THE RANCHMAN’S HOME.
The days became weeks, the weeks grew into months and peace reigned
in Southern Arizona, that section which time and again was harried by
the fierce raids of the terrible Apaches, until many of the ranchmen
abandoned their homes and sought safety at the posts and settlements.
The history of those outrages proves the fact which has already been
hinted: had the management of the tribes been left to the army, the
reign of terror would have ended years before it became necessary to
run down Geronimo and the other disaffected leaders and transport them
to the east, there to spend the remainder of their lives.
I have no intention of giving anything in the nature of a history of
the Indian troubles in the Southwest, but a single episode will enforce
what has been said.
In April, 1873, Buckskin Hat, head chief of all the Indians in the
Tonto Basin, went to General Crook and said he wished to surrender.
Crook took his hand and told him that if he and his people would stop
their outrages and become orderly citizens, he would be the best friend
they ever had. He promised to teach them to work and agreed to find a
good market for everything they could produce.
Within a month General Crook had all the Apaches in Arizona, excepting
the Chiricahuas, who were not within his jurisdiction, at work at Camp
Apache and Camp Verde, digging irrigating ditches, planting vegetables,
cutting hay and wood and with everything on the highway to prosperity.
Then a gang of politicians and contractors, remembered as the “Tucson
Ring,” persuaded the authorities in Washington to order the Apaches
down to the dismal sand waste of the San Carlos, where the water is
brackish, the soil worthless, and the flies intolerable. Roused to fury
by the injustice, the Apaches took the warpath, and then followed those
terrible scenes which are matters of public record.
For a long time, Maurice Freeman was so doubtful of the continuance of
peace, that he was on the point of removing from the territory. Indeed
he would have done so but for the persuasions of his nearest neighbor
and close friend, Captain Murray, who insisted that no serious danger
would come again.
“You have established a pleasant home here,” said the Union veteran;
“the soil is fertile; the country is rapidly settling; we shall soon
have schools, churches and all the advantages of civilization; to
abandon these now will be to throw away that golden opportunity which
does not come twice to a man in this life. I intend to stick and you
will regret it if you do not.”
And so Maurice Freeman allowed himself to be persuaded and stayed.
By the time the frightfully hot summer was drawing to close, Freeman
was so convinced of the wisdom of the advice given by his friend that
he thanked him for it.
“There hasn’t been a ripple since that flareup last winter,” remarked
Freeman, as he sat in a chair at the front of his neighbor’s house and
smoked a pipe with him; “it looks as if Geronimo, Natchez and the rest
have made up their minds to do like their race further east—accept the
inevitable.”
“Of course,” replied Murray; “an Indian isn’t a fool and when he
sees it’s no use of fighting longer he stops—that is, he generally
does,” added the speaker, conscious that his assertion needed a slight
qualification. “There will be occasional disturbances now and then, but
they will never amount to anything.”
“Do you think we shall ever have a raid through this section?”
“Never,” was the emphatic response; “it’s too risky for those that
attempt it; they haven’t the chance of success that they had a year or
even six months ago. The soldiers at Camp Reno and the other posts are
on the alert and would detect anything of the kind before it could come
to a head.”
“I can’t feel quite so sure on that score as you,” observed Freeman,
with a vivid recollection of the incidents of the previous winter; “it
was only by the merest accident that we learned of Geronimo’s coming in
time to head him off.”
“You must remember that that was more than six months ago and great
changes have taken place since then.”
“I don’t question that fact, but the Apaches are the worst desperadoes
when roused that ever cursed this continent.”
“By the way, captain, how was it you learned of that intended raid?
I was here at home and never knew of it until you came back with the
news.”
“I have never been able to find out the exact means by which the news
reached the ears of Lieutenant Decker and his troopers. I was coming
from Fort Reno, when I met him and two of his scouts, Mendez and
Cemuri, who were hunting for the hostiles. I presume that he got it
from those two White Mountain Apaches, who are the shrewdest fellows at
that business I ever knew. The lieutenant virtually admitted as much to
me, though he never gave the particulars.”
“What has become of Mendez and Cemuri?”
