Riding on beside Maria, Jimmie learned more about General Howard and the Chiricahuas.

The general had returned as far as the Warm Spring reservation in New Mexico, with Pedro and Miguel and Santos and the other delegates to Washington. Then he had engaged two Warm Spring guides—young Chie, son of Mangas Coloradas, and Ponce, son of another of Cochise’s old-time friends; and with them, and Captain Sladen his aide, and Tom Jeffords, a red-haired, red-bearded American trader whom the Chiricahuas never harmed, he had proceeded right on west, into the mountains, to find Cochise.

The rest of his party he had dismissed, to wait for word from him, at Bowie.

It had been anxious waiting, for who might foretell what Cochise would do? But suddenly, one day, the general had appeared again, at Bowie, with only Chie as companion. He had met Cochise, in the Stronghold; had talked with him, as man to man; and now he was here, in order that the word should be sent out all along the line: “The Cochise Chiricahuas have promised peace. Do not interfere with them.”

With that, he had immediately returned to the Stronghold; and now Captain S. S. Sumner, commanding Camp Bowie, and several of his officers and a few civilians, were outward bound, to be present at the council.

“Do you think that the Chiricahua have quit forever, Maria?” asked Jimmie, as they jogged along.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” replied Maria, shrugging his shoulders. “If they might believe all Americans like they believe that one-armed man—but who knows? Anyway, he is not afraid, and he speaks truth. What kind of a man is that other general, the comandante named Crook?”

“They can believe him, too,” asserted Jimmie. “He’s a fighting general, and a peace general, both. He’ll carry war to those Apaches that stay bad. He’s ready now to move against the Tonto.”

“Good,” grunted Maria.

The abandoned stage station of Dragoon Springs, on the west slope of Dragoon Pass, had been appointed as the council place. No Chiricahuas and no token of any council were sighted here; but a stout, broad-shouldered officer with black hair and heavy “shoe-brush” moustache met the Captain Sumner party in the road.

He was Captain Sladen, General Howard’s aide. He said that the Chiricahuas had seen soldiers in the road, this very morning; therefore Cochise insisted that the council be held off at one side, where the Chiricahuas might protect themselves.

Guided by Captain Sladen on a narrow saddle trail running south, the party rode a mile or two, through a rolling park of grass and oaks and mountain mahogany—and then here came General Howard and his Chiricahuas!

Haw, haw! Even the sober Maria laughed. The general was aboard a mule, and behind his saddle sat a painted, naked Chiricahua, holding fast with both arms around the general’s waist! It was the piercing-eyed Geronimo!

That was a great position for a brevet major-general of the United States army; but it looked “friendly”!

A large cavalcade of warriors painted and weaponed pranced on every side. They left a little space about a red-painted horseman who stayed near the general.

“Cochise,” said Maria. “I see Taza, too; and Nah-che.”

The Chiricahuas uttered a loud whoop. At signs from the red-painted horseman they spread right and left along the opposite edge of this park. When the Bowie party and Captain Sladen arrived, General Howard and the Cochise company were waiting.

“D’yuh notice?” remarked Jack May, one of the men who had been sent to Bowie by the general. “Ev’ry bronc’ (‘broncho’ was a name for the wild Chiricahuas) is stationed where he can dive into that little canyon an’ be out o’ sight in a jiffy. Those fellows are smart.”

Cochise had daubed all his face with vermilion. He seemed tense and excited. His large black eyes darted to and fro, searching for treachery. His hair was graying, Jimmie observed; he had grown much older.

Taza was here. And in the background, Chato and Nah-che. Jimmie signed to Nah-che, and Nah-che responded, but he did not dare to come over, yet.

The council was begun at once, with General Howard and officers, and Cochise and his captains, sitting in the middle of the circle.

A tall red-bearded man, who was Tom Jeffords the trader, did the interpreting.

“The Great White Father has sent me to make peace between the Chiricahua and the Americans,” said General Howard.

“Nobody wants peace more than I do,” answered Cochise. “I have done no harm since I came from the Cañada Alamosa. My horses are few, and I am very poor. Once we were a large people. We lived well, at peace with everybody except the Mexicans. But one day the soldiers seized my best friend and killed him when he was in prison. Right there at Apache Pass other soldiers hung up my brother, after they had attacked me when I had surrendered. So I have fought the Americans and the Mexicans, but the Chiricahua are getting less every day. Why shut us up on a reservation? We will keep the peace, but we wish to go around free, the same as other people.”

