"Cairness!" called Crook, and Cairness, turning aside, came over to
where the general sat upon a big stone eating a sandwich two inches
thick.
"Well?" said the officer.
"Well," answered Cairness, "I have been talking to them, chiefly to
Geronimo. They have a good place for their rancheria on that hilltop. It
is an old lava bed, an extinct crater, and it is a perfect fortress.
There are three gulches between us and them, and a thousand men couldn't
take the place."
"I came here to parley, not to fight," said the general, rather sharply.
"What is their disposition?"
"I dare say they are willing to surrender, upon terms to suit them. But
they are very much afraid of treachery. They are on the lookout for
deception at every turn. In fact, they are not in altogether the most
amiable frame of mind, for the greater part. However, you can decide
that for yourself when they come over, which will be directly."
He seated himself upon a low branch of sycamore, which grew parallel to
the ground, and went on to tell what he had seen on the hilltop in the
hostile camp. "They are in capital condition. A lot of them are playing
koon-kan. There were some children and one little red-headed Irishman
about ten years old with them. He was captured in New Mexico, and seems
quite happy. He enjoys the name of Santiago Mackin--plain James,
originally, I suppose."
The general smiled. He treated Cairness as nearly like an equal as
possible always, and got his advice and comment whenever he could.
"Then they all have 'medicine' on," Cairness continued, "redbird and
woodpecker feathers, in buckskin bags, or quail heads, or prairie-dog
claws. One fellow was making an ornament out of an adobe dollar. Every
buck and boy in the band has a couple of cartridge belts and any
quantity of ammunition, likewise new shirts and _zarapes_. They have
fitted themselves out one way or another since Crawford got at them in
January. I don't think there are any of them particularly anxious to
come in."
Another officer came up, and Cairness dropped from the twisted bow and
walked away.
"That fellow Cairness may be a good scout and all that, but he must be
an unmitigated blackguard too," said the officer, stretching himself on
the ground beside Crook.
The general turned his head sharply, and his eyes flashed, but he only
asked dryly, "Why?"
"You know he's the man Landor lost his life saving upon the malpais in
New Mexico?"
"Yes," said Crook.
"And inside of a fortnight he and Mrs. Landor went to some Roman
Catholic priest in Tombstone and were married. I call that indecent
haste."
"What!" ejaculated the general. He was moved altogether from his
imperturbable calm.
"That's the straight bill. Ask him. He isn't fit to be spoken to."
"Is that the very handsome Mrs. Landor who was at Grant a year or so
ago?" The general seemed to have difficulty in grasping and believing
it.
"That same. She was part Mescalero, anyway."
"Where is she now?"
"On his ranch, living on the fat of a lean land, I believe. He's rich,
you know. I don't know much about them. I've small use for them. And I
used to like Cairness, too. Thought he was way above his job. Those
squaw-men lose all sense of honor."
"Cairness never was a squaw-man," corrected Crook.
"Well, he is now, then," insisted the officer; "Mrs. Landor is a squaw
at bottom. Poor old Jack!" he sat up and fired a stone at the stalk of a
Spanish bayonet, "I guess he's better off in the Happy Hunting Grounds.
His wasn't a bed of roses."
The general sat silent for a while. "I didn't know that when I sent for
him this time," he said at length, in partial explanation. Then he
turned his head and looked up over his shoulders at the hostiles'
conical hill. A band of Chiricahuas was coming down the side toward the
soldiers' camp.
It was the first scene of the closing act of the tragic comedy of the
Geronimo campaign. That wily old devil, weary temporarily of the
bloodshed he had continued with more or less regularity for many years,
had sent word to the officers that he would meet them without their
commands, in the Cañon de los Embudos, across the border line, to
discuss the terms of surrender. The officers had forthwith come, Crook
yet hopeful that something might be accomplished by honesty and plain
dealing; the others, for the most part, doubting.
The character of Geronimo, as already manifested, was not one to inspire
much confidence, nor was his appearance one to command respect. The
supposititious dignity of the savage was lacking entirely. The great
chief wore a filthy shirt and a disreputable coat, a loin-cloth, and a
dirty kerchief wound around his head. His legs were bare from the hips,
save for a pair of low moccasins. His whole appearance was grotesque and
evil.
The general refused the withered hand he put out, and looked at him
unsmilingly. The feelings of the old chief were hurt. He sat down upon
the ground, under the shadows of the cottonwoods and sycamores, and
explained his conduct with tears in his bleary eyes. The officers and
packers, citizens and interpreters, sat round upon the ground also, with
the few Indians who had ventured into the White-man's camp in the
background, on the rise of the slope. There was a photographer too, who
had followed the command from Tombstone, and who stationed himself afar
off and took snap-shots during the conference, which, like most
conferences of its sort, was vague enough.
