“Hey! Cochise is out again!”
It was a spring day of this next year, 1872, and in the ranch yard on the Joe Felmer place Jimmie and his assistant, little Francisco Vasquez, were practicing pack-train.
Jimmie was the pack-master, little Francisco (a Mexican boy) was arriero or muleteer; the train was composed of Shosh (Bear), a big black shepherd dog, Pete, a yellow hound dog, and Two-bits, just dog.
Shosh already had learned to carry a pack and pack-rigging, dog size. He was a real “bell sharp.” Two-bits was still an unruly “shave tail,” and the yellow Pete was so lazy that he ranked as only a “drag tail.” But they furnished good practice for Jimmie.
Now Joe, returning from a trip down to Tucson, brought startling news. Cochise was “out” again! Even little Francisco looked alarmed.
“Are all the Chiricahua out, Joe?”
“Cochise an’ Geronimo an’ nigh two hundred more of ’em. That pesky Colyer man on his way back to the States got the Government to move all the ’Paches from whar they were comf’table in the Warm Spring country to another part o’ the New Mexico country called the Tularosa; an’, by jinks, Cochise said he wouldn’t go—an’ he didn’t go! He took his Chiricahua an’ lit out for his old stampin’-ground in Arizony. So the word’s been passed to watch for trouble.”
Joe stalked on, muttering, to carry some purchases into the house. Jimmie the pack-master and little Francisco the arriero dismissed their pack-train and quit for the day. The knowledge that Cochise and Geronimo and their shifty Chiricahuas had left the Cañada Alamosa reservation, where they had been staying with Chief Victorio’s Warm Spring band, and had joined the fighting Chiricahuas who had stayed “wild,” cast a shadow upon foolery.
“Will the great General Crook march against them now?” asked Francisco, his black eyes round and large.
“Who knows?” responded Jimmie, in Spanish. “There’s a new peace man coming from Washington. Then if the Chiricahua will not listen to peace, they will hear war. Bueno!”
“Bueno (Good)!” piped Francisco. “Will you take me, Jeem?”
“Perhaps, chico mio (my little one),” grandly promised Jimmie.
To Francisco, Jimmie was an important person, who had lived with the Cochise Chiricahuas, and called the chief’s son “chi-kis-n” or brother, and spoke Apache, and soon was going to be a real arriero or else a scout, with the American soldiers.
Aside from a few scouting expeditions, the winter at Camp Grant had been quiet. The agency for the Arivaipas and Pinals was in operation, at the mouth of the Arivaipa Canyon about a mile east; a Mr. Ed Jacobs was the agent.
Nevertheless, Chief Es-kim-en-zin’s people were still afraid; they had not forgotten the attack by the Tucson crowd. They came in around the agency buildings every day, but every evening they went back up into the canyon, where they might defend themselves.
The Peace Policy and the visit by Commissioner Colyer had not proved an entire success. A great many Indians were still out. The Arizona newspapers insisted that as long as General Crook was forbidden to drive the outlaw Indians from their hiding-places, the bad hearts who were simply using the reservations would feel that they might do as they pleased, also.
There had been attacks upon ranches and mines and stage stations in south and north both; the legislature had called upon Congress for better protection to Arizona; and General Crook was all ready. He was only waiting.
“I think that the Apache is painted in darker colors than he deserves, and that his villainies arise more from a misconception of facts than from his being worse than other Indians,” had reported the general, after studying the situation. And he had added: “I am satisfied that a sharp, active campaign against him would not only make him one of the best Indians in the country, but it would also save millions of dollars to the Treasury, and the lives of many innocent whites and Indians.”
The Indians on the reservations were complaining of food and slack treatment; in New Mexico Chief Victorio of the Warm Springs and Chief Cochise of the Chiricahuas had refused to be changed from the Cañada Alamosa; so the Government was sending out another peace commissioner. Brevet Major-General O. O. Howard, to try to satisfy everybody.
He was to make especial effort to talk with Cochise, who so far had declined to talk at all. Cochise and Geronimo had claimed that they were willing to live with Chief Victorio on the Warm Spring reservation, but they had run away from Mr. Colyer, in fear of the soldiers. They rarely went near the army post, there, Fort Craig, and orders had been given that the soldiery should leave them alone, so that they would continue peaceful and contented, among the Warm Springs.
The President had hoped that Cochise would talk with General Howard, who was a great chief like himself. Now Cochise was “out” again!
“As far as I can savvy the trouble, that Colyer man has spilled the soup,” complained Joe, this evening after his return from Tucson. “Some o’ these agencies are located in awful pore places, not fitted for the Injuns at all—like that Date Creek reservation whar the Apache-Mohaves are herded. But that Cañada Alamosa of the Ojo Caliente (Warm Spring) country jest suited old Victorio, an’ Cochise, too, an’ they weren’t doin’ any harm.
