“Will there be trouble again, Micky?”
“Of course,” laughed Micky scornfully. “Everybody in Arizona knows that. You see it yourself, Cheemie. You read the talking papers. The talking papers of Mexico say that the Chiricahua from Arizona are sneaking down there and stealing cattle. That is true. Even Gatewood is getting afraid. He is losing Chiricahua all the time; they go somewhere and his counts are always different. I think he will move to Fort Apache. It is only twelve miles, and he will be safer.
“The Geronimo Chiricahua see that the San Carlos Apaches and the White Mountains are unhappy, with two fathers bossing them. So they trade their goods for whiskey and guns. Sibi went to Geronimo and asked him what he was planning to do. Geronimo said: ‘It is no use to lie to you, Sibi. You read my thoughts. The truth is this: When my men came up with Cluke from Mexico they expected to go back every little while, to get horses and cows. There is no harm in stealing cattle from those Mexicans. Besides, Cluke took away the cattle that we first brought up. If my men are not allowed to do that, they would rather live in Mexico and act as they please. It is only my talk that holds them, and some day they won’t listen.’
“To hear Geronimo pretend peace talk would make a mule laugh,” concluded Micky. “Now because Cluke is in Washington we have come down here with Tom Horn, and Sibi who has a lame leg is coming in a wagon. They will talk with Bourke. Sibi says to capture all the Chiricahua and send them far away. That will end war. But I guess it won’t be done.”
Captain Bourke—who had been promoted to major—was at Bowie, waiting for the general to return from Washington. The general had gone to Washington in the hopes of getting more authority to deal with the Apaches.
He did not succeed. All this fall and winter of 1884 the War Department and the Interior Department could not agree upon the control of the reservations.
The officers at San Carlos staked out an irrigating ditch for the Apaches to dig, and the agent declined to permit the digging. The Indians believed nobody. Captain Crawford asked to be transferred to his regiment, the Third Cavalry, and Captain F. E. Pierce, of the First Infantry, was assigned to the military charge of San Carlos. He had lost an eye in the Civil War.
In February of 1885 Major-General John Pope, who commanded the Military Division of the Pacific, from San Francisco announced, to Washington:
If General Crook’s authority over the Indians at San Carlos be curtailed or modified in any way, there are certain to follow very serious results, if not a renewal of Indian wars and depredations in Arizona.
Consequently, with matters at sixes and sevens, the outlook at Fort Bowie was very gloomy.
In the middle of May Jimmie rode down toward the border, to see how some of the pack-mules in pasture upon a ranch were getting along. There was likely to be need of them soon, for the Indians certainly were going to break out.
It was an all-day ride. The pasture was in some bottoms among the hills, where there was good water and grass; so he cooked his own supper and prepared to sleep out, beneath the stars.
He was just about to turn in, under his blanket, when he heard Chiquito snort. Chiquito was his horse, picketed out to graze. The snort might mean mountain lion, Mexican leopard, wolf, deer, or——!
“What is it, Chiquito?”
Chiquito’s head was up, his ears pricked, he was staring into the south. He knew a heap, Chiquito did.
Jimmie gazed, too, in the same direction. And there, far to the southwest, across the Mexican line, he saw a red gleam on a high hill. A signal fire, sure: Indian signal!
Jimmie scrambled to his feet and stood peering intent. Presently the gleam was broken—and then repeated. Indians down there were signalling for other Indians to answer. That was plain. Even Chiquito had known. He was Indian wise.
Jimmie swept the dark horizon again and again, to catch the answer, but none appeared. His view from the camp was not very good; but he must find out what was going on; accordingly he snatched up his blanket and ran through the brush to the crest of the slope above him.
Here he found the right spot, and squatted, with his blanket wrapped around him, to wait. He did not dare to build a fire, lest it be seen.
This was a long, cold wait.
The fire in the southwest flared regularly at intervals of about an hour. “Answer,” it kept saying. “Answer.” Jimmie eyed the north as well as the south—and at midnight the expected happened. The signal in the south had been answered, for it suddenly broke into a message.
There were one long flash and several shorter ones. Then, quickly following, two flashes, and an interval, and two more.
As anybody ought to know, this spelled: “All right. We will wait two days.”
The fire died. That was the end. Jimmie jumped to a conclusion. There had been only the one fire in the south; so the answer had come from the north, and he had somehow missed it. But the Indians in Mexico had signalled to some Indians in Arizona, and were to wait two days!
