“That’s right,” Patron Jack was urging, among the fast working men. “Move yore feet, hombres, or the cavalry’ll beat you. The old man’s up yonder, waitin’ on his mule, with both bar’ls loaded. Mebbe it’s peace in the south but it’s war in the north.” And to Jimmie: “Say, muchacho! Thar’s livelier things’n graveyards. We’re goin’ after Chuntz an’ the rest o’ those boy murderers. So you jump an’ help the cook.”
Alchisé and Micky Free had brought orders from General Crook at Camp Apache to Lieutenant Almy to join him there at once with all the cavalry and pack-mules that could be spared from Camp Bowie.
Of course, the orders had not explained why; but the busy-minded Micky asserted that everybody at Apache knew why: they knew why, because the Sierra Blanca or White Mountains had been asked to send their young men with the soldiers and help to drive the bad Tontos and Apache-Mohaves out of the Tonto Basin. These Tontos and Yavapais were making trouble between the white men and the red.
The pack-train was ready first. In an hour the cavalry were ready, and the column moved out of Bowie, for Camp Apache, two hundred miles by trail north across the mountains.
Maria had to stay behind, at Bowie.
“Good-by, amigos,” he bade, to Jimmie and Micky. “Some day we will go together against the Chiricahua, with your Crook.”
There were fifty cavalry, mainly of the Fifth Regiment, and some fifty pack-mules which carried only supplies for the march. Micky and Alchisé led by the best trail, so that the trip was made in five days.
Now Jimmie had an opportunity to see the famous Camp Apache, in the grassy, well timbered and well watered Sierra Blanca or White Mountains of northeastern Arizona. By reason of the fine hunting and fishing, and scenery and climate, it was considered to be the prize army post of the Southwest.
It had been located in 1870, and was at first called Camp Ord, and Camp Thomas. The Chiricahuas had sneered at the White Mountain Apaches, who had permitted a soldier fort to be established among them. But Chiefs Pedro and Miguel and Pi-to-ne and all had continued to live just west of the post, and to remain tame Indians. In this they were wise.
With the twelve hundred tame Indians, and the many soldiers, some infantry but the majority cavalry, Camp Apache proved to be a stirring place. General Crook had arrived, with his escort; clear from Fort Whipple, two hundred and fifty miles west. He had traveled fast, breaking camp by four o’clock every morning, and now he was hustling matters so that he might set out for Camp Grant, to the southwest, and organize an expedition from there.
Lieutenant Bourke was at work enlisting the White Mountain young men. Most of the White Mountains were very anxious to take the war-path against the bothersome outlaw Tontos and Yavapais. Alchisé enlisted, so did Na-kay-do-klunni, so did a sub-chief named Es-qui-nos-quiz-n or Big Mouth, so did Nan-ta-je (Nan-tah-hay), a Coyotero; so did nearly one hundred others.
Micky knew every one of them. But his band was the Chief Pedro band.
“Are you coming, Micky?” eagerly asked Jimmie.
“Maybe. I will wait and see, Cheemie, until I can tell where there’ll be the best fighting.”
“We’ll catch the Tonto, won’t we, Micky?”
“Oh, yes,” assured Micky. “That Cluke is cunning. All the way over he saw that the water of the high places was frozen; winter has come and the Tonto and Yavapai will be staying home. They cannot move their rancherias, easy. I will go to Camp Grant with you, anyway,” added Micky. “But don’t say so, to other people. I am not an Apache. I will do as I please.”
General Crook did not delay an instant at Camp Apache after he had turned his orders into action. Upon the second morning after the arrival of the reinforcements from Camp Bowie he started, with cavalry and pack-mules and those White Mountain scouts who were ready, for Camp Grant.
He directed that the rest of the Apache scouts were to follow, in three days. They would find many other Indians at Camp Grant, who would try to be braver than the Sierra Blanca.
“My young men will show how the White Mountains can fight,” had answered old Pedro.
General Crook was in a great hurry.