“Now ’long comes Colyer, an’ he says to the Government: ‘The settlers ’round the Cañada Alamosa don’t like to have the Injuns thar. It’s good cattle ground, an’ they want it for themselves. So to avoid hard feelin’s I recommend we move the Injuns all up yonder to the Tularosa country, which nobody wants!’
“Natur’ly, bein’ as the same Injuns had been promised the Cañada Alamosa if they’d live on it, an’ thar’s plenty other land for the settlers, they see no good reason for swappin’. They say that up at the Tularosa the weather an’ land an’ water are as bad for Injuns as for white men, an’ it’s ghost country. I tell ye,” concluded Joe, “when you make an agreement with an Injun you got to stand by it, or he’ll never believe in you ag’in. You can’t fool him, or he’ll fool you! I’m curyus to see what kind of a man this Gen’ral Howard is.”
Jimmie, too, was “curyrus” to see this General O. O. Howard, who was visiting the peaceful Yumas and Pimas in western Arizona and was expected, any day, at Tucson. His next stop probably would be Camp Grant itself, so that he might talk with the Pinals and Arivaipas.
Veteran Sergeant Warfield, who had served under the general in the Union Army, at Antietam and Gettysburg and in other big battles, said that he was a great man, had commanded as high as thirty thousand soldiers, in the field; had lost his right arm, by two wounds, at the battle of Fair Oaks; was a hard fighter and was very religious—knew the Bible by heart and almost had resigned from the army to go into “preaching.”
“But let me tell you this,” added the grizzled sergeant, to Jimmie: “Arizony’ll find out that General Howard’s a man who’ll see that right is done to both white and red. He’s got a heap of sense, and he’s as square as a piece of hard-tack.”
“A great American soldier chief is coming to talk with the Arivaipa,” informed Jimmie, to old Santos, at the reservation.
“What does he want?” demanded Santos, in Apache.
“He wants to make peace with all the Indians.”
“What good is peace?” retorted Santos. “The Arivaipa asked for peace, and the white people and the Papagos killed our women and stole our children. We are still at peace, but none of our women and children have come back, and we are hungry. We would have done better to fight like the Chiricahua and the Tonto.”
In a few days, or early in May, General Howard did indeed appear at Camp Grant. He was traveling in a six-mule army ambulance, with an escort of cavalry from post to post. Colonel Crittenden and staff rode out a short distance to meet him. The four companies of Fifth Cavalry and Twenty-third Infantry were drawn up, to receive him; their worn uniforms brushed and every button and buckle polished.
General Howard certainly looked like a fine, soldierly officer. He was as tall as, and rather heavier than General Crook; with full brown beard and handsome, lion-like countenance; in dusty campaign hat, and double-breasted blue coat with two rows of brass buttons down the front, and shoulder-straps bearing the single star each of a brigadier general (which was his regular rank), and with an empty right sleeve pinned to his sword belt.
“Yep, I jedge he’s all right,” announced the ambulance driver, to an inquiring group of soldiers and scouts, after the parade had been dismissed. The driver was a lean, lank, exceedingly solemn man who could not be induced to smile. “Only thing I have against him is his callin’ me ‘Dismal Jeems’—him an’ his aide Cap’n Wilkinson. I dunno why. All the way over from Fort Yumy I’ve tried my best to cheer ’em up. I told ’em about every massacree along the hull road; told ’em we were liable to be scalped, any mile; told ’em all the cheerfulest things I could think of. But somehow I didn’t make a hit. The gen’ral’s powerful pious, too—holdin’ prayer-meetin’ on Sunday an’ readin’ his Bible whenever he has a chance.
“But the Yumas an’ Pimas cottoned to him, an’ down at Tucson the people liked him fust-rate. The Pimas an’ Papagos have promised to come in to a council with the Arivaipas here next week, an’ the Mexicans who have the Arivaipa kids have promised to fetch ’em, an’ I s’pose when we all get together thar’ll be a grand killin’ match. But I’m a cheerful man an’ alluz aim to look on the bright side o’ things.”
With that, “Dismal Jeems” drew a more melancholy face than before, sighed heavily, and slouched away to rub down his sweaty mules.
General Howard was not here to stay long, this time. He spent most of one day at the agency; then he left for Fort Whipple, to confer with General Crook. But he was coming back; he had set May 21 as the date for the big peace council.
“What do you think of the soldier chief, Santos?” asked Jimmie. Old Santos, ex-chief, usually was to be found sitting in the sun, on the bench in front of the agency store. He did not live in the hills with Es-kim-en-zin.
