The Yaqui Sonora's Fighting Farmers

The

STORY BY EDWARD H. SPICER

PHOTOGRAPHS AND DRAWINGS BY ROSAMOND B. SPICER

Yaqui: SONORA'S FIGHTING FARMERS

THEY ARE NOTHING but savages, said the Mexican lieutenant; only last week they robbed a man and burned him to death over in Torim. The lieutenant was speaking of the Yaqui among whom he had been stationed for the past five years. He should have known what he was talking about.

It happened, however, that I had been in Torim, one of the Yaqui river pueblos, during the week of which he spoke. There I had also heard about the burning; but the Torim version was different. A man had been robbed of a few pesos and then viciously burned to death by Yaqui in Vicam and it had happened the previous week. Wherever I went the act of savagery kept a week behind me and just one village farther on. I finally gave up the search for the bloody ashes.

Such stories of Yaqui brutality are widespread over Sonora. One hears them from Alamos to Nogales and from Saguearipa to Kino Bay. In the Yaqui country itself they are told as current news. Of course some are merely tales for the travelers, but eventually one realizes that most Mexicans, if they do not believe the particular story they happen to be telling you, nevertheless believe that Yaqui are capable of committing any of the vicious acts they describe. There is moreover a basis for the belief; the reputation of the Yaqui is not unearned. They were at war for a hundred years with the Mexicans. War breeds savagery and the Yaqui committed their share of it. But the evidence is just as good that their opponents were also human and at least equalled the Yaqui in savagery. One should be careful, therefore, in Sonora to talk with just as many Yaqui as Mexicans. That the books balance then becomes clearer.

The Yaqui have the distinction of being the Indian tribe in America which has held out the longest against the all-conquering white man. Long after the other Mexican Indians had been more or less peacefully adjusted or absorbed, and long after the Sioux, the Comanche, and the Apache had been confined to reservations in the United States, the Yaqui were still fighting. They began their resistance to white encroachment on their land in 1825, when Mexico had gained her independence from Spain. The new government attempted a new policy of taxing the Yaqui tribal land and a strong leader, Juan Banderas, rose up in protest. He successfully fought the weak Sonora government from 1825 until 1831, when he was defeated and executed. There was almost constant fighting from then until the 1880's, when the climax of the Yaqui Wars was reached. Cajeme (He Who Does Not Drink), a Yaqui who had served in the Mexican Army, become leader of the tribe at this time. He fortified points in the Yaqui country and successfully withstood federal troops sent by Porfirio Díaz until 1886 when he was badly defeated in the Battle of Buatachive. Cajeme was later captured and executed in 1887. From that time until after 1900 the struggle degenerated into raiding and guerrilla warfare in and around the Bacatete Mountains. There were peace pacts made and broken, Governor Izabal of Sonora deported thousands of Yaqui to work as peons in Yucatán, ten thousand federal troops were occupying the Yaqui country when the Mexican Revolution broke out in 1910, but still the Yaqui were not defeated. They fought through the Revolution, hoping for better things afterwards, then came into conflict with President Obregón. They have been at peace only since 1927, and there is still a Mexican garrison in each important town.

The key to an understanding of the Yaqui Wars lies in the Yaqui land. Again and again the government reports on Indian uprisings of the nineteenth century refer to the Yaqui

territory, together with that of their neighbors the Mayo Indians, as the best land in Sonora. Like ourselves to the north, the Mexicans were hungry for good land. Like ourselves they moved steadily into the Indian country. The story of the Yaqui Wars is merely the story of an unusually successful defense of their land by an American Indian tribe.

The land for which the Yaqui and the Mexican have struggled for so long is a beautiful and varied country. The more than a thousand square miles which the Yaqui claim borders the lower Yaqui river in southern Sonora, beginning at about Guaymas and extending southward along the coast of the Gulf of California and far inland almost to the Sierra Madre Mountains. The tribal territory on the south side of the river includes one of the richest and most easily irrigated delta area in the world. The Yaqui were forced out of this almost perfect agricultural region by 1900, and it was occupied by Mexicans and Americans. It is now one of the most productive wheat and rice tracts in the Americas. A commercial center of 29,000 people has grown up in it within the past twenty years. This city is called Ciudad Obregón by the Mexicans who inhabit it, but the Yaqui still refer to it by its old name, Cajeme, in honor of their great war leader.The fertile fields of the Cajeme delta country, now traversed by great irrigation canals, lie on the south side of the river. The Yaqui are at present confined almost entirely to the north side. They have lost their richest land, but much still remains to them. They have several hundred thousand acres of river bottom which is capable of producing as fine wheat and corn as the Cajeme country. They have another area of good cattle range to the north, and finally they have the Bacatete Mountains, famous for mineral deposits and also as the rugged stronghold of the tribe in the desperate period after the defeat of Cajeme. The Bacatetes rise to their summit in the Cerro del Gallo and the peak of Samawaka. From any point in the mesquite and carrizo jungles along the river one may see this blue mountain massa symbol of Yaqui solidarity and independence.