“Yuh see,” explained Patron Jack, to the men who were astonished by being roused out at two in the morning and led on without a halt until late afternoon, “the old man’s promised to meet a lot more chiefs at Grant, besides those Sierra Blancas, an’ he knows he’s got to keep his word. If you don’t keep yore word with Injuns, they call you a liar.”
The distance by trail from Apache to Grant was a little more than one hundred miles—but each mile, as Cargador Frank Monach put it, meant one mile up, two miles down, and one mile across! Alchisé and Archie MacIntosh the Hudson Bay trapper, were the guides. Micky Free had not appeared, at the start; and when Jimmie, disappointed, inquired about him of Alchisé, Alchisé claimed to know nothing about Micky. He only shrugged his shoulders, and grunted:
“Maybe come, maybe stay. Who can tell?”
The second day’s march was terrific, into canyons and out again; and when darkness fell the column was still struggling to find a camping-place. The mules and the cavalry horses had all they could do to keep their feet amidst the brush and rocks; the general rode from head to rear, encouraging, and looking after men and mules—he sought no rest, for himself, and everybody worked like a demon. But Alchisé and Archie MacIntosh, in trying a short cut, had missed the trail.
Jimmie was toiling and urging with the rest, in the depths of a star-canopied black canyon, when he heard a laugh, close at his ear, and a voice that said, in Apache:
“Why do you work so hard, Boy-who-sleeps? Are you afraid the Tonto will get away?”
It was Micky Free, bareback on a mule. He could scarcely be seen, but Jimmie recognized his speech.
“Where did you come from?” demanded Jimmie crossly.
“Oh, I am here,” laughed Micky. “I know all this country very well. I told you I was going to Camp Grant.”
“Then you’d better get to work,” retorted Jimmie. “I haven’t any time to talk.”
“No, I didn’t come to work; I came to fight the Tonto,” laughed Micky. “But the rest of you had better work, or I’ll be the only one to get to Camp Grant.”
Amidst the hurly-burly of stumbling mules and perspiring packers Jimmie lost him, and did not sight him again until long after sunrise the next morning, when at last the command was out of the canyons and the wearied pack-train followed the cavalry into camp.
Micky was already there, ahead, squatting beside Alchisé. He arose and came back to where Jimmie was helping Slim Shorty, the cook.
“Alchisé says there will be some good fights, Cheemie,” remarked Micky. “Now I want you to take me to your general, so that he will know who I am.”
“Aw, pshaw, Micky!” protested Jimmie. And in Apache: “I can’t. I’m busy. The general wants to eat and sleep, and so do I.”
“Who is this one-eye?” asked Slim Shorty. “Where’s he from an’ what’s his trouble?”
“His name’s Micky Free. He was with the Pedro band and helped me get away from the Chiricahua. He asks me to take him to the general.”
“What! Tell him to chase himself. ’Tain’t any time for payin’ social visits,” growled Slim Shorty. “It’s grub time an’ sleep time, an’ you’re workin’ for me. Savvy that?” Slim Shorty was cross, like everyone else. Twenty-six hours straight had they been climbing and threshing about.
“Here comes your general now,” prompted Micky. “He doesn’t eat or sleep. You can take me to him when he passes, Cheemie.”
Sure enough, General Crook, on the faithful mule “Apache,” was ambling slowly from group to group, through the camp; in his stained canvas suit, his shot gun across his saddle! He seemed to be on a tour of inspection, with particular regard for the pack-mules.
As he passed, the men stiffened to their feet, and stood at attention. He dropped a word here and there, and halted briefly at Slim Shorty’s fire. Slim stood at attention, so did Jimmie, but Micky only waited, red-headed, lightly clad, grinning amiably.
“Feed your men well, cook,” bade the general. “They’ve earned double rations. I see you’ve got a good supply of beans. That’s right. Always set your beans to cook the night before, and they’ll be much more wholesome.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Slim Shorty. “But these hyar beans won’t be done till noon. There warn’t any ‘night before,’ this last trip. Got plenty bread, bacon an’ coffee, though.”