“The soldier chief is a good man. He pointed to the sky and said: ‘I have a Father up there. So have you. There is only one Father. Your Father and my Father are the same. So you and I are brothers.’ That was a wise speech. We shook hands, and we are brothers. I am glad. His words tell me that he is a wise chief, and his sleeve tells me that he is a great warrior. Now I trust him, because he thinks as I do.”
The council was held at the mouth of the Arivaipa Canyon, exactly as General Howard had planned.
From their agency one hundred miles west, on the Gila River, the Pimas came on time—twenty of them, with their teacher, the Reverend Mr. Cook, and their interpreter, named Louis.
From their agency at Camp Verde, fifty miles west, some Tontos came; and some Apache-Mohaves, from their agency at Date Creek, southwest of Prescott; and a company of Papagos, from their homes south of Tucson.
From Tucson itself there came a large delegation of Americans and Mexicans, headed by Governor A. P. K. Safford and the district attorney. Many of the Mexicans were women, bringing the Arivaipa and Pinal children whom they had adopted after the massacre.
The Pimas and the Papagos had long been enemies of the Apaches, so they stayed together. The Tontos and the Apache-Mohaves had been enemies of everybody, so they stayed together. The Mexicans had been enemies of the Tontos and the Apache-Mohaves and the Arivaipas and Pinals, so they stayed together. The Americans—the Tucson citizens and the scouts and ranchers—were ready to back up the guard of soldiers, in case of trouble. But General Howard’s purpose was to make peace between all the peoples of the Southwest.
“Will there be a fight, you think, Jeem?” inquired little Francisco. He and Jimmie had ridden over early on one of the ranch mules, to see and hear whatever might happen. “The Arivaipa will fight to get their children, and the Pima will fight the Tonto, and the soldiers will shoot; won’t they, Jeem?”
“Who knows?” replied Jimmie. “No, they won’t!” he quickly added. “It is all right, chico. Here comes General Howard. And see who is with him! That is General Crook! Hooray!”
“Hooray!” echoed Francisco, who always tried to do what Jimmie did.
For with its six mules at a gallop, and with General Howard upon the seat beside “Dismal Jeems,” the army ambulance had swung into the pretty green valley along the Arivaipa Creek. Behind the ambulance followed, in the road, a cavalcade of officers on horses and mules. The first two were Colonel Crittenden of Camp Grant, and a sinewy, powerful man, in a brown canvas suit, on a mule. General Crook himself!
He had come over with General Howard from Fort Whipple. So had Lieutenant Bourke, and Lieutenant Ross, and Lieutenant George Bacon of the First Cavalry, and others of Jimmie’s old-time officer friends.
General Howard and party climbed out of the ambulance; the other officers left their mounts with the orderlies; and all crossed to the stools and benches reserved for the “chiefs,” on the sod in the center of the waiting circle.
“No Es-kim-en-zin yet,” whispered little Francisco. “They stay away. I am afraid, Jeem.”
That was true. Only old short-legged Santos and a handful of decrepid men and squaws were here; Chief Es-kim-en-zin and his warriors had not appeared. General Howard and General Crook and Colonel Crittenden sat, waiting. So did the governor and the district attorney. So did the Pima and Papago and Apache-Mohave chiefs. Everybody waited. Agent Jacobs plainly was worried, but it would not do to show any sign of impatience.
“Dismal Jeems,” the ambulance driver from Fort Yuma, circulated about, wagging his head and prophesying that nobody would leave the spot alive! Yes, a cheerful man was “Dismal Jeems.”
In about an hour, there was a sudden murmur of interest. From the mouth of the Arivaipa Canyon emerged Chief Es-kim-en-zin, leading his band of Arivaipas and Pinals. They were in their best paint, and advanced with much dignity to the place assigned to them. Now the circle was complete.
For fifteen minutes no one spoke. General Howard evidently understood that it was not proper to hurry a council. Presently he arose, and through Concepcion Equierre the interpreter, who spoke English as well as he did Spanish and Apache, invited the Arivaipa-Pinals to make a talk.
Es-kim-en-zin was first. He made a very poor talk, because he stammered, but he spoke thoroughly in earnest, and so did others of his band. They wanted their children back again.
The Mexicans who now had the children were invited to reply. They said that the children were being well brought up, as Christians; they loved them and did not wish to return them to Indian life.
The governor and the district attorney spoke. They said that it was better for Arizona and for the children to have the children brought up in civilization. The district attorney added that most of the children were orphans, and that therefore the Territory of Arizona was their guardian. Their own people were unable to bring them up properly.
Es-kim-en-zin and his old men answered that it was true that many mothers and fathers had been killed; but the Arivaipa people wept for the little boys and girls who had been stolen from them, and would work hard to take good care of the children of their race.