The varied country north of the river was set aside in 1937 by President Cárdenas as a sort of reservation-the only Indian reservation in Mexico. Here the Yaqui are to have exclusive ownership of the land, but they also must remain for an indefinite period under the supervision of the Mexican Army. It is significant that a little of the south side of the river lands was included in the reservation, so as to embrace one of the ancient Yaqui towns the pueblo of Vicam.

The Yaqui towns have a special place in tribal tradition. When the Jesuit missionaries first entered the Yaqui country in 1617 they founded eight pueblos, establishing churches in each. With one exception all of these towns are still inhabited, giving them three centuries of continuous existence. The "ocho pueblos," as the Yaqui call them, are sacred spots. The myths of the tribe say that they were founded not by the Jesuits but by Yaqui holy men many centuries before the Spanish arrived in America. The old men say that Yaqui should live in eight towns, no more, no less, and this divine decree can never be changed by mere humans. Consequently any Yaqui you meet, whether it be in Tucson, Hermosillo, or Mexico City, can name off to you the ocho pueblos, and he will do it with some pride.

From east to west the towns are Cocorit, Bacum, Torin, Vicam, Potam, Rajum, Huirivis, and Belán. At least that is the way you will With deceptive ease Yaqui girls carry five gallon tins of water from the well.

see them listed on a map of Sonora. As the Yaqui say them they are a little different. The real name of Cocorit is ko-o-ko-im, which in Yaqui means "chili peppers." Bacum has a hissing sound which non-Yaqui don't hear; it might be written bah-kum in Yaqui and means "where the water spreads out." Torin is correctly torim (all Yaqui purals ending in m) and means "wood rats." Vicam means "arrow points." Potam means "ground moles." No Yaqui knows for sure what Ra-um means; its origin is lost in the distant past. Huirivis is properly in Yaqui wee-bees and means "little red-eyed birds.' Belán is actually bay-nay and means "sloping ground." These are the names by which these places were known to Pérez de Ribas and the other Jesuit missionaries who first came to the Yaqui River.

Today Yaqui live in all the ocho pueblos, with the exception of Belán, which has been abandoned for many years because the river changed its course and destroyed the water The men carry ten gallons of water with a yoke. A swinging, bent-knee gait keeps the water from spilling.

supply. Two of the pueblos, however, lie on the south side of the river in territory which was appropriated by the Mexicans. These are the easternmost ones, Cocorit and Bacum. Nearly all the Yaqui have moved out of the pueblos and settled in new places across the river, although they still regard the old towns as their property. One of their standing demands of the Mexican is that these two towns be given back to them. There is at present a desperate effort to repopulate two of the pueblos, Rajum and Huirivis, which were deserted along with Belán when the river changed its course. The attempt against great odds to re-establish these pueblos indicates something of the sacredness with which the villages are viewed by the people. The remaining three pueblos, Potam, Vicam, and Torin, contain the majority of the 9000 Yaqui who live on the reservation, although there are other small villages scattered through the dense growth of river bottom lands. Contrary to popular belief, the Bacatete Mountains are not full of wild Yaqui at present. There are probably not over a dozen poverty-stricken families living in the hills.

In their river villages in the midst of the mesquite forests, the Yaqui of today live their peaceful and picturesque life. A Yaqui village is spacious. Houses are not crowded as in the Mexican towns. Streets, when they exist, are very wide. Each house has a high

fence around it enclosing a large area, in which there are several one-room houses and two or three ramadas, chicken pens, and always the wooden cross which is the center of religious devotions. The keynote of these villages is carrizo a native bamboo-like plant which grows in dense cane-brakes along the Yaqui River. Housewalls and fences are made of interlaced carrizo in distinctive patterns. Heavy flexible twilled mats-petates for which the Yaqui are famous over Mexico are made from split carrizo. The mats are used for innumerable purposes walls, roofs, beds, chicken coops, etc. Their twilled patterns linger in one's memory as one of the most lasting impressions of a village.

