1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
|
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>
The dread Apache--that early-day scourge of the Southwest, by Dr. M. P. Freeman—A Project Gutenberg eBook
</title>
<link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover">
<style>
body {
margin-left: 10%;
margin-right: 10%;
}
h1,h2 {
text-align: center;
clear: both;
}
p {
margin-top: .51em;
text-align: justify;
margin-bottom: .49em;
}
hr {
width: 33%;
margin-top: 2em;
margin-bottom: 2em;
margin-left: 33.5%;
margin-right: 33.5%;
clear: both;
}
hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;}
@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} }
div.chapter {page-break-before: always;}
.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;}
.ph2 {text-align: center; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;}
div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;}
div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;}
.large {font-size: 125%;}
.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;}
.figcenter {
margin: auto;
text-align: center;
page-break-inside: avoid;
max-width: 100%;
}
.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA;
color: black;
font-size:smaller;
margin-left: 17.5%;
margin-right: 17.5%;
padding: 1em;
margin-bottom: 1em;
font-family:sans-serif, serif; }
</style>
</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69801 ***</div>
<div class="figcenter hide"><img src="images/coversmall.jpg" width="450" alt=""></div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/title.jpg" alt=""></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="titlepage">
<h1>The Dread Apache—That<br>
Early-Day Scourge of<br>
the Southwest</h1>
<p><i>By</i><br>
<span class="large">DR. M. P. FREEMAN</span></p>
<p>Tucson, Arizona<br>
November 14<br>
1915</p><br>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="ph2">The Dread Apache—That<br>
Early-Day Scourge of<br>
the Southwest</p>
</div>
<p class="ph1">BY DR. M. P. FREEMAN</p>
<p>A short time ago, idling through a
collection of early-day photographs, I
came across two that vividly recalled
the closing scenes in that bloody frontier
drama in which the Apache was
the chief actor. For many years the
relentless foe of the pioneer, wary,
tireless, cowardly and treacherous, he
was the very incarnation of fiendishness,
if possible, more pronounced in
the squaw than in the man. Never
meeting you in the open, always in ambush,
concealed behind the big granite
boulder, the point of a hill or a clump
of brush, he and his fellows patiently
awaited your solitary coming, all unconscious
of danger, then—the crack
of the rifle and it is all over. Today
he might be a “sniper”, but in the days
of his hellish activities the word had
not yet been given its more recently
enlarged meaning.</p>
<h2>2000 Pioneers Victims of Apaches.</h2>
<p>How many breakers of the wilderness,
hardy, fearless old-timers, were
sent to their final rest by this early
scourge of the desert, who can say!
Some place their number at two thousand,
some say more, others less. This
does not include the soldier boy,
whose profession it is to risk his life,
and when necessary, his duty, its sacrifice.
Of the number of these there
is probably a record somewhere, but of
the old pioneer, only an estimate. In
the valley, on the mesa and the hillside,
on the mountain-top and in the
deep shadows of the canyon, everywhere
this broad land is dotted with
their unknown and unmarked graves.</p>
<p>Captain John G. Bourke, author of
“On the Border with Crook,” and “An
Apache Campaign,” who was with Gen.
Crook, tells us that the Apache “is no
coward, but that he has no false ideas
about courage, that he would prefer to
skulk like a coyote for hours and then
kill his enemy, rather than by injudicious
exposure receive a wound.”
May we not attribute to the chivalrous
spirit of Capt. Bourke, not to criticize
a foe, his delicate way of putting this?</p>
<p>No, I do not recall that this early
plague of the old pioneer ever “injudiciously
exposed” himself unless driven
to it. “Skulking like the coyote,” as
Capt. Bourke so well expresses it, is
my conception of his bravery. If
forced to the open he would undoubtedly
make a brave fight, but I have never
heard of his voluntarily seeking that
open, meeting his enemy on anything
approaching equal terms.</p>
<h2>Paris Adopts Name of Apache</h2>
<p>Being over in Paris a few years ago,
a friend who had lived there a number
of years, and who was as familiar with
Paris from basement to roof-garden, as
I am with Congress street of our good
old town of Tucson, suggested one
evening that we visit the “Apaches”.
Expressing surprise that any of my
people should have wandered so far
from home, I suggested as a substitute
the Moulin Rouge. However, the
Apaches were agreed on, and in the
evening, my friend, bringing a policeman
with him, called for me at my
hotel.</p>
<p>Arriving at the door of the
Apache rendezvous in due course, we
three—my friend, the policeman and
myself—are readily admitted, the presence
of our policeman assuring that,
and we find ourselves in an underground
dive, a large room with a low
ceiling, barely furnished, dimly lighted,
and reeking with the sour odor of stale
beer. Looking about the room, by the
dim light as it forces its way through
the dense gloom of tobacco smoke, we
are enabled to see two other policemen
besides our own—there are two
stationed there day and night—and a
score or more of the toughest-looking
lot of cut-throats I had ever had the
pleasure of coming in contact with.