All the speeches in English and Apache were translated into Apache and English by Concepcion Equierre, the agency interpreter; and again into Spanish so that the Mexicans and the Papagos and Pimas might understand what was going on.
That evening the Es-kim-en-zin Arivaipa-Pinals went back, six miles, up into their canyon. The other delegations camped in the valley bottom around the agency.
Jimmie and Francisco, on their mule, rode home with Joe Felmer.
“It’s goin’ to be nip an’ tuck,” asserted Joe. “As I understand, Gen’ral Crook he agrees with the gov’ner an’ deestrict attorney that the children are better off as they’re livin’ now. It may mean less Injuns to fight, later. On the other hand, I heard that teacher-man Cook talkin’ with his Pimas; an’ seems as though the Pimas, who are ’most like white folks an’ hate the ’Paches, too, sorter think the kids ought to be given back to their own kin. The Papagos’ll be ag’in it, ’cause they helped steal the children, an’ have used ’em. The Tontos an’ Yavapais, bein’ ’Paches, will feel like the Arivaipas do. But I have a notion Gen’ral Howard’ll find a way, so everybody’ll be satisfied.”
It was not until the third day of the council that General Howard found the way. Meanwhile both parties were growing angry. Chief Es-kim-en-zin announced that he could see no good in so many long talks. The general spent the second night among the camps, and slept on the ground there. In the morning he made his final speech.
“The good Mr. Cook, of the Pimas, agrees with me that the children ought to be returned to their own people,” he said. “Some of them are being brought up as slaves and servants, and they all were carried off by force, which is not right. But the district attorney from Tucson, and the governor, and other honest persons, think differently, and I should listen to their words, also. So we will take the matter to Washington. I will appeal to my chief, who is the Secretary of the Interior; and the district attorney may appeal to his chief, who is the Attorney General of the United States. And these chiefs will appeal to President Grant, who is the greatest chief of all.
“While the President is deciding, the children shall stay here at the agency with a good Christian white woman whom I have engaged. They will be well cared for, at government expense. Their relatives and friends from the Arivaipas may visit them often, and their Mexican friends may visit them often; and our Great Father at Washington shall say who may keep them.”
A cheer started, but the district attorney sprang to his feet.
“We wish to keep the children until the President decides. We will guarantee to do whatever he directs.”
“No guarantee is needed, from either side,” severely answered General Howard. “Here is General Crook. With his army and his authority he will see to it that justice is done exactly as I have outlined!”
“Good!”
“Bueno, bueno!”
“Inju!”
The word was repeated in a perfect storm of languages. The gathering was all excitement and relief. Everybody seemed to approve of what the general had said; that is, everybody except the district attorney and a few scouts and ranchers who did not believe in yielding peace terms to any Apaches whatsoever.
The Arivaipa-Pinals and the Papagos and the Pimas and the Apache-Mohaves and the Tontos hugged one another; some of the Mexicans hugged some of the Indians; General Crook and the officers laughed. It was a happy solution of a serious problem.
“Kinder like a love-feast, after all, warn’t it!” remarked Joe Felmer. “Huh! Wall, I reckon the gen’ral knows how the President’ll decide.”
Probably General Howard did, for in due time the children were given over to the Es-kim-en-zin band, by orders from Washington, and Es-kim-en-zin always remained at peace.
Amidst the hurly-burly of excitement Jimmie found himself close to General Crook, who was talking earnestly with Joe Felmer and old Jack Long. That was his style; he did not go much on red tape, but spoke direct to officers and enlisted men alike.
Here in his travel-stained canvas suit without any mark of rank on it, he scarcely would be taken, again, for a general commanding all the big Territory of Arizona. He was thinner than when Jimmie had last seen him, before; his face was lined, and he looked as though he had been working hard, and worrying too.
His eyes, glancing aside, fell upon Jimmie, and recognized him. To the beck of the general’s finger Jimmie stepped forward and stood at attention.
“This is your boy, is he, Felmer?” The general seemed to remember everything.
“Yessir, that’s what I call him.”
“He’s wearing rather more clothes than when I first met him,” commented the general drily. “What are you going to make of him?”
“Wall, he’s ondecided ’twixt scout an’ packer,” drawled Joe. “He’s a leetle small yet, but he’s growin’.”
“Yes, an’ he’ll have plenty time to grow while we’re all standin’ ’round waitin’ on the Government’s Arizony pets to come in to their feed canvas when they’re called!” grumbled old Jack. “He’s liable to die of old age, if he ain’t sculped fust.”
“Tut, tut!” sharply reproved the general. “General Howard’s doing good work. He’s the right man. But this is not saying that there won’t be use for the army. As for you, my boy,” he continued, to Jimmie, “keep on learning to the best of your ability, so that you’ll be ready for whatever comes.”
“Yes, sir,” promised Jimmie.