The people in these bamboo villages have never seemed to me very savage. I have found them friendly, helpful, and intelligent. It is true that if you get up on a chilly February morning and take a stroll through the slightly misty streets, you may be startled at first by the motionless blanket-muffled figures leaning against the carrizo fences under drooping straw hats. They look forbidding in the bulges of their red blankets. But if you speak to a figure you find that it replies, and you discover that it is merely waiting for the sun to warm it up after the chilly dawn. If you stay a few minutes until the sun comes over the mesquites, you will probably find the sinister looking figure is a pleasant young man who was born in Tucson or Phoenix, went to school in Tempe, worked in Yuma or Los Angeles, and has been back in his homeland only a few years where he is trying his best to get hold of a mule in In order to work his few acres of land properly. As a result of deportations to all parts of Mexico and their flight from persecution during the Izabal period, Yaqui are amazingly traveled people. Although they maintain their own distinctive customs, they are not half-tamed savages who have been out of contact with the world. On the contrary, they have been thrown into contact with modern life in Mexico and the United States probably more intensively than any other Mexican Indians.

Whatever else he may be in addition, every Yaqui is a farmer. When the Jesuit fathers first brought crosses to the Yaqui River, they found a dense population possibly 30,000 people all living chiefly from their agricultural crops. They were raising corn, beans, pumpkins, cotton, and probably agave. The Jesuits gave them wheat, horses, cattle and goats. The rich land was productive under the plow, and the Yaqui villages became a base for the other missionaries who were pushing northward to convert the Seri and the Pima. As a result of the bitter struggle in the 1880's between Mexicans and Yaqui the fiction was spread that the Yaqui had always been a savage, raiding tribe, born from the mother's womb directly to the warpath. A glance at their history in the Jesuit period shows how misguided is such a view. There were two hundred years, from 1617 to 1817, of almost uninterrupted peace, only one uprising in 1740 being recorded. Settled agricultural people the Yaqui were when first known to the Europeans and they have continued to be such to the extent that encroaching whites have permitted. Today the government is developing irrigation canals and has promised agricultural machinery. Meanwhile the Yaqui are raising adequate supplies of corn, beans, and squash for themselves and are shipping out some wheat. They are acquiring mules and horses. Even though a man may be something of a blacksmith and practices his trade or may sell a few dozen mats a month in Guaymas, he nevertheless in accordance with the tradition of his tribe maintains a patch of land where he grows most of the food which his family eats. The Yaqui are farmers from way back.

The Yaqui are also soldiers and the warrior tradition, if not so old as the agricultural, has at least a century of existence. Today the Yaqui country has somewhat the air of an armed camp. If you go there by rail or automobile the first town you enter will be Vicam Station, a Mexican military post and commercial center. You will be, unless you have been prepared for it, startled awake at dawn by the tattoo of drums, one set only a few hundred yards away and then, another farther off across the river. Again at sunset and probably at noon you will hear these insistent, far-carrying drum-beats. They are Yaqui the drums of the military society-beating in the native village across the railroad tracks and a Vicam pueblo on the other side of the river. The drums keep vividly alive the warrior tradition, sounding out salutes to the sun every day in every Yaqui village. At Vicam, as in the other pueblos, there are two military garrisons one of the regular Mexican army and another of the Yaqui army. The latter was not long ago independent and hostile, but is now incorporated into the regular army as auxiliary troops. The discipline of the Yaqui army is its own and involves neither uniform nor close order drills. Its officers have one ranking on the army pay roll, another in the roster of the tribe. They wear blue denim work pants and shirts, and on their feet are the typical Yaqui guaraches, made of cowhide. The men, from the captains on down, are required at most large ceremonies to dance the famous Coyote dance while their drummer sings songs into his drum. The life of a Yaqui soldier has in it more of religion than of parade-ground rituals. Wherever you go in the Yaqui country you will find reminders that peace is only fifteen years old. If you want to understand why neither the Mexicans or the Yaqui have not yet forgotten the "Yaqui Wars," you should get permission to visit the forts. Ask the commanding general to allow you to go to Huichori. To do this you must take a well-kept military road along the west side of the Bacatete Mountains. You start in the mountains at the high-walled garrison of Peon on the Southern Pacific railroad and you pass through the forts of Tetacombiate, Bacatete, and Huichori. As you go through this rugged country you will realize how difficult was the struggle between the Yaqui and the Mexicans. The post of Bacatete is in the heart of the mountains, near the foot of the Cerro del Gallo. It is a great brown, adobe-walled, circular fort set commandingly on a ridge like a medieval fortress. All around it rise the sheer cliffs and deep canyons of the Bacatetes. This line of forts has been located at important water holes, so that Yaqui who might wish to go into the hills find it impossible to get water. It was in these mountains that the Yaqui took refuge after the defeat of Cajeme in 1887. Scattered through the canyons they raided ranches in the surrounding country for food and carried on guerrilla campaigns against the federal troops who were sent in to clean them out. Here in the north end of the Bacatete. the most decisive battle of the Yaqui war was fought the Battle of Masocova in which more than 400 Yaqui were killed. But even after that terrific defeat the Yaqui continued in open rebellion and made the Bacatete their headquarters first under Cajeme's successor Tetabiate and after his death under various lesser leaders. It is the memory of the dangerousness of the Yaqui once they get established in the hills that has kept the line of forts along the west face of the Bacatete well-manned and ready for action right up to the present moment. The Yaqui pueblos are disciplined not only for war. Each village has its civil government. Yaqui life is highly organized as different as anything could be from that of the wandering Seri fishermen of the Sonora coast or the isolated Tarahumara Indians farmsteads of the Sierra Madre Mountains. Theirs is a village civilization which has its closest parallels with the Pueblo Indians of our own Southwest. For hundreds of years they have lived in large permanent villages and this stability is reflected in the well-regulated social life. In each village there are five annually elected political officers, each with his staff of office and his specialized duties. The chief officer is called "kobanau," a corruption of the Spanish word gobernador, meaning "governor." The man who administers punishment is called alawasin (a corruption of the Spanish word alguacil, "sheriff"). These names, like the offices they designate, show the tremendous influences which Spanish civilization has had on the Yaqui. The Jesuit missionaries gave out canes