“Oh, in that case——,” smiled the general. His face was a little drawn, but he didn’t look especially tired, and neither did Apache. “How are you, my lad?” he queried, of Jimmie, and his eyes fell upon Micky. “Who’s this? I didn’t know he was with the column. I’ve seen him at Camp Apache. His name is Micky Free.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Jimmie. “He lives with Chief Pedro’s band of Sierra Blanca. He helped me get away from the Chiricahua camp, that time.”
“He’s not Apache?”
“No, sir. He’s half Mexican and half Irish.”
“What’s he doing here? Is he enlisted with the scouts?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” faltered Jimmie. “Not with the Apache scouts. He isn’t Indian. He followed us. He asked me to tell you that he wants to fight the Tonto, though.”
“Well, well. That’s all right, but I haven’t time to tend to that now, my boy,” replied the general. “I’m going after some breakfast. Let him report to Lieutenant Bourke. Bourke has charge of the scouts. When we get to Grant we’ll give him a chance to fight.” And the general rode on. He kept going, until he disappeared around a shoulder in some low ground. He did not return for two hours, and then he brought back a load of reed birds, for the officers’ mess. What a man!
“What did he say?” inquired Micky, who spoke no English, of Jimmie.
“He said to have you report to Lieutenant Bourke, and when we got to Grant you would be shown fighting.”
“That is good,” approved Micky. “I don’t care anything about your Lieutenant Bourke, but the general has promised me fighting and I like him. I will go to Grant, and then we will chase the Tonto with the general, Cheemie; you and I.”
So saying, Micky strolled away, to eat with Alchisé. Throughout the remainder of the march to Camp Grant he did about as he pleased: sometimes he rode in advance, with Alchisé and Archie MacIntosh; and sometimes he rode with Jimmie, at the rear; and sometimes he vanished, to explore on his own hook. But he always turned up at meal times!
With his ragged clothes, and his red head and his smudgy reddish upper lip and his one bright blue eye, Micky was a privileged character.
Camp Grant was reached exactly on time, and for the next three days of this first week in November it was a busy place. Dispatch bearers came and went; Chief Packer Tom Moore was here, from Whipple; one hundred White Mountain scouts arrived, under Chief Es-qui-nos-quiz-n or Big Mouth; Pima and Maricopa chiefs were waiting, to talk with “Cluke” and find out what he wanted; word came that the Hualpais were ready, for they also hated the Apaches, as the Pimas and Maricopas did. But Chief Es-kim-en-zin refused to let any of his young men enlist; the Arivaipas had friends among the outlaw Pinals who ranged near the Tonto Basin.
Every officer and enlisted man and pack-mule that could be spared from the various posts, and every Indian who could be trusted off the reservations, was called into service. Jimmie felt certain that he ought to be included; he had done his level best, on the trip around by Bowie and Apache—nobody had worked harder. So he anxiously consulted Joe Felmer.
“Wall, you see it’s this way,” said Joe: “I’m goin’ as scout—Archie MacIntosh, Tony Besias, an’ me, ’long with the Major Brown column. That keeps us in advance, an’ ’twon’t be any place for a boy. This is war. So you stick ’round old Jack; he’ll boss the pack-train, an’ I happen to know that he thinks purty well o’ you. He says you tended strictly to bus’ness, an’ obeyed orders.”
Jimmie looked up Patron Jack.
“Shore thing, muchacho,” answered Jack. “I told you I’d make a fust-class packer of you, an’ I will. You fetch yore war-bag an’ fall in ready to help the cook’ an’ by the time we’re out o’ the Tonto Basin with old Chuntz’s scalp mebbe you’ll get a second-class ratin’.”
Hurrah! It was only proper, too, for Chief Chuntz had murdered little Francisco, and had not little Francisco been his, Jimmie’s, partner? Everybody at Grant was particularly eager to kill or capture Chuntz.
“To-morrow we start,” remarked Micky. “Where is the Gray Fox, Cheemie?”
“Who is that, Micky?”
“Cluke. He is the Gray Fox, because of his smartness and his dirt-color clothes. All the Indians are calling him the Gray Fox. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He is visiting other forts, getting the soldiers ready.”
