Apache Vengeance

APACHE VENGEANCE I Had Never Seen the Indians on the Warpath or Witnessed Their Hellish Work Until the Month of April, 1882

TO SEE the modern Apache In- dian, high school and college graduate, wearing a ten-gallon sombrero, gaudy dress, high-heel boots, and driving high-powered cars, one can hardly believe his fore-father was the cold-blooded, merciless, savage of our western frontier. Within the space of the last fifty years the writer has seen this seemingly miraculous transition. But with all the white man's education, and all the modern equipment of travel and flashy clothes, he still lives in the wigwam of ancient days, and in that hovel of poles and brush still lingers the memory of warrior braves who went to their happy hunting ground battling the hated pale face to maintain the heritage of their fathers. Nor is the inherent lust for blood vanished, for in their modern environments they still break out among themselves and blood flows as of old, and will continue as long as the wigwam stands to reflect the memories of the wild and untamed life. It was in the last days of their final struggle to break the restraint and control of the white man's dominant power,By DAN ROSE leave for some mountain fastness, and live again the wild, free and untamed life of their ancestors, that the writer witnessed the savage Apache in one of the most diabolical crimes of his long and murderous career. No one by any stretch of imagination can fully realize the horror that grips one as he views the scenes of an early day Indian massacre. Such a scene, however, was witnessed by the writer, and the memory of it, as I write, makes me feel a thousand times more fearful of that day than when I looked upon it as a boy. It was no uncommon sight to gaze upon the dead and mutilated bodies of unfortunate victims along the Apache war trail in the spring and summer of the years from 1875 to 1883. This war trail had its beginning at the Warm Spring Mescalaro Apache reservation on the Rio Grande, New Mexico, and trailed its way over the Black range and Mogollon mountains, thence a few miles from Silver City, on down the Gila river close to Clifton, Arizona, and farther on to the San Carlos Apache Indian reservation or as an old prospector said, “To hell and back.” But I had never seen the Indians on the war-path nor witnessed their hellish work until the month of April, 1882. It was then the renegade Chiricahua Apache took up the war-trail and killed Captain Albert Sterling, chief of scouts, and five of his San Carlos Indian scouts. It was then the scenes presented to me seemed a hundred times more horrible than I'd ever dreamed them to be. To lead up to this thrilling affair, it will be interesting to the reader, perhaps, to follow minor events which placed me in the position to witness the scenes of the killing. A lad of seventeen at the time and wishing to leave Globe, Arizona, and go to my home at Silver City, New Mexico, Bill Warnack, an old time Indian fighter and freighter told me he was going to Willcox on the Southern Pacific railroad, with a sixmule outfit for a load of freight; he told me there was room for me, so I threw in with Bill and Charlie, his twelve-year-old boy, who was with us. The first night we camped at Point of Rocks which is called Rice today; here friendly Indians in camps close by pestered the quiet of the evening, and our much needed rest, begging for “Smoke tobac” and cigarette paper until old Bill ran “the pesky varmints” out of camp with a black snake mule whip. The next day we camped for lunch at the San Carlos Indian Agency. Captain Sterling, chief of the Indian scouts, a tall, fine looking man, with clear honest face, brown hair, hazel eyes, and the stride and bearing of a trained soldier, told us that a rumor had come to him that the Chiricahua Apache, the most war-like and treacherous Indians on the reservation, were about to make a break from the Agency, and as their route would be along the road we were traveling he thought it wise for us to remain at the Agency for a day or so. Then old Bill swore that “it wuz a tarnel damn shame thet the soldiers didn't kill every ornery Injun in the country as they did under Captain Billy McCleve back thar in the sixties.” Warnack would not heed his advice and we pulled out of the Agency, crossed the ford of the Gila, and traveled the road up the river which wound through the foothills, and came to the banks of the river again about six miles fromour mid-day camp, and some two miles from the Chiricahua "rancheria". Here amid the grove of large cottonwood trees old Bill decided to camp for the night.

After supper old Bill and the boy stretched out on our bed, and I was sitting on the ground with my back against a wagon wheel listening to Warnack tell a bear yarn; the camp fire was burning low and a faint glow of light dimly reflected the scenes. Suddenly looking up, I saw a tall Apache standing within the flare of light, straight as an arrow, with a blanket drawn closely around his body, he stood for a moment then in deep voice greeted us with, "How, how."

"How," I answered.

Bill, aroused at the interruption of his yarn, bellowed, "What in hell you want Injun? A stealin' on folks like an ornery pole cat?"

"Ugh," the man grunted and said, "Tobac."

"Tobac hell, I aint got no tobac fer pesky critters as you, and git outin' here afore I beat tranation hell out uv you, savvy!"

I noticed he drew his body more taut and a deep scowl spread over his face as he stood listening to Bill, then I arose off the ground and offered him my sack of smoking tobacco and cigarette paper. The scowl disappeared as he took them, and as he turned from the camp he motioned me to follow.

He paused a few feet away and with his left hand gripping the blanket firmly, he told me in broken English and in an under-tone, "You no go," pointing ahead on our road, "You go back San Carlos before sun he come up, savvy," and before I could reply he was gone into the night. Telling Bill what he had said I was bawled out "fer paying any heed to the blankety-blank critters." That Apache had a gun concealed underneath his blanket. We were on dangerous ground and did not know it, as subsequent events proved.

As the grey dawn was streaking the eastern sky I was awakened by Bill. "Get up, Dan," he said, "I've been out for over an hour a lookin' fer them mules and cain't find only three; git your boots on an' jump ole Beck an' see if you cain't find 'em."

We had a fire going and the coffee was hot, I gulped a cupful and astride of the old mule I rode to find the trail of the missing mules. We picked our way through the dense growth of mesquite headed toward where Bill said he had "lost the trail." "Lost the trail," I muttered, "that's funny for a man like him to turn back with only three ani-mals, when they were all hobbled and easily trailed."

The light of dawn was brighter now, and I dismounted to see the ground more clearly; the tracks of mules were plainer and as I followed them their hobbled steps became jumps. Looking more closely I could see horse tracks behind them, then I realized that they were being driven by someone on horse back. I did not return to tell Bill as I knew he would tongue-lash me, but kid-like, my curiosity was aroused, so on we went to find out where that trail led to. It led back and across the road we had traveled the day before; here in plain view, on the surface of the road, I discovered the mule tracks we had been following were completely obliterated by horse tracks, revealing the fact that our mules were being driven off with a herd of horses by the Apaches.

My curiosity led me farther and the movement brought me near the end of my boyish career. Old Beck was a lazy animal and to urge her along I secured a stalk of the "Sotal" plant about four feet long and two inches in diameter. I was carrying it by my side when sud-denly, as if he appeared out of the sky, an Apache riding a fine horse rode on an elevation some two hundred yards away, and paused, looking at me intently. He had a rifle in his right hand and held it above his head as if signaling others. Whatever instinct, whether Divine or human that prompts one in danger to act quickly and with impulse, it certainly guided me to safety in the few moments the Indian and I were gazing at each other, for I drew the stalk from my side and placed it across my bridle arm.

The sun wasn't up yet and being with my back to its coming light, the Apache could not see plainly whether the stalk was a stick or a deadly gun. Evidently he concluded it was a gun, and believing discretion the better part of valor he whirled his horse and rode rapidly away. That he was with the Indians who were driving our mules toward the Agency was certain, but whether they were stealing them or just to be down-right ornery and mean they were herding them into their own "cavallado," I did not know.

(Continued on Page 21)