This was the retreat, the gathering
place, of as bad a lot of thieves, thugs,
robbers, burglars and murderers as the
world could boast of, and Paris, in
seeking a name for them that would
embody all of these characteristics,
had searched the world over, and was
almost in despair of finding a single
word that would express all that is
mean, wantonly cruel, murderous and
cowardly, but at last attention was directed
to the Apache of Arizona, and
then it was discovered that the word
which would embody all that and more
had been found. And that was why I
was enabled to find some of my own
home people away off there in the
world’s center of fashion. Settling for
a few bottles of the vilest beer possible
to brew, as a tip to the house, I was
soon ready to ask my friend to call his
policeman and get us away from this
vile den.</p>
<h2>Judge McComas and Wife Murdered.</h2>
<p>It is scarcely more than a quarter of
a century, March, 1883, since Judge McComas,
his wife and their little son
Charlie, about seven years of age, coming
from Silver City, New Mexico, to
Lordsburg, were ambushed by a band
of Apaches from San Carlos, the Judge
and his wife killed, and poor little
Charlie carried off to the Sierra Madres
in Mexico, where, a few years later, an
Apache squaw reported that on their
camp being attacked by United States
troops, Charlie, being frightened, ran
off into the mountains, where he is supposed
to have died of hunger and exposure.</p>
<p>It was during this same year that a
band passing over the Whetstone
range of mountains killed a teamster
and two of his men and a wood-chopper,
who were furnishing wood for the
Total Wreck mine.</p>
<p>On July 3, 1885, Frank Peterson, who
was carrying the United States mail
between Crittenden and Lochiel, was
killed by the Indians while returning
from Lochiel to Crittenden. A sad feature
in connection with this killing was
that he had just been married.</p>
<h2>Dr. Davis Shot to Death.</h2>
<p>On June 3, 1886, Dr. C. H. Davis, a
brother of W. C. Davis, of Tucson, coming
from the San Pedro river over the
pass between the Catalinas and the
Rincons, with a wagon and span of
mules, was waylaid and killed by a
band of these outlaws. J. P. Hohusen
and W. H. Wheaton, coming from their
homes on the San Pedro the day before,
met Dr. Davis going out, and
warned him against the Indians, but
having been in the country but a short
time, he failed to appreciate the danger
and made light of the warning.</p>
<p>It was subsequently learned that
Hohusen and Wheaton narrowly escaped
this same band themselves as they
were coming in to Tucson. When Hohusen
returned home he learned from
his man that the Indians had been at
his place the night before the killing
of Davis, and attempted to drive off
some of his horses from the pasture;
but the man, seizing his rifle, jumped
into a well which was partly caved in
and which naturally furnished him an
excellent defensive position, and from
this he fired at the Indians, but without
apparent effect other than to force
them to leave the place. After the
killing of Dr. Davis, the Indians, taking
the two mules, went to Walter
Vail’s Happy Valley ranch, in the Rincons,
where they left the mules in exchange
for a bunch of Vail’s
horses, shooting, but not killing,
Cal Mathews, the herder. From
Happy Valley they passed south
into the Whetstones, where they
shot and killed Marcus Goldbaum.
Edward L. Vail, one of the party going
out to the scene of the killing, found
that the Indians had been gone but a
few hours, having also killed a partner
of Goldbaum as he was en route to
Benson.</p>
<h2>Little Boy Taken From Gastelo Ranch.</h2>
<p>It was not long prior to this that a
band working back from the Sierra
Madres to the San Carlos reservation
attacked the ranch of Juan Gastelo,
not over fifteen miles from Tucson,
near Tanque Verde, and carried off
with them a little Mexican boy. The
news coming to town, a volunteer company
was immediately formed by M. G.
Samaniego (now dead) and R. N.
Leatherwood, our Bob. Samaniego,
having had a brother killed by the
Apaches a few years before, was more
than keen for an opportunity to avenge
his death. The volunteer company, led
by Leatherwood and Samaniego, came
upon the band, encamped in the
neighborhood of Tanque Verde. The
Indians, however, being alarmed by
the premature firing of a gun, scattered
like a flock of quail and got away,
but the boy, escaping, was recovered
by the volunteers.</p>
<p>On another occasion a band, killing
a rancher named Lloyd, four miles
north of Pantano, stole the horses of
Ed Vail and George Scholefield, near
Rosemont, and passing on south, killed
a man named Wimple, near Greaterville.</p>
<h2>Mexicans Attack and Rob Wheaton.</h2>
<p>A trying experience in the life of
Wheaton, who narrowly escaped the
band that killed Dr. Davis, was when
four Mexicans came to his ranch on
the San Pedro river one evening, he
being entirely alone at the time, and
demanded his money, which they said
they knew him to have from the sale
of some hogs. He, however, denying
that he had any money, they proceeded
to put a rope round his neck, and
strung him up three or four times,
each time demanding that he tell
where the money was concealed, and
he still denying that he had any. During
all this time they were trying to
find where the money was hidden, and
finally discovered it, about $60, in the
window casing. Then the question
was debated as to what they should
do with Wheaton; whether or not they
should kill him. This they evidently
hesitated to do, but finally decided to
take him out and throw him into his
well, probably having in mind that
this would not kill him, but would
make him a close prisoner for a time.