The Chiricahuas had arranged to run away! Probably they already were out, making for Mexico, to join runaways already there. Whew! Great Scott!
Well, all that he could do was to wait until daylight, and then make for Bowie. And the sooner the better, because he was right in the track of runaways.
He went down to his camp, and got a half night’s sleep. In the morning he did not wait to gather his mules; he saddled Chiquito at daylight and struck out by the shortest way.
The country all seemed peaceful. Who might have foretold that he would bump right into the hostiles? But that is precisely what happened. He was loping up a shallow draw fringed by rocks and stunted pines—had been riding two hours—when as he rounded a shoulder, on a sudden here there came at headlong gallop a dozen steers.
He wheeled Chiquito to one side, quick; barely had time to get out of their way—didn’t have time to get out of the way of the three young bucks chasing them full tilt; and before he could spur Chiquito up the flank of the draw, for cover, he was a “goner.”
With a yell and with guns leveled the three bronc’s had charged him; a bullet sang by his ear; and he raised his hand for a talk. They arrived instantly, reined short, around him. He didn’t know them, and they appeared not to know him.
“Chi-kis-n,” he attempted. But they only scowled and talked among themselves in Apache.
“Shall we kill him here?”
“That is best.”
“Stick him with your lance.”
“You talk foolish,” retorted Jimmie boldly, in good Apache. “There’s no sense in killing me. You’ll only get in trouble by it. Take me to your chief.”
“Who are you, that speaks Apache?”
“Never you mind who I am,” retorted Jimmie. “You take me to your chief. If he says kill me, all right. But you’d better wait till he does say so. You’re only warriors.”
“Where are the rest of your party, white man?”
“I’m alone.”
“What is your business?”
“I herd mules.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Fort Bowie.”
“We ought to kill him. He will tell on us if we let him go,” said one, aside.
“No. We’ll have to take him back,” said the oldest boy. “There is plenty of time to kill him later.”
They snatched his rifle and revolver from the holsters, and on either side and behind jostling him along, drove him up the draw. For the next five minutes Jimmie figured that his chances were about one in one hundred.
They rounded the turn; and here, in a little hollow, was a group of twelve or fifteen men and women kneeling over two cow carcasses, and butchering them. Several of the figures looked to see who was coming. One of them was Nah-che. Jimmie’s heart beat less rapidly. His chances were increased.
However, Nah-che, standing erect, was not at all pleased to see him.
“Why are you in here?” demanded Nah-che.
“I came down from Bowie to look at some mules. Now I was going back to Bowie.”
“Did you know that some of us are off the reservation?”
“Yes. I saw a signal fire last night, in Mexico, and I read what it said.”
“What did it say?”
“It said that they would wait two days.”
“That is right,” replied Nah-che. “I am sorry we met you, chi-kis-n, because now you will be killed.”
“That may be so. But why do you kill me, chi-kis-n?” challenged Jimmie. “I have done you no harm.”
“No; we fought against each other, but that was understood. If you will promise me not to say a word about us at Fort Bowie I will let you go.”
“You know very well that I would not be a man if I gave any such promise,” retorted Jimmie. “I shall not lie to you.”
“If white men never lied to us, then everything would be all right,” said Nah-che. “They do lie to us, so you must die. I am sorry, but——”
“No! No!” One of the squaws had rushed up. She was Nah-da-ste! “This is the Boy-who-sleeps. I remember him well. He has slept in my lodge and eaten my food. I won’t have him killed. You had better let him go. He cannot harm us.”
“No. Fort Bowie is a long way off,” reminded Jimmie. “Besides, if you are off the reservation, that is known by this time.”
“Maybe not. We cut the talking wire,” answered Nah-che. “But it is true that Fort Bowie is a long way off. Anyway,” he added, “I don’t want to kill you, and I cannot argue with women. You can go, chi-kis-n. By the time you tell what you know, we shall be far in the other direction. So go as fast as you please, but keep going straight, for you might not find a chi-kis-n among other Chiricahua.”
“Good,” grunted Jimmie, as his rifle and revolver were passed to him. “I ask one word. Tell me why you are leaving the Fort Apache country. I wish the truth.”
“Everybody but Cluke is our enemy. We are lied about. Even Chato tell lies on us, and gives us a bad name, because he hates Geronimo. If we stay we will be locked up. That is what is said. Now go, for I will talk no more.”
Jimmie took the hint, and spurred away. He knew better than even to look back.