“They have remained on the reservation, like the loyal fellows
they are, but they are so useful to the colonel that he keeps them
continually within call. There are several peculiarities about those
scouts.”
“What are they?”
“Both are so addicted to that infernal tiswin, that there’s no saying
when they will not make themselves helpless from drinking it, and the
next is that they seem to have become fond of Maroz and Ceballos, two
other Apaches.”
Captain Murray smiled.
“I see nothing peculiar in an Apache Indian being fond of tiswin;
indeed he would be eccentric if he was not, and what is remarkable in
their association with two others of their race?”
“During that flurry last winter, Maroz and Ceballos were among the
fiercest allies that Geronimo had. Mendez overheard a conversation
between the two and Geronimo which proved their treachery. At that
time, Mendez would have shot both could he have gained the chance. He
and Cemuri know they cannot be trusted and yet they seem to be bosom
friends.”
Captain Murray could not restrain the remark:
“You wore the gray and I the blue; it is not so many years ago that
we were striving to kill each other; I don’t think there’s much of
the desire left. You must bear in mind that this is the era of good
feeling.”
“Ah, my dear fellow, your examples are not parallel. You and I, like
tens of thousands similarly placed, will be the best of friends to the
end, but an Indian’s nature is different. He will nurse his wrongs
for ten or twenty years, to break out in a fury when least expected.
But,” added Freeman, “you will begin to suspect from my words that I am
giving away to idle fears, which is not the case. I believe with you
that there’s not one chance in—say a score—of this part of the country
being raided by hostile Indians.”
“Say not one chance in a thousand and you will be in accord with my
views.”
“I can hardly put it as strong as that; but I’m going to ride over to
the fort to-morrow, and as the day is sure to be like tophet, I will
leave my Winchester at home.”
“You would be foolish to do otherwise. I haven’t carried mine for two
months past. The iron gets so hot that if you don’t look out it will
blister your hands, and the burden is an unnecessary one.”
“Then,” added Freeman slyly, “if the Apaches should happen to make one
of their raids while I am away, it will be a handy thing for Molly, for
she knows how to use it.”
“Have an end with such jests,” said his friend impatiently, “or I
will begin to suspect that you do not believe what you have just been
telling me.”
“Well, we will drop it,” said Freeman, shaking out the ashes of his
pipe and refilling it; “I can only repeat my thanks for your arguments
which prevented me from pulling up stakes last spring and leaving the
country for good.”
“I may have been a trifle selfish about it, for I didn’t wish to lose
a good neighbor, with whom I could sit down and fight over our old
battles with out either of us losing our temper. Since I admit that all
the bravery during the war was on your side and you have graciously
conceded that there wasn’t a bit except on mine, why the dispute has
never become serious.”
“Well,” remarked the visitor some time later, “the night is wearing on
and I will go home. Where is Fulton?” he asked, looking around as he
rose to his feet.
“Your little boy ran off half an hour ago. My youngster wanted him to
stay all night, but Fulton said it was Jack’s turn to stay with him and
he wouldn’t.”
“Why didn’t you let Jack do so?”
“His mother thought he had better wait until to-morrow.”
“Good-night,” called Freeman to his neighbor, who responded, and
remained at the front smoking for an hour or more after his departure.
It was not a long walk to the home of Maurice Freeman. When he reached
there, he found it later than he suspected, for his little boy and girl
had been put to bed and were asleep.
The husband announced that he expected to visit the fort next day, and
at his request his wife named a few small articles for him to obtain
for her. The journey to Phœnix or Prescott was so much longer, that
neither Freeman nor Murray went thither except when necessary. The ride
to Fort Reno, ten miles away, could be easily made within the day and
allow a good call at the post.
“I have been talking with Murray,” said the husband, recalling their
conversation; “he insists that we shall never again be in danger from
the Apaches. I am inclined to agree with him, though I can’t feel quite
as positive as he. I told him, however, that I intended to leave my
Winchester at home, when I visit the camp to-morrow. What do you think
of it, Molly?”
Was it that wonderful intuition of her sex which led the wife to
reply without an instant’s hesitation, “Leave the Winchester with me,
Maurice?”