It was the usual tale of woe that Geronimo had to tell, much the same
that the old buck had recited to Cairness in the spring of the last
year. His particular grievance was the request for his hanging, which he
had been told had been put in the papers, and his fear of three
White-men who he believed were to arrest him. "I don't want that any
more. When a man tries to do right, such stories ought not to be put in
the newspapers. What is the matter with you that you do not speak to me?
It would be better if you would look with a pleasant face. I should be
more satisfied if you would talk to me once in a while." The interpreter
translated stolidly. "Why don't you look at me and smile at me? I am the
same man. I have the same feet, legs, and hands, and the Sun looks down
on me a complete man." There was no doubt about that, at any rate, and
perhaps it was not an unmixed good fortune.
The general's long silence was making the complete man nervous. Beads of
sweat stood out on his forehead, and he twisted his hands together. "The
Sun, the Darkness, and the Winds are all listening to what we now say.
To prove to you that I am telling the truth, remember that I sent you
word that I would come from a place far away to speak to you here, and
you see me now. If I were thinking bad, I would never have come here. If
it had been my fault, would I have come so far to talk with you?" he
whined.
The general was neither convinced nor won over. He had Geronimo told
that it was a very pretty story, but that there was no reason why forty
men should have left the reservation for fear of three. "And if you were
afraid of three, what had that to do with the way you sneaked all over
the country, killing innocent people? You promised me in the Sierra
Madre that that peace should last. But you lied. When a man has lied to
me once, I want better proof than his word to believe him again."
The tears trickled down the withered cheeks, and Crook gave a shrug of
exasperation and disgust. "Your story of being afraid of arrest is all
bosh. There were no orders to arrest you. You began the trouble by
trying to kill Chato." Geronimo shook his head, as one much wronged and
misunderstood. "Yes you did, too. Everything that you did on the
reservation is known. There is no use your lying."
Then he delivered his ultimatum, slowly, watching the unhappy savage
narrowly from under the visor of his pith helmet. "You must make up your
mind whether you will stay out on the war-path or surrender--without
conditions. If you stay out, I'll keep after you and kill the last one,
if it takes fifty years. I have never lied to you," he stood up and
waved his hand; "I have said all I have to say. You had better think it
over to-night and let me know in the morning."
He walked away, and Geronimo went back to his rancheria on the hilltop,
crestfallen. He had failed of his effect, and had not by any means made
his own terms.
The troops settled down to wait, and Cairness, having further sounded
some of the Chiricahua squaws, went again in search of Crook. He was
seated under an ash tree with his back against the trunk and a
portfolio upon his knee, writing. When Cairness stopped in front of
him, he glanced up.
There was an expression in his eyes Cairness did not understand. It was
not like their usual twinkle of welcome. "Wait a moment," he said, and
went on with his writing. Cairness dropped down on the ground, and, for
want of anything else to do, began to whittle a whistle out of a willow
branch.
Crook closed up the portfolio and turned to him. "I didn't know you were
married, Mr. Cairness, when I sent for you."
Cairness reddened to the roots of his hair, and the scar on his forehead
grew purple. He understood that look now. And it hurt him more than any
of the slights and rebuffs he had received since he had married Felipa.
He had, like most of those who served under the general, a sort of
hero-worship for him, and set great store by his opinion. It was only
because of that that he had left Felipa alone upon the ranch. It had
been their first separation and almost absurdly hard for two who had
lived their roving lives.
It was more for her than for himself that the rebuke hurt him. For it
was a rebuke, though as yet it was unsaid. And he thought for a moment
that he would defend her to the general. He had never done so yet, not
even to the little parson in Tombstone whose obvious disapproval he had
never tried to combat, though it had ended the friendship of years.
But Crook did not look like a man who wished to receive confidences. He
was asking for facts, and seeking them out with a cold, sharp eye. "I
have been married nearly a year," said Cairness, shortly.
"To Captain Landor's widow, I am told."
"To Captain Landor's widow, yes;" he met the unsympathetic eyes
squarely. "I came to tell you, general, what I have gathered from the
squaws. It may serve you."
Crook looked away, straight in front of him. "Go on," he said. It was
not the conversation of equals now. It was the report of an inferior to
a superior. However familiar the general might wish to be upon
occasions, he held always in reserve the right to deference and
obedience when he should desire them.
It was short and to the point upon Cairness's part, and having finished
he stood up.
"Is that all?" asked the general.
"That is all."