of office to Indian officials in the name of the

of King of Spain, and these canes, or duplicates of them, are still in use in the Yaqui villages. Each cane, made from hard Brazilwood and with a metal head, has a tassel of a certain color. At a junta, or meeting, of several villages all the canes are stuck in the ground at the base of a wooden cross near the soldiers' guardia. Thus anyone coming to the meeting may glance at the canes and, by noting the tassels, tell which officials of which pueblos are present. There may be as many as sixty canes in a big junta of all the ocho pueblos. The wooden cross at the base of which the canes are placed stands beside a mesquite post. This is the whipping post, which is still in active use in all the villages. The fifth governor, the alawasin, wears a plaited rawhide whip about his waist as an additional symbol of office to his cane. It is his duty to lash with this whip all offenders against Yaqui law. The whipping post, like the civil offices, was also an introduction from Spain. Each of the eight pueblos still has its church, either on or very close to the foundation first laid by the Jesuits in the seventeenth century. Even Belán which is entirely deserted of people in the sandy western end of the Yaqui country has a brush ramada on the little knoll that marks the site of the old church. You will notice when you visit this rather desolate place that someone still comes from somewhere to tend the lonely church-ramada, for candles have been burned there and the dirt floor is well-swept. During the Revolution the old churches were destroyed. When Adolfo de la Huerta, said to be half-Yaqui and born in Huirivis, was governor of Sonora he began to rebuild them. The work was never completed, however, because of the outbreak Of fighting in 1926-27. As a result, only Vicam and Potam today have substantial brick church buildings. Those in the other pueblos are brush and carrizo ramadas. Whether of carrizo or brick, each church has in front of it on a mesquite frame at least one of the old bronze bells dating from Jesuit times. Cast in these are the names which the bells were known by, such as San Ygnacio or San Felipe de Jesus, togther with the dates of the casting (generally in the early 1700's, and the words "Ora pro Nobis," meaning "pray for us." There is a deep belief among the Yaqui that The church of a village is literally the mother of the people in the village. The image of the Virgin who appears above the altar in each church is called in Yaqui Itom Ai, which means “Our Mother.” When the Yaqui tribe presented its grievances and desires for constructive action to President Cárdenas at his request in 1938, one of the major demands was that the government build good churches in each of the villages as de la Huerta had set out to do. Cárdenas, of course, in answering the request had to explain that church and state are separate in Mexico and that therefore it was not the government's business to build churches for any of the people.