And that was true. General Crook was leaving nothing at loose ends, but instead of issuing his orders from headquarters, was overseeing the details in person. He never tired.
“I would rather follow him on the war trail,” continued Micky. “But if he is not here I shall go with Big Mouth and Nan-ta-je and Lieutenant Bourke, and you. It will mean fighting. We will find the Tonto and Yavapai. That I know.”
“How do you know, Micky?” asked Jimmie curiously—for Micky spoke assuredly.
“I know it from Nan-ta-je. Why he knows I cannot tell you now, but you will see.” And with that, the mysterious red-headed Micky became Indian, and refused to utter another word on the subject.
As far as Jimmie could learn from Joe Felmer and Jack Long and the talk at the post, the plan for the campaign was as follows:
The troops and scouts at Camp Apache, under Major George M. Randall, of the Twenty-third Infantry, were to work in toward the Tonto Basin from the east. The Camp Grant column, under Brevet Major W. H. Brown, were to work up from the south. From the far northwest, at Camp Hualpai, Colonel Julius W. Mason (who had roundly threshed the Apache-Mohaves that had conspired to assassinate General Crook at Date Creek, last summer) was to march down with his Fifth Cavalry and some Hualpais. From Date Creek to the southwest Captain George F. Price, of the Fifth Cavalry, should come on; and from the west the Fort Whipple column, under Major Alexander MacGregor, of the First Cavalry, and the Camp Verde First Cavalry under Colonel C. C. C. Carr, and the Camp McDowell Fifth Cavalry and Pimas and Maricopas under Captain “Jimmie” Burns, were to complete the circle.
They all were to clean the country as they advanced, and close in on the Tonto Basin.
Just before the Camp Grant column started, the general’s final orders were read to all the soldiers and scouts, in line. It was to be a fight to a finish. The Indians who would not surrender must be pursued until killed or captured. Women and children should not be harmed, if possible. Prisoners were to be well treated. Men prisoners should be enlisted as scouts, when they were willing to serve; and full use should be made of them, to discover the hiding-places of the other wild Apaches. And——
“The general commanding the Department wishes to state that no excuse will be accepted for leaving a trail. If the horses become unfit for service, the enemy must be followed on foot. He expects that no sacrifice shall be left untried by officers and men, to make the campaign short, sharp and decisive.”
Antonio Besias the interpreter and guide translated the orders for the Apache scouts. At his first opportunity, Micky asked Jimmie to repeat them. Nan-ta-je also listened attentively. He grunted satisfaction.
“That is good,” commented Micky. “It is straight talk. We will find what we are looking for.”
The Major Brown column out of Camp Grant consisted of Companies L and M of the Fifth Cavalry, commanded by Captain Alfred B. Taylor and Lieutenant Jacob Almy, Lieutenant (Brevet Major) William J. Ross, of the Twenty-first Infantry, who had won honors in the Civil War, and Lieutenant John G. Bourke, of the Third Cavalry, who had been General Crook’s aide-de-camp. They were all good fighting men. Then there were thirty Sierra Blanca Apache scouts—Chief Big Mouth, Alchisé who was called Alchisay, Nan-ta-je whom the soldiers nicknamed “Joe,” Na-kay-do-klun-ni who was nicknamed “Bobby Do-klinny,” and the others, managed by Joe Felmer, Archie MacIntosh and Antonio Besias. Then there was the pack-train of fifty mules, in charge of Pack-Master Jack Long and Assistant Frank Monach, and ten such first-class packers as Jim O’Neill, Chileno John, “Long Jim” Cook and “Short Jim” Cook, Manuel Lopez, old Sam Wisser the German, with Slim Shorty as cook and John Cahill as blacksmith—men tried and true. Then there was Mr. James Daily, General Crook’s brother-in-law who had come out to Whipple last spring with his sister Mrs. Crook, and was “seeing the country” with the cavalry; and Micky Free, who might be counted as a sort of “detached” scout.
Altogether, Jimmie felt convinced, this was the best column in the field. As Patron Jack asserted, it could “lick its weight in wild-cats.”