"Thank you," he said; and Cairness walked away.
The next two days he kept to himself and talked only to his Apache
scouts, in a defiant return to his admiration for the savage character.
A Chiricahua asked no questions and made no conventional reproaches at
any rate. He was not penitent, he was not even ashamed, and he would not
play at being either. But he was hurt, this last time most of all, and
it made him ugly. He had always felt as if he were of the army, although
not in it, not by reason of his one enlistment, but by reason of the
footing upon which the officers had always received him up to the
present time. But now he was an outcast. He faced the fact, and it was
a very unpleasant one. It was almost as though he had been
court-martialled and cashiered. He had thoughts of throwing up the whole
thing and going back to Felipa, but he hated to seem to run away. It
would be better to stop there and face it out, and accept the position
that was allowed him, the same, after all, as that of the majority of
chiefs of scouts.
And things were coming to an end, anyway. He could see it in the looks
of the Apaches, and hear it in their whispers. They consented to come
in, and even to put themselves at the discretion of the government, but
there was a lack of the true ring in their promises. So when, on the
third morning, before it was yet daylight, two chiefs came hurrying into
camp and awoke the general with bad news, he was not greatly surprised.
He had warned Crook of the possibility, for that matter.
It was the eternal old story of the White-man's whiskey. A rancher
living some four hundred yards from the boundary line upon the Mexican
side had sold it to the Indians. Many of them were dead or fighting
drunk. The two sober Indians asked for a squad of soldiers to help them
guard the ranchman, and stop him from selling any more mescal. They were
right-minded themselves and really desired peace, and their despair was
very great.
Geronimo and four other warriors were riding aimlessly about on two
mules, drunk as they well could be, too drunk to do much that day. But
when night came, and with it a drizzling rain, the fears the ranchman
and his mescal had put in their brains assumed real shapes, and they
betook themselves to the mountains again, and to the war-path.
It was failure, flat failure. The officers knew it, and the general knew
it. It was the indefinite prolongation of the troubles. It was the
ignominious refutation of all his boasts--boasts based not so much upon
trust in himself, as on belief in the nature of the Apache, whose stanch
champion he had always been.
The fault of this last, crowning breach of faith was not all with the
Red-men by any means. But the difficulty would be to have that believed.
The world at large,--or such part of it as was deigning to take heed of
this struggle against heavy odds, this contest between the prehistoric
and the makers of history,--the world at large would not go into the
details, if indeed it were ever to hear them. It would know just this,
that a band of Indians, terrible in the very smallness of their numbers,
were meeting the oncoming line of civilization from the East with that
of the savagery of the West, as a prairie fire is met and checked in its
advance by another fire kindled and set on to stop it. It would know
that the blood of the masters of the land was being spilled upon the
thirsty, unreclaimed ground by those who were, in right and justice, for
the welfare of humanity, masters no more. It would know that the voice
which should have been that of authority and command was often turned to
helpless complaint or shrieks for mercy. And it would not stop for the
causes of these things; it could not be expected to. It would know that
a man had come who had promised peace, confidently promised it in the
event of certain other promises being fulfilled, and that he had failed
of his purpose. The world would say that Crook had held in his grasp the
Apaches and the future peace of an empire as large as that of Great
Britain and Ireland, France and Germany in one, and that he had let it
slip through nerveless fingers. It was signal failure.
Such Apaches as had not gone back on the war-path returned to the States
with the troops; but there were five months more of the outrages of
Geronimo and his kind. Then in the summer of the year another man, more
fortunate and better fitted to deal with it all, perhaps,--with the
tangle of lies and deceptions, cross purposes and trickery,--succeeded
where Crook had failed and had been relieved of a task that was beyond
him. Geronimo was captured, and was hurried off to a Florida prison with
his band, as far as they well could be from the reservation they had
refused to accept. And with them were sent other Indians, who had been
the friends and helpers of the government for years, and who had run
great risks to help or to obtain peace. But the memory and gratitude of
governments is become a proverb. The southwest settled down to enjoy its
safety. The troops rested upon the laurels they had won, the superseded
general went on with his work in another field far away to the north.
The new general, the saviour of the land, was heaped with honor and
praise, and the path of civilization was laid clear.
But before then Cairness returned to his ranch and set his back upon
adventure for good and all. "Crook will be gone soon," he said to
Felipa; "it is the beginning of his end. And even if he were to keep on,
he might not need me any more."
"Why?" she asked, with a quick suspicion of the dreariness she caught in
his tone.
He changed it to a laugh. "A scout married is a scout marred. I am a
rancher now. It behooves me to accept myself as such. I have outlived my
usefulness in the other field."