On taking him to the well, however,
they found it to be a bored one and
therefore only eight or ten inches in
diameter. Of course this frustrated
that plan, and they returned him to the
house, and throwing him on his bed,
proceeded to tie him, and after threatening
to kill him in case he at any time
made them any trouble over the affair,
they left him. As soon as they were
gone Wheaton succeeded in releasing
himself and went to the home of J. P.
Hohusen, not far away, naturally nearly
prostrated from his fright and the
terrible ordeal through which he had
just passed. The next day Wheaton,
accompanied by Ira Davis, a brother of
Dr. Davis, came to Tucson and reported
the case to Judge C. H. Meyer, an
old-time justice of the peace.</p>
<h2>“Old Charley Meyer,” Law Unto Himself.</h2>
<p>Old Charlie Meyer, as he was familiarly
called, was indeed a character,
and had the well-earned reputation of
meeting out justice with an iron hand,
and, due in a large measure to his eccentric
methods of administering justice,
was quite popular with the well
meaning, but certainly a terror to the
evil-doer. Judge Meyer’s conception
of justice and the language of the
statutes frequently failed to be in full
harmony, but that, of course, was not
a matter for which he was responsible,
and should not, and did not, interfere
in the slightest degree with the administration
of justice in his court. Meyer
recalled that four Mexicans had that
same day come into his court and, by
the deposit of $60 as bail, had secured
the release of their friend, one El
Zorra, who was being held for some
offense, having been unable until then
to secure bail. Three of these four
men were immediately found and arrested.
The fourth, having started for
Mexico, was followed by the officers
and overtaken at Boley’s Well, where,
in resisting arrest, he was shot and
killed by Bob Cannon, one of the officers.
On trial of the other three, Hohusen
was able to fully identify one
of the bills in the $60 turned in to
Judge Meyer’s court as one that he had
personally paid to Wheaton a few days
before. In addition to this, one of the
men, Pancho Gomez, having turned
state’s evidence, they were all three
convicted and sentenced to the Territorial
prison, Gomez, however, for a
shorter term than the others.</p>
<h2>“Tommy Gates Displays Magnificent
Nerve.”</h2>
<p>While serving their terms, on October
27, 1887, in an attempted outbreak
at the prison, in which these men participated,
the prisoners succeeded in
getting hold of the superintendent of
the prison, Thomas Gates, familiarly
known as Tommy Gates, and threatened
to take his life if he permitted the
guards to fire on them. Notwithstanding
this, he ordered the guards to fire,
when one of the Wheaton convicts, one
Puebla, thrust a knife first into his
shoulder and then into his back, seriously
but not fatally wounding him.
Barney Riggs, a life-termer, then succeeded
in getting hold of a pistol, shot
and killed Puebla, and for this was
subsequently pardoned out, in response
to the almost unanimous sentiment of
the Territory. In the emeute four of
the prisoners were killed outright, and
Tommy Gates’s display of nerve on the
occasion goes into history as a heroic
example of self sacrifice in the discharge
of duty.</p>
<h2>Brutal Murder of Mrs. Peck and Baby.</h2>
<p>On April 27, 1886, a band of Indians
appeared at the ranch of A. L. Peck,
about twenty miles from Oro Blanco,
where they found Mrs. Peck, her baby,
about eleven months old, and her
niece, Jenny, a young girl of about 11
years. Killing Mrs. Peck and the baby,
they took the young girl away with
them. It was asserted by some at the
time, including Peck himself, that the
leader of this band was Geronimo, but
I think this could hardly have been
possible, for the reason that the leader
was too young and spoke good English,
whereas Geronimo did not speak English.
In giving the “Story of His Life”
to S. M. Barrett, at Fort Sill, not many
years ago, it had to be done through
an interpreter. Besides, Geronimo had
escaped from General Crook, sixty-five
miles south of Fort Bowie and 125
miles east of Oro Blanco, on the night
of March 29th, only a month previous,
and gone into the Sierra Madre mountains.
It is my opinion that Geronimo
was never seen in Arizona subsequent
to that time until he surrendered to
General Miles and was brought to Fort
Bowie the following September.</p>
<p>At the time of the killing of Mrs.
Peck, Peck and a young man by the
name of Charles Owen were a mile or
two away from the house, both being
mounted but unarmed, and were in the
act of catching a steer. The Indians
surprising them, Peck’s horse was shot
from under him and he was captured
and held prisoner. Owen, being well
mounted, made a dash for his life, but
ran into another part of the same
band. His horse was shot from under
him, and Owen himself was shot
through the neck and arm, killing him
instantly. Those that had Peck were
apparently waiting for their leader for
instructions as to what to do with him.