“That cannot be,” kindly explained the general. “Some bad white men might fire on you, or some of your wild young men might fire at the white men. Then the peace would be broken. The Great White Father, who is President Grant, will agree that you live at the Cañada Alamosa. That is a fine country, and you liked it.”

“We would be there now if the white people had not driven us off,” answered Cochise. “They might drive us off again, and I will not go to the Tularosa. The Apaches there get sick, and die. Give me Apache Pass. That is my home. I will protect all the trails. I will see that nobody is harmed by any Indians. But my people will not go back to the Cañada Alamosa. They are afraid. They would not be allowed to stay there.”

“Then,” said the general, “we will give you this country right here. We cannot give you Apache Pass. We will fix the boundaries at once. Does that suit you?”

“Yes,” declared Cochise, pleased, “that is good. We will keep my Stronghold, and the country around, of the Dragoon Mountains and the Sulphur Springs Valley.”

“It is settled,” agreed the general. “I have full authority to say so. This shall be your country forever, if you keep the peace. See, I place this stone upon the mesa.” He moved a rock. “Now, as long as this stone lasts, so long shall last the peace between the Chiricahua and the Americans. You may have your friend Tom Jeffords for agent.”

“That is good,” repeated Cochise. “Staglito (Red Beard) is our friend.”

“You must send for all your Chiricahua to come in. Tell them that when they are off the traveled roads they must show a white flag of peace, so that there will be no mistakes. When they are on a traveled road they must meet other people without any running or fear, as the white people do.”

“That is good,” approved Cochise. “The stone lies on the mesa. The white people and the Chiricahua will drink of the same water and eat of the same bread, and be at peace.”

Now there was a shaking of hands all around, and the general and Captain Sumner and Tom Jeffords proceeded to arrange with Cochise and Geronimo the boundaries of the Chiricahua reservation.

“Let us talk with Nah-che,” proposed Jimmie, to Maria. There had been no call for them in the interpreting, and now was their chance to look up Nah-che.

“Chi-kis-n,” greeted Jimmie, extending his hand to grasp Nah-che’s.

“Welcome, chi-kis-n,” replied Nah-che, as they shook.

Nah-che had grown into almost a warrior.

“How is Nah-da-ste?”

“She is not here. The women and children are in another place, till the chiefs know whether it is peace or war.”

“It is peace, chi-kis-n.”

“I think so,” answered Nah-che frankly. “The Chiricahua wish peace. They will keep their promise if the white people will keep theirs. As long as Staglito stays with us, there will be no trouble, because he understands us. All these wars between the Americans and the Apaches come because they do not understand each other. I think if there were more one-armed soldier-captains there would be fewer wars. That other soldier-captain, Cluke, is honest, too, we hear. Why doesn’t he come to see us?”

“He is getting ready to fight those Indians who are bad,” said Jimmie. “He was told to wait until the one-armed general had offered the Chiricahua peace. Now he will go to war against the Tonto and the Yavapai, who have refused peace.”

Taza joined them, and shook hands. He was carrying a beautiful breech-loading rifle—an officer’s rifle. Eying it curiously, Jimmie suddenly recognized it. It had been the rifle of stripling Lieutenant Reid Stewart, the dandy “shave tail”—it was the only one of its kind—engraved so fancifully; that is, Jimmie had seen the lieutenant with it, at Camp Grant; and now Taza had it!

Taza must have noticed Jimmie stiffen and choke, for he said, in Spanish:

“No trieste, hermano (Do not feel badly, brother).” And in Apache, “We all do things in war that we would not do in peace.”

Nevertheless, on the way to Camp Bowie, after the council, Jimmie could not forget the sign of Lieutenant Reid’s rifle, in the Chiricahua camp. He was such a young officer, to have been killed so soon, without having had a chance to defend himself. And Cochise had declared that his people had done no harm since leaving the Cañada Alamosa!

But then, that was Indian way. And Apaches had been killed, too, by the white men. War was a cruel game.

General Howard did not return to Camp Bowie. He had gone the other way, to Tucson, with his party and his ambulance. From Tucson he was going to San Francisco, to report to General Schofield; and from there he was going to Washington.

He certainly had accomplished a great work, only——

“Will the peace last as long as the stone, do you think, Maria?” asked Jimmie.

“The white people will break the stone, amigo mio,” said Maria. “Some day they will break the stone, because they want the land where it lies. Then there will be war again, and you and I will fight Nah-che. But Cochise spoke straight. The Chiricahua in Arizona are tired. Did you hear about the joke on the one-armed general?”

