot.
The prisoners were herded together in a corral, surrounded by guards,
and the townspeople came and stared at them, or spit upon them, or threw
stones at them; the same people with whom they had shaken hands the
preceding day. Silent, stoical the Apaches took taunts, insults and
hurts without a change of countenance.
Among the other townspeople was a man on crutches, who was accompanied
by his wife and several small children. Shoz-Dijiji recognized him
immediately as the woodchopper whose life he had saved, but he made no
effort to attract the man’s attention. What good would it do?
Shoz-Dijiji neither sought nor expected favors from the enemy. Gratitude
was a quality which he sensed but vaguely, and in his mind it always was
confused with self-interest. He could not see how the Mexican might
profit by befriending him—therefore there was little likelihood of his
doing so.
The woodchopper surveyed the Indians casually. There was nothing
remarkable about them except that they were prisoners. It was not often
that the Mexicans had Apache prisoners. Presently his eyes alighted upon
Shoz-Dijiji. Instant recognition was apparent in them. He nudged his
wife and pointed, speaking excitedly.
“There is the Indian who saved my life,” he exclaimed, and pressing
close to the bars of the corral he sought to attract the attention of
the tall brave, standing with folded arms, looking contemptuously at the
crowd without.
“Good day, my friend!” called the woodchopper.
Shoz-Dijiji nodded and one of his rare smiles answered the smiling
greeting of the Mexican.
“What you doing here?” demanded the latter. “You are a friendly Indian.
They have made a mistake. You should tell them. I will tell them.”
“No savvy,” said Shoz-Dijiji.
An officer, who had heard the statements of the woodchopper, approached
him.
“You know this man?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the woodchopper, and then he told the officer his story.
“Let him go, captain,” he begged, “for he is a very good Indian. He
could have killed and robbed me and no one would have known; but instead
he fed and brought me home. I do not believe that he is an Apache.”
The officer turned to Shoz-Dijiji. “Are you an Apache?” he demanded.
“No savvy,” replied the Black Bear.
“You are sure he is the man who saved your life?” demanded the officer.
“I could not know my own mother’s face better,” the woodchopper assured
him.
For several minutes the officer stood in thought before he spoke again.
“I cannot release him,” he said, then. “He is to be shot in the morning
when the general comes, he and all the other grown men; but it is
crowded in this corral and I am afraid with so many prisoners and so few
men to guard them that many will escape. Therefore you may take this one
and guard him in your own house until morning. If he escapes it will not
be my fault.”
“Thank you! Thank you!” exclaimed the woodchopper; “and may the Mother
of God bless you.”
Shoz-Dijiji heard and understood. He was to live! But not by so much as
the quiver of an eyelid did he reveal his understanding. He stood
impassive while they bound his hands behind him and placed a rope about
his neck, and he followed, though not meekly, but with haughty mien, as
the woodchopper led him away, the wife and the several small children
following proudly behind.