The leader soon coming up, after taking
from Peck his boots, knife and tobacco,
they released him, telling him,
however, not to go home. Before releasing
him, one of the Indians, for
some unexplainable reason, gave him
65 cents in money. A squaw with this
band had little Jenny on a horse with
her. Jenny was crying bitterly, and
when Peck attempted to talk with her
the Indians intervened and prevented
his doing so. About six weeks later
she was rescued from the Indians by
some Mexican cowboys, at a point
about forty miles from Magdalena, Sonora,
where she was delivered to Peck,
who had gone after her. As soon as
released, Peck went directly home,
where he found his wife and baby lying
dead.</p>
<h2>Shanahan Killed, “Yank” Bartlett
Wounded.</h2>
<p>The day following the killing
of Mrs. Peck and her baby, John
Shanahan, who was unarmed, left
“Yank” Bartlett’s ranch in Bear
Valley, about eight miles from Oro
Blanco, for his own place, about
three miles distant, leaving at the
ranch with Bartlett his little son Phil,
about ten years of age, who was there
visiting Johnnie Bartlett, of about the
same age. Shanahan had been gone
but about ten minutes, when Johnnie
ran into the room where his father
was, telling him that he had just heard
three shots, and that he thought maybe
the Indians had shot the “old man”.
Bartlett, who had not heard of the Indians
being in the vicinity, scouted
the idea, but on going outside saw
Shanahan approaching, and ran to him
and assisted him into the house, Shanahan
telling him that the Indians had
shot him. Bartlett immediately seized
his gun, and on going to the door a
bullet fired by one of the Indians whistled
past his head. There were but
three of the Indians, but having placed
themselves in different positions, it
was hardly possible for Bartlett to get
a shot at them without exposing himself
to their fire, and one shot from
them passing through his shoulder,
only missed the head of Johnnie by
about an inch, blinding him from the
dust of the adobe wall as the bullet
struck it. The fight between Bartlett
and the three Indians was kept up
until dark. Shanahan, fatally wounded,
was constantly calling out for water.
Bartlett thinks that in the fight he
wounded one of the Indians.</p>
<h2>Little Phil Saves Mother and Sisters</h2>
<p>Shanahan’s story is that a short time
after leaving the house, being totally
unconscious of any danger, he was suddenly
shot by an Indian, whom he then
saw only about thirty feet away. Picking
up a rock and starting for the Indian,
Shanahan received another shot
from behind that knocked him down,
but he was immediately up again and
ran back for the house, Bartlett meeting
and assisting him in. Shanahan
saw but two Indians, and said he could
have killed both if he had had a gun.
During the time Bartlett was keeping
the Indians at bay, realizing the danger
of Mrs. Shanahan and her two
young daughters, at their home three
miles away, he told Phil, Shanahan’s
little son, to steal out of the house by
a back way and go to his home and
notify his mother of their danger and
of the shooting of his father. Phil demurred
at first, wanting to stay with
his father, who was suffering intensely,
but being told that unless he went his
mother and little sisters would surely
be killed, the little fellow courageously
said he would try to get to them, and
good fortune favoring him, he succeeded
in doing so. Finding them in the
garden, they all, including Phil, immediately
started for the mountains,
where they concealed themselves until
the following day. In the meantime
the Indians had come to the house and
carried off or wrecked everything in it,
and would undoubtedly have killed
Mrs. Shanahan and the two little girls
had not brave little Phil, at the risk of
his life, warned them of the danger.</p>
<h2>Brave Little Johnnie Bartlett.</h2>
<p>Bartlett kept the Indians off until
dark, when it is probable they left, as
they were not seen again. Soon after
dark, Bartlett told Johnnie that he
must go to Oro Blanco and notify the
people of the shooting of Shanahan
and himself, and that Shanahan was
probably dying. When little Johnnie
was told that he must do this, like the
little hero he was, he simply said: “All
right, papa,” and immediately started,
first taking off his shoes and going
barefoot the first mile or two, to avoid
making any sound. Johnnie, on foot,
reached Oro Blanco, eight miles away,
about two o’clock in the morning and
gave the alarm. A posse was immediately
made up and started for the
scene of the troubles, where they found
Shanahan dead and Bartlett wounded,
and the Indians evidently gone.</p>
<h2>General Crook Relieved.</h2>
<p>Gen. George Crook came to Arizona
in 1870, remaining in command of the
department here until 1875, when he
was transferred to the department of
the Platte, and was reassigned and returned
to Arizona in 1882. In 1886,
evidently taking exception to an implied
criticism from the Department
at Washington, and, as he expressed
it, “having spent nearly eight years of
the hardest work of his life in this department”,
he asked to be relieved.
Crook was criticized in Arizona at the
time for a too abiding faith in the loyalty
of his Indian scouts, and many of
us believed this criticism to be fully
justified. There is hardly a doubt that
much of the ammunition used by the
renegades was supplied them by these
same scouts. It was but a few months
prior to Crook’s being relieved that
Capt. Crawford, a zealous and gallant
officer, while engaged in his thankless
task of ridding their own country of
these pests, was treacherously killed
by Mexican irregular troops in the
Sierra Madre mountains. It is true
that these irregular troops were Tarahumari
Indians, possibly as wild and
uncontrollable as the Apaches themselves,
and that may extenuate the
treachery to some extent, but the fact
remains that the officers in command
were not Indians, but Mexicans.</p>
<h2>Geronimo Surrenders to General Miles.</h2>
<p>On April 2, 1886, Gen. Miles, superseding
Crook, took command of the
Department of Arizona, and in his
“Personal Recollections” he speaks of
finding here, stationed at Fort Huachuca,
a “fair-haired, blue-eyed young
man of great intellect, manly qualities
and resolute spirit, a splendid type of
American manhood”. This “fair-haired,
blue-eyed young man” of 1886 was
at the time Assistant Surgeon in the
Army. He is now Major General Leonard
Wood, late Chief of Staff, U. S.