The separation of church and state is something which Yaquis cannot fully understand. In their life the two are inextricably linked together. Every Sunday in every village one sees a service in which the Yaqui soldiers, some with old Springfield rifles and some with bows and quivers of arrows, march over to the church from the guardia. The drummer sounds his drum and the flag-bearer waves his blue flag at the church door before they enter. Then as the religious officials chant the service before the altar, the soldiers march in. The captains with picturesque headdresses of fox skin, feathers and sea shells are escorted up to the altar by corporals. Here each captain is given a bow and two arrows which he holds throughout the service as he stands close to the images on one side of the altar. Also as he stands there he tells the beads of a rosary which hangs from one end of the old war bow. Thus the people kneeling in their church for Sunday devotions, as they look towards the altar and “Our Mother,” always see their war-captains with their ancient weapons and their symbolic headdresses. Later the captains march in a procession, bearing images of the Virgin of Guadalupe who is patroness of the warrior society.

Each Sunday this unity of church and army is reaffirmed. To understand it one should recall that Yaqui religion today is practically that which the Jesuits built up two centuries ago. The Jesuits thought of themselves, priests though they were, as military organizations. They spoke of themselves as “soldiers in the Militia of Jesus.” They presented to the Indians the idea of a militantly organized church. The symbolism of the army and the soldiers runs through all that the Yaqui learned from the Jesuits. The ceremonial societies which carry out the important rituals of the church, no less than the military society itself, are composed of “soldiers” and their officials are “captains, lieutenants, sergeants, and corporals.” The church, however, maintains an organization independently of the army. It has its officials apart from the soldiers its “master of the chapel” (or head maestro) and its temasti mol, or church treasurer and guardian of the images. These officials govern the village jointly with the officers of the Yaqui army and the civil governors. At a meeting of the village elders one group of log benches is set aside for these men and the other church officials, who may number thirty or more, and they have an equal voice in all decisions with the other village leaders. You will note, when the church bells are tolled at noon during such a meeting, that the group is divided; the soldiers and civil officials stand face towards the altar of the church, which is usually to the west of the meeting ground. Although a part of the village government, the latter still acknowledges no loyalty except to their church. During Easter Week the church is at least symbolically given control of the whole village. The canes of office of the governors are ritually taken away from them and kept by one of the religious officials the Captain of the Good Knights (the Caballeros). In a period of peace such as the present the church and its officials seem to overshadow any other authority in the villages.

There is a belief among the Yaqui that their country is peopled with supernatural beings. They are invisible now, but once they were like the other ancestors of the Yaqui and lived like human beings among the people in the eight pueblos. When the prophecy was made by a vibrating stick in the forest that strange people would come bringing baptism, half the Yaqui ancestors decided to be baptized, half refused. Those who refused have eternal life and are the invisible beings who live everywhere along the river and the sea coast, in the carrizo thickets, in the clumps of grandfather cactus, on the salt flats by the ocean. These beings have strange powers. Ritual music and ritual skills such as pascola dancing may come from them. Music is sometimes heard in the villages, but no one can discover the musicians. It is said then that the invisible people have been playing.

I have found it easy in the Yaqui country to develop this belief in ever-present supernaturals. As you wander along one of the innumerable footpaths in the dense growth along the bank of the river, you are liable to strange encounters. If it is in March, for example, you may suddenly see a little way in front of you a man in a ragged army overcoat carrying a harp over his shoulder as he pads along on sandaled feet between the batamote bushes. If the apparition disturbs you and you decide to avoid it by taking another path, perhaps you will come upon a blanketed figure with a painted stick, carrying a long-nosed ugly mask with red-tipped horns and flapping ears. If you go on you will soon find yourself in the midst of the strange party-men in blankets and torn overcoats carrying masks, harps, violins in little bags, painted sticks, stuffed badgers and foxes, cocoon rattles, and so on. If you do not happen to know any of the individuals, you will have an eery feeling and at least for a moment you may connect them with the ubiquitous supernaturals of the Yaqui country.

