"Ghost Road"

OWN in the southeastern part of Arizona is a Ghost road. Built by the United States Government in 1877 for the transportation of supplies from Fort Bowie to the new camp Huachuca, it soon was dubbed The Fighting Trail. Every inch of its length was in the very heart of the Apache country. Every mile of the road has its story of battle with Indian marauders, American highwaymen and Mexican bandits and cattle rustlers. Name your crime; murder, rapine, torture, kidnaping or hold-up; it has seen them all. Then throw in unnumbered pitched battles and running fights for good measure. Shortly after the Trail's inception, the rich mining district of Tombstone was discovered near its western end. With the Fighting Trail for its western boundary line, the City of Tombstone was laid out. The first mills and smelters to handle Tombston's ores were located nine miles away on the San Pedro where the Fighting Trail crossed the river. That camp was named Charleston. Then for years this section of the Trail was crowded day and night with long line of freight wagons carrying millions and millions of dollars worth of rich ore to the mills and supplies to the people of Charleston. Naturally these rich prizes attracted Indian and Mexican as well as By Edward J. Kelly ARIZONA WRITERS PROJECT W. P. A.

Photography By MAX KEGLEY The reminiscences of Jim Wolf, colorful Cochise county pioneer, close with "Ghost Road," wherein we go with Edward J. Kelly over an old road from today to yesterday to visit the Wolf homestead. We follow a "Ghost Road" today, that yesterday was "The Fighting Trail," that led the Padres and the Conquistadores of long, long, ago; that saw the march of the Mormon Battalion and felt the stealthy tread of warring Apaches; a road that was used by hard and tough men conquering America's western frontier.

While raiders, but these freighters were the hardiest of their kind and anything stolen was always dearly paid for in blood. The Fighting Trail, it was well named. Later the Tombstone mines developed sufficient water with depth to mill its ores. New mills were built at the mines so the expense of hauling the ore to Charleston could be saved and that camp was abandoned. With the coming of the automobile, shorter and better roads were built to serve Tombstone, thus completely isolating Charleston and a large portion of the San Pedro valley in its vicinity. Modern progress passed it by and all that area went back to cattle raising. Only a lone cowboy or occasional rancher had any business there. Fort Huachuca receives its supplies over the other roads and from different bases and the old Trail is now a Ghost Road. In the summer of 1937 I was given the assignment to interview Jim Wolf an old friend who lives on the San Pedro river. He came to Charleston in 1883, immediately found work in the smelter, took up a ranch homestead nearby, and when mill and smelter work in the neighborhood had ceased, settled down to cattle raising. For over fifty-seven years he has been there. He has seen Geronimo's broncos on the warpath at his ranch door. He has seen Capt. Lawson and the Dandy Fifth Cavalry on many hot pursuits. He hated the In-dian Scouts worse than he hated the Apache raiders. He has helped pour millions upon millions of dollars of gold and silver ingots in the old mills. For years his only recrea-tion was playing poker with the awful con-glomeration of Mexican and American cattle thieves, smugglers and "wanteds" that drift-ed along the border. He drinks whisky neat and thinks water is something to be used in ore concentrates. Various sheriffs have impressed him into posses to hunt down noted train robbers and criminals along the border. He it was who related to Alfred Henry Lewis those stirring stories of early Arizona that we know as the "Wolfville Tales." Real old timers like Jim Wolf are few and far between.

Now I live in the Dragoon Mountains on the edge of Cochise Stronghold. The Fighting Trail passes through my homestead. To the east, across the Sulphur Springs valley, I can look back along the Trail down into old Fort Bowie and Apache Pass. To the west is Fort Huachuca with Tombstone, Charles-ton, the San Pedro river and Jim Wolf's ranch in between. Only horse drawn ve-hicles as a rule can go up over the Middle Pass of the Dragoons. It is straight up and down in many places, but I felt that the visit to Jim's ranch should be made over the Trail itself. But just as the first soldiers and freighters learned 60 years ago, careful observance of every little detail is still necessary if one wishes to follow the Old Trail in safety.

In Middle Pass, after running in low and then stopping to allow the engine to cool off, I finally reached the top of the divide. Once, when I stopped to clear some big boulders off the Trail, I found a small piece of steel shaped somewhat like a half horseshoe. It was an ox shoe of a type used by the government supply trains over fifty years ago. It had been worn down and pulled off the brute by the rocks when he was striving to gain the top of this same grade.

Near the divide is a mound of rocks about seven feet long by three wide; an Apache victim who was so mutilated when found that they buried him in this shallow grave and then piled on these rocks to keep off coyotes.

Now I am on that portion of the Trail Geronimo used when he escaped from the nearby Cochise Stronghold in 1885, when Gen. Crook's troops surprised him and ran his band out of that heretofore impregnable fortress.

A few miles further and I am through the Pass and looking out at Tombstone, the San Pedro valley and Fort Huachuca. To my right is the old LTI ranch which the wounded bandit, Three Fingered Jack man-aged to reach before he died after he was shot by Jeff Milton at the Fairbanks train hold-up years ago. Before he died, Jack gave up to Sheriff Scott White the names of the leaders of his mysterious gang who had successfully staged so many train hold-ups. They were Bert Alvord and Billy Stiles, two of the sheriff's most trusted dep-uties who were at that very minute supposed to be out trailing that very same gang of bandits.

Another ten miles and I approach Tombstone. The Trail takes me by Boothill Cemetery and along the many rows of unmarked graves. Then I pass through the cemetery's gate and am in Tombstone. Only a very few people use this portion of the Trail or know of its existence. The present generation thinks this gate is merely the entrance to the cemetery. I go a few blocks along the western boundary line of Tombstone and, although I have been over this road many times in the past, I must stop to look around to find where the Trail leaves for Charleston. Yes, there it is, close by where the Old Last Chance saloon used to be in the very southwestern corner of the city.

For the next few miles the Trail apparently serves the nearby mines of Tombstone. Gradually these mine dumps and tunnels are left behind and a strange feeling creeps over one. One has a definite feeling of slipping into the historic past. Then I noticed the absence of high centers, such as might be expected in any country road after sixty years of use. The roadbed itself is nearly all hard rock. The heavily laden steel tired ore wagons had not made the slightest impression on it. It had even withstood the torrid cussing considered absolutely necessary by old time mule skinners to assist their teams pull their loads out of steep washes, many of which cross the Trail. I did not meet any vehicles and none passed me.

I moaned along until the river came in sight. That river the Friar Marcos de (Turn to Page 38)