Army.</p>
<p>On the 4th of September following
Miles’s assuming command, Geronimo
and his band surrendered to him, and
on September 8th they left Fort Bowie
for Fort Marion, Florida. The point
of surrender to Miles was at Skeleton
canyon, in Mexico, about 65 miles
south of Fort Bowie. The surrender of
Geronimo may be fixed as the date of
the termination of the many years of
warfare between the whites and the
Apaches as a tribe, a warfare marked
with a cruelty on the part of the
Apaches probably unparalleled in the
history of the four hundred years of
strife between the whites on the one
side and the redman on the other.</p>
<h2>Apache Kid Begins Bloody Career.</h2>
<p>I have said that the surrender of
Geronimo terminated the many years
of bloody warfare with the Apaches as
a tribe, but the Indian tribes may, and
do, have outlaws in their own tribe,
outlaws for whom as a tribe they are
in no way responsible, and for whose
acts the individual and not the tribe
should alone be held amenable. Even
the white tribe is not altogether immune
from this infliction. In this
class, among others, was the “Apache
Kid”, who, following the surrender of
Geronimo, with a few lawless followers
made independent warfare on isolated,
helpless settlers, leaving the footprints
of his bloody work wherever he went.
The Kid, sometimes called the Apache
Kid, and at others simply Kid, was an
Apache scout occupying the position of
sergeant under Al Sieber, chief of
scouts. On June 1, 1887, the Kid shot
Sieber on the San Carlos reservation,
wounding but not killing him, and this
marks the beginning of Kid’s series of
bloody crimes.</p>
<p>Immediately following the shooting
of Sieber, Kid, his squaw and sixteen
other Indians, left the reservation.</p>
<h2>Capt. Burgess, Old-Time Scout</h2>
<p>An interesting old-time scout is Captain
John D. Burgess, who came to
Arizona in 1873 to look after some
mining interests for General Kautz and
Colonel Biddle of the army, subsequently
becoming a guide and scout
for the government, and in 1882 was
chief of Indian police at San Carlos.
At the time the Kid started out on his
career, Captain Burgess was working
some mines of his own at Table Mountain,
in the Galiura mountains. The
officer in command of the troops sent
out from San Carlos in pursuit of the
Kid and his followers, knowing Burgess,
immediately secured his services
as guide and trailer. Following the
Kid and his band, they trailed them
through to Pantano, where they had
crossed the railroad, and going up
Davidson’s canyon, and passing E. L.
Vail’s ranch had accommodated themselves
to a bunch of his horses. Passing
down the east side of the Santa
Ritas, they killed Mike Grace, an old
miner, near old Camp Crittenden. Here
Captain Lawton, with a troop of the
4th Cavalry, heading them off and forcing
them to turn back, they passed by
Mountain Springs, near the present
Vail station, and were run over the
Rincon mountains, where they were so
closely pursued that while in camp
they lost all the horses they had stolen.
They now headed for the reservation,
which they succeeded in reaching before
Lieutenant Carter Johnson, who
was immediately behind, could overtake
them, and here they surrendered,
and in due course were tried and sent
first to San Diego barracks, passing
through Tucson on September 3rd, and
subsequently, in February, 1888, were
transferred to Fort Alcatraz, in the bay
of San Francisco. Subsequently, the
United States Supreme Court, having
decided that the trial of an Indian devolved
on the county in which the
crime was committed, ordered that all
Indians sentenced by other than the
territorial courts should be returned
to the Territory and tried by such
courts. Under this order the Kid and
several others were returned and tried
by Judge Kibbey, at Globe, and on
October 30, 1889, sentenced to imprisonment
at Yuma, and were being taken
there by Sheriff Reynolds and his Deputy,
“Hunky-Dory” Holmes. They were
being conveyed by stage over the Pinal
mountains, via Riverside and Florence.
In the stage were Reynolds, Holmes, a
Mexican who was also being taken to
Yuma, the Kid and seven other Indians,
and Eugene Middleton the driver
of the stage, making twelve in all.</p>
<h2>Killing of Sheriff and Deputy and Escape
of Kid</h2>
<p>The Indians were handcuffed together,
two and two, and had shackles on
their ankles. They stopped over night
at Riverside, about half-way between
Globe and Florence. Leaving Riverside
early on the morning of November
2nd, while passing up a heavy sand-wash,
the pulling being quite heavy, in
order to relieve the team, the two officers
and six of the Indians got out to
walk, the Indians probably having had
their shackles loosened from at least
one ankle to enable them to do so; the
Kid and one of the Indians still remaining
in the stage. Suddenly the six Indians
that were walking seized the two
officers, whom they overpowered and
killed with their own guns. As soon as
Middleton discovered what was taking
place, drawing his own revolver and
covering the Kid and the other Indian
still in the stage, he kept them quiet
until, on standing up to look back, he
was shot through the face by one of
the other Indians. In the meantime
the Mexican, taking advantage of the
opportunity, escaped. Middleton, although
badly wounded, was not killed;
the Indians, however, evidently thought
he was dead. He was, however, sufficiently
conscious to realize what was
taking place and avoided disabusing
their minds of their belief, and in due
course was rescued and taken to Globe,
where he finally fully recovered.</p>
<p>The eight Indians, now armed with
a shot-gun, a Winchester rifle, and
three revolvers, partly stripping Middleton
and the two officers, hastened
to get away. Stories of the manner of
their relieving themselves of their
shackles do not agree. One story is
that, finding a blacksmith-shop near
the mouth of the San Pedro river, they
succeeded in cutting the shackles
loose. Middleton’s statement is that,
finding the keys in the pockets of the
Sheriff, they easily freed themselves
of their irons, and the plausibility of
this is quite evident, as the officers
must necessarily have had the keys
with them. After their escape the Indians
are supposed to have come along
the west side of the Catalina mountains,
and passed near the Half-way
House, between Tucson and Fort Lowell,
as their tracks were seen there
crossing the road, going south.</p>
<h2>Sword Presented to General Miles.</h2>
<p>The people of Arizona, having been
finally and, it was felt, permanently relieved
of this black incubus that had
been hanging over them for the many
years dating back to their early coming
to the Territory, and General Miles
having contributed so largely to the
result, decided to do something marking
their appreciation of the services
rendered them, and this found expression
in the presentation of a sword.
Through a popular subscription a magnificent
sword costing $1000 was procured
through Tiffany & Company of
New York, the blade being of the finest
steel, beautifully etched, and the hilt
of solid gold. The presentation took
place on November 8th, 1887, at Levin’s
Park, at the foot of Pennington
street. It was originally intended that
the ceremony should take place on September
4th, the anniversary of the
surrender of Geronimo, but that day
falling on a Sunday, it was fixed for
Monday the 5th. General Miles, however,
having been injured by the overturning
of the carriage in which he
was out riding at Santa Monica, California,
on August 8th, the presentation
was delayed until the date named.
Many notables in our country, also the
Governors of neighboring Mexican
States, were invited to be present. A
distinguishing feature in the very long
procession leading to the Park was
three hundred mounted Papagos, under
their chief, Asuncion Ruiz, in all
their barbaric splendor of feathers and
paint. The Papagos had always been
the consistent friends of the whites
and the inveterate foes of the Apaches,
so they were more than glad to participate
in this event. In addition to
the conventional combination usually
found in parades, there were the 4th
U. S. cavalry band and a platoon of
United States artillery, William Zeckendorf,
one of the very early pioneers,
acting as grand marshal. One of the
photographs suggesting this article is
of this procession, evidently taken
from the roof of one of the buildings
on the west side of Main street, looking
up Pennington street, and shows
the parade the full length of the street,
the head not having quite reached
Main street. The presentation was
made on a platform erected for the
purpose in the Park. Royal A. Johnson
was president of the day, I having
the honor of acting as secretary, and
Judge W. H. Barnes making the presentation
address. One of my duties
as secretary was to read the letters of
regret from those who had been invited
but were unable to be present.
Among these I now recall letters from
Secretary of War Wm. C. Endicott,
Gen. Sherman, and R. G. Ingersoll.
Among those present were Major
Chaffee, subsequently Lieutenant General,
and Lieutenant Wood, now Major
General. The other of the two photographs
is of General Miles and those
on the platform with him, taken as
the general was delivering his address
accepting the sword. In the evening,
following the presentation, there was a
reception and ball at the San Xavier
hotel, since burned down, near the
station; this hotel at the time was
kept by Wheeler and Perry.</p>
<h2>Johnny Greenleaf Mistakes Scouts for
Kid.</h2>
<p>As illustrating the trying experiences
that one might be subject to during
these troublous times when the
fear of the Kid was in the very air, I
may relate one of a friend of mine,
Johnny Greenleaf. Johnny was sinking
a well on his ranch, some distance
from the house, and had just ridden
to where his two men were at work,
one in the well and the other on top.
Suddenly a number of Indians came in
sight, approaching the well. Recognizing
them as Apaches, he naturally
assumed them to be the Kid and some
of his followers, and obeying the instinct
of human nature, that of self-preservation,
cried out, “Here comes
the Kid!” quickly mounted his horse
and started to escape. He had gone
but a short distance, however, till that
chivalrous spirit which makes one sacrifice
his own life rather than cowardly
desert his comrade, asserted itself, and
he immediately turned and rode back
to his men, both of whom were now on
top, realizing at the same time that
there was absolutely nothing that he
could do, neither he nor his men having
a shooting-iron of any kind, all of
their weapons having been left at the
house. The Indians now approaching
the well, Johnny asked them in English
what they were hunting and where
they were going. One of them, speaking
English very poorly, in trying to
make himself understood mentioned
the Kid in such a way that Johnny understood
him to say that he was the
Apache Kid. This simply confirmed
what Johnny had thought, but it so
startled him that for a while he could
barely speak; for if this were the Kid,
there was little chance for the lives of
either Johnny or his men. Finally, recovering
his nerve and asking something
else, the Indian succeeded in
making it understood that they were
scouts from San Carlos and were seeking
the Kid. You can well imagine the
relief of the three men when they
realized that they were in no danger.</p>
<h2>What Would You Do?</h2>
<p>I think I hear one of my readers
saying that Johnny’s attempt to escape
was a cowardly thing to do. Yes?
What would you have done, and what
would I, under the same circumstances?
Unless idiotic, or too frightened
to mount the horse, we would have
done just what Johnny did. Assuming
that this had been the Kid, as Johnny
firmly believed, his escape meant the
loss of but two lives, instead of the
loss of the same two and the sacrifice
of a third—his own—if he remained.
But no man knows just exactly what
he would do under a certain trying
condition until he has been subjected
to the test of that very condition. He
may think he does, but he doesn’t. But
having gone less than 100 yards,
Johnny’s mind has had time to react,
and the chivalrous spirit asserts itself,
and he turns and rides back—to what?
To his death, he has every reason to
believe. But having gotten the 100
yards away, would you or I have turned
and ridden back to our own certain
death? Is there not a possibility that
were the world wide enough and the
horse strong enough we might still be
going? In your imagination don’t
place the standard too high for the
nerve you think you possess, if at the
time you are absolutely in no danger.</p>
<h2>Stoicism of Indian</h2>
<p>The following incident shows something
of the character of these Ishmaelites
of the desert. On one occasion
five of them had been tried at Florence
for the killing of someone in the
Superstition mountains, and sentenced
to be hanged. The night previous to
the day of the hanging, while in their
cells, with the death-watch outside,
three of them, to avoid the ignominy
of death by hanging, committed suicide
by self-strangulation. This they
could do only by each putting a cord
around his neck and deliberately choking
himself to death. The three were
found dead in the morning when the
guards entered their cells.</p>
<p>Of course it is not possible to recall
the names of all of the many whose
lives were a sacrifice to the safety and
prosperity of the great commonwealth
that was to follow, but I have in mind
that on June 7, 1886, Thos. Hunt, a
prospector, was killed near Harshaw,
and on June 9 of the same year Henry
Baston was killed near Arivaca. On
September 22, 1888, W. B. Horton, post
trader at San Carlos, was killed by one
of the Indians on the reservation. But
in this case punishment was swift, as
the Indian police almost immediately
killed the murderer while he was attempting
to escape from the reservation.</p>
<h2>“Walapai” Clark and the Kid</h2>
<p>One of our early frontier characters
was E. A. Clark, familiarly known as
“Walapai”, having gained the title
years ago when in the government service
as chief of the Hualapai scouts.
Clark was a giant in stature, measuring
six feet three, absolutely fearless
and in those olden times equally tireless.
Coming to the Territory in ’69,
his life and experiences here would fill
a volume of intensely interesting reading,
but in this limited article I can
mention only a few of his closing Indian
experiences, the culminating one—the
one of the greatest service to
the Territory—resulting in the death
of that outlaw and terror of the border,
this same Apache Kid. Clark’s first
experience with the Kid was on June
3, 1887, two days after his shooting of
Al Sieber. At the time, Clark was living
at his ranch, the Oak Grove, in the
Galiura mountains, about twelve miles
east of the San Pedro river, but was
absent, his two partners, John Scanlan
and William Diehl, being at home. The
Kid and his followers coming across
the country from San Carlos, stole
fifteen horses from William Atchley,
then came on to Clark’s place, three
miles further on. At the time, Diehl
was about 150 yards from the house,
cutting some poles for a corral, when
Scanlan, who was in the house, heard
three shots, and, seizing his gun, ran
out, and as he did so saw three Indians
coming towards the house, and firing
at them, they immediately sought shelter.
When Scanlan fired at the Indians
one of them lost a big sombrero which
he was wearing, and which, probably
very much to his regret, he was unable
to recover. They then rounded up a
number of Scanlan’s horses, not far
away, and seemingly tried to get Scanlan
to come out to protect his horses,
and thus enable them to get a shot at
him; but being unable to do this, they
left, taking the horses with them. As
soon as they had gone, Scanlan went
to where Diehl was and found him
dead, the Indians having shot him.</p>
<h2>Clark Vows Vengeance</h2>
<p>Clark, returning home a day or two
later and finding his partner dead,
vowed vengeance on the Kid, and this,
several years later, he found opportunity
to gratify. A few months later,
Clark and Scanlan having occasion to
be away, left a young engineer, J. A.
Mercer, at the house, with a caution to
be on the lookout for the Indians. Soon
after, Mercer discovered three of them
crawling up towards the house, but
was in time to seize a rifle and fire at
them, and as he did so they broke and
ran. However, they took five of Clark’s
horses in exchange for three of their
own, which they killed before leaving.</p>
<p>For several years Clark impatiently
bided his time. To him the mills of
the gods were, indeed, grinding slowly,
but they were grinding, and the time
was approaching when the grist should
be delivered. In the meantime the Kid
was continuing to lengthen his trail of
blood. Now here, now there, the wily
outlaw was ever at his work. A murder
here today, he is heard of one hundred
miles away tomorrow, leaving a
trail behind him marked by where he
had changed his mount by the stealing
of a new one at some ranch, leaving
his old one dead, in exchange. This
was his practice, killing the animal
he might leave by stabbing in the side,
thus avoiding the sacrifice of any of
his ammunition, which he could ill afford
to lose. Being an outlaw with his
own people, he found it difficult to replenish
his belt.</p>
<h2>Kid Nears End of His Trail of Blood</h2>
<p>But at last the end of his career of
robbery and bloodshed is approaching.
The opportunity that Clark has been
waiting all these years is nigh at hand.
The Apache Kid’s race is about run.
Clark had been away from home, and
when returning, on February 4, 1894,
passing by the house of Emmerson, a
neighbor, about a mile from his own
home, he noticed the tracks of three
Indians about the house, and going inside,
found they had robbed it of its
contents. Going on home, he found his
partner, Scanlan, whom the Indians
had not disturbed, and said to him,
“Scanlan, your old friend the Kid has
been around again.”</p>
<p>Soon after, Clark, taking his gun,
went out of the house for the purpose
of “scouting the country around” and
seeing whether he might get sight of
the Indians. Going to the top of a
peak near by, where he could overlook
the surrounding country without unduly
exposing himself, he awaited
events, not realizing what an approaching
one should mean to himself, and to
an old enemy on whom he had vowed
vengeance for the death of his old-time
partner, and that this event would
mark an era in a life ever filled with
its dangers, not one of which had ever
been shirked, but always bravely met.
The opportunity for which he had
waited, and in his way—a way probably
familiar only to the “old scout”—had
prayed for, was but a few short
hours away. The language of his prayers,
except for its fervency, may not
have been up to the orthodox standard,
but he knew what he wanted, and in
asking for it used the language with
which he was familiar—the language
of the desert and the mountain, the
camp-fire and the trail.</p>
<h2>Closing Act in Great Drama</h2>
<p>Clark had been there for probably
twenty minutes, when, looking off
across an intervening canyon, he noticed
three Indians approaching his
horse where it was grazing, about 1500
yards away. The Indians not having
discovered Clark, who, knowing it
would be impossible to get across the
canyon in time to save his horse,
raised the sights of his gun, and fired
at them, not expecting, however, to
hit any one of them at that distance,
but hoping to frighten them away from
his horse. On firing, Clark immediately
ducked into the canyon, out of sight
of the Indians, who were evidently
frightened by the shot. Waiting there
until dusk, he cautiously crawled towards
his horse for the purpose of taking
him to the house, and was within
about seventy-five yards of him, it being
too dark to see an object distinctly
at any distance, when he saw two Indians
approaching the horse, and only a
few steps from the animal and about
50 yards from where Clark was. Owing
to the darkness it was impossible to
more than distinguish the two Indians,
who were but a few feet apart, one
ahead of the other. These were subsequently
found to be the Kid and his
squaw, the squaw in front and nearest
to Clark, but owing to the darkness it
was impossible to distinguish one from
the other. Clark instantly raised his
gun and fired at the one nearest to
him, but, being unable to see the
sights, could only take a quick aim
along the barrel. By his long experience
with a gun he knew the danger
of overshooting in the dark, and made
allowance accordingly. As Clark fired
there came a simultaneous report from
the Kid’s rifle and an outcry from the
squaw, and from the character of this
outcry, Clark knew that he had made
the mistake of firing at the wrong Indian.
The ball from the Kid’s gun
whistled alarmingly close to Clark’s
head, but fortunately did no harm. Following
the shots, the two Indians immediately
dropped to the ground, and
as fast as the old scout could work his
rifle he “pumped the lead” into where
they had dropped, firing several shots.
The Indian, however, fired but the one
shot. Clark then made a run for his
horse, but the animal being frightened,
he was unable to catch him.</p>
<p>Not knowing how many of the Indians
there might be about, Clark immediately
set out for Mammoth, on the
San Pedro, where he procured a small
posse, and was back at the scene of the
shooting by morning, finding the squaw
dead a short distance from where she
had been shot. Following the Kid’s
trail, they found that he had hopped on
one foot to where he had left his horse,
one of his legs evidently being broken.
Scouts from San Carlos, following his
trail, found some bloody rags where he
had built a little fire, and probably
dressed his wounds.</p>
<h2>Kid’s Career Ended</h2>
<p>Thus ended the murderous career of
the Kid, the terror of the Southwest.
Clark had undoubtedly hit him with
one or more of his shots. Where or
how soon after he may have died, no
white man knows, Clark being the last
one to see him, as the two shots simultaneously
rang out on the silence of
that night. Had it been the Kid instead
of the squaw, Clark would have
earned the large reward that was offered
for him dead or alive. Tom
Horn, an old scout, who spoke the
Apache language like a native, came
from Denver subsequently, hoping that
by some chance the Kid might still be
living somewhere and that he might
earn the reward. The mother and the
sister, however, both assured him that
the Kid was dead, but beyond this
would say nothing.</p>
<p>It would seem that there could be no
more fitting ending to this little sketch
than its dedication to the memory of
those old-timers, makers of early-day
history, the old pioneers. Each well
played his individual part in that great
border drama. On them the curtain
has rung down for the last time. To
them the succeeding generations owe
much.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p>
<p>Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.</p>
</div></div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69801 ***</div>
</body>
</html>
|