“No.”

“Nyle-chie-zie, who is Cochise’s brother-in-law, wanted to trade two of his young wives to the general for the general’s four wagon-mules. The general said he already had a wife. But the girls said that made no difference; they would all get along together nicely. If the general had not explained that the laws of the Americans forbade him to have more than one wife at a time, he might have been in much trouble, I think.”

“Yes, many wives at once are a trouble,” asserted Ponce, who, with Chie, was returning to the Warm Spring bands. “The soldier-captain saw Cochise’s hand. That is why he refused the two girls!”

“What was the matter with Cochise’s hand?” queried Jimmie.

They all were talking in Apache.

“Those two big holes in it are where one of his wives bit him. He was afraid he would be sick, so he burned the places.”

“The one-armed soldier-captain is very wise,” laughed Chie. “He does not wish to lose the only hand he has.”

“But it is true that white people are allowed only one wife at a time,” insisted Jimmie. However, Ponce and Chie did not act as though they believed this.

Camp Bowie was reached early the next morning. It was a small army post, about the size of Grant, composed of log and adobe buildings set in a clearing on a hill in the middle of the celebrated Apache Pass over the Chiricahua Mountains that extended on southward into Mexico. The pass was long and rolling, between high brushy, thinly timbered slopes. Bowie commanded the stage road both ways for two or three miles.

This had been Cochise’s favorite resort, in former days. At the east end of the pass was where his brother had been hanged, after the fracas eleven years ago, or in 1861. There had been no Camp Bowie, then; only the stage station.

But Bowie was established the next year, 1862—the same year as Camp Grant—and like Camp Grant, since that time it had been trailing Apaches almost every day. What with the attacks on the stages, east and west, and on livestock, and what with the vengeful ambushing of the soldiers themselves, by the Chiricahuas, anybody stationed at Bowie was certain to have plenty of excitement. Why, the graveyard there was enough to give one the shudders. It was a famous graveyard.

Before inspecting the graveyard, Jimmie reported to Jack Long. Jack and the pack train were here. So was Lieutenant Almy, being entertained by brother officers of the Fifth and Third Cavalry.

“So it’s sure ’nough peace, is it?” commented Patron Jack, after he had heard the story of everything that had occurred near Dragoon Springs. “All right. Gin’ral Howard means well, like as not. But did you tell old Cochise what I said? No? Humph! One thing’s sartin, anyhow: if he was put on trial before a jury o’ Arizony people, they’d vote yewnanimous to hang him an’ half his band. Yes, sir-ee.”

“You bet yuh,” chimed in Slim Shorty, the cencero.

And, as a matter of fact, when the general arrived at Tucson, the newspaper and people there talked just as Jack talked. They said that Cochise should be punished, instead of being granted a reservation, and his Stronghold, for his own. Nevertheless, Cochise stayed there, true to his word, until he died, in 1874; and Taza also kept from war, until in 1876 he died. But with Geronimo and Nah-che matters went different, just as Maria prophesied.

“Now I will show you the graveyard, amigo,” proffered Maria, when Jimmie had been dismissed from duty, by old Jack.

The graveyard really was about the only thing of consequence to see, at Bowie. It was the largest graveyard at any of the army posts in Arizona. The many wooden slabs, marking the resting-place of soldier and traveler, read much alike, except for the names.

“Killed by the Apaches.” “At the Hands of the Apaches.” “Victim of the Apaches.” “Met his Death by Apaches.” “Of Wounds Inflicted by the Apaches.” And so forth, and so forth.

Maria seemed to be proud of this collection, but it was too melancholy for Jimmie. He was very glad when, on a sudden, a series of loud whoops attracted his attention. A short, brick-topped, familiar figure in old shirt outside of old trousers, was beckoning to him, on the way from the parade ground. A trumpet was blowing “Boots and Saddles,” cavalrymen were running to the stables, and packers were hustling at the post mule-corral.

So Jimmie legged back, to find out what was up. Micky Free, the red-head, met him, and grinned delightedly, his one blue eye sparkling. Micky had started a moustache, red like his hair. He showed hard travel.

“Hello, Cheemie. Your patron says for you to come quick, if you want to go to Camp Apache.”

“When did you get in, Micky?” panted Jimmie, as they trotted on together.

“Just now. Alchisé (Al-chi-say) and I bring dispatches. The canvas suit general is at Camp Apache, and everybody is to join him there, to go against the Tonto.”