If you wander in the monte at another time, let us say in June, you will not encounter such a motley crew as the March wayfarers, but you will quite probably run into travelers who will also remind you of the Supernaturals of the river. Like the others, they will be threading their way along the foot trails, raising little clouds of dust among the prickly pears. Again you will see young men, but this time without blankets, carrying musical instruments-guitars and violins. There will be others carrying plumed headdresses and dancing wands and gourd rattles. Leading the group will be a youth carrying an image of the Virgin on his head in a white box. He walks rapidly, but is always outdistanced by a little girl of perhaps ten who staunchly bears a red and green flag in front of the Virgin, running with little skipping steps to keep ahead of the men. And there will be other women with bundles on their heads. This group will probably have a reassuring effect on you, making you feel that the Supernaturals are not necessarily sinister like those you saw in March. But no less than the others, they will make you think for a moment of the curious beings with whom the Yaqui country is peopled. The beings are, of course, Yaqui men and women and children. Those you might have seen in March with masks and harps are members of the Huras (Yaqui for Judas) ceremonial society, going from one pueblo to another to give a fiesta. Through February and March these masked performers go about the Yaqui country from one end to the other, sometimes fifty or sixty in a group, giving religious ceremonies in memory of the Passion of Jesus. It is a penance for the members of the society and is actually very hard work. They say they do it in memory of the difficult time Jesus had when he was pursued through the Yaqui country, long before any Europeans came to tell the Yaqui about Him. In return for shelter for the night they bring their images of the little Christ Child and say their prayers at the household altar. There are eight of these large groups, one from each village, travelling along the little footpaths of the river bottoms every Easter season.

During the rest of the year it is members of the Matachin dancing society whom you may meet in the monte, carrying their saint and their dancing equipment. They go wherever they are asked, to another village, to an isolated ranchería far from any pueblo. The Matachinis and the Hurasim are busy people in their respective ceremonial seasons, performing their ritual work in many places. Once you learn who they are, your meetings with them among the prickly pears are a pleasure, and your belief in the supernatural beings of the Yaqui country is again touched with skepticism.

The ceremonial life of the Yaqui is rich and varied. It contains all the elements of that of the Yaqui refugees in Arizona and, strangely enough, very little more. There are matachinis, pascolas, deer dancers, coyote dancers, chapayekas, the numerous church devotions. But in the Yaqui country itself the ceremony seems to have more significance, for this is the setting in which it belongs. Clean carrizo mats for the singers to sit on and for the matachinis to place their paraphernalia, wide streets to dance through, spacious plazas for the procession all this gives a setting which seems natural to the ceremony as the poor and tiny villages of Arizona do not.

So long as their distinctive ceremonial life persists, the Yaqui will be Yaqui and not Mexicans, and there seems to be no sign that it is lessening in amount or intensity. But there exist of course the forces of modern life which operate against the Yaqui type of religious life no less on the Yaqui river than in Arizona. The Mexican government is stimulating economic activity, encouraging the Yaqui to try new crops, to produce for the outside market. The Mexican Department of Agriculture is establishing a group of administrators at Vicam who will develop the irrigation that the opening of Angostura Dam will make possible. A large agricultural training school has been in existence near Vicam for several years. It is slowly drawing Yaqui pupils to it, where they are taught modern methods of stock raising and cultivation as well as reading and writing. Federal rural schools have been set up throughout the Yaqui country. The government went to the trouble of having a dictionary and grammar of the Yaqui language made with the idea of having text-books and news bulletins written in it. The heroes of the Yaqui war, such as Juan Tetabiate, are having their portraits done in murals in the new schools. All these things will make life different on the Yaqui river. It is a new era for the Yaqui, one which will result in changing them as profoundly as did their early contacts with the Jesuits in the 1600's.

He Stayed With 'Em While He Lasted

could do with a Colt. Buckey wasn't a man to go looking for trouble, but he naturally gravitated to any point where things were likely to happen. All his life, the courthouse of wherever he happened to be was as much Buckey's habitat as was his home. So, in Phoenix, he could be found at the courthouse as often as at the Herald, or at the faro banks. Buckey quickly struck up a friendship with Henry Garfias, the city marshal. Henry was as quick with a six-gun as any man in Arizona. It was some months later when Buckey was passing a pleasant hour chatting with Henry in the city marshal's office. A horseman slid his mount to a halt at the door. "Henry!" he called. "Them Texas men from out on the river is drunk. They're ridin' in to shoot up the town. Bad medicine, Henry. They says for you to stay outa their way!"

"So. Thank you, my friend," Henry said, hitching his six-gun forward.

The rider hastily put space between himself and the marshal's office. Buckey was silent, admiring the nerve of the doughty marshal who obviously intended to tackle these murder ous toughs single handed. He knew this renegade Texas band; dangerous when sober, deadly when drunk. It was dusk. Here and there, street lamps were beginning to flicker. Buckey rolled a cigarette. They didn't have long to wait. A wild whoop resounded up Washington street. Windows and lamps added their shattering tinkle in musical echo to a fusillade of six-gun lead.

Henry stood up, Buckey with him. They were tense, but unimpressed. Phoenix's own desperadoes could kill themselves off without interference from the law. It saved Henry much work he would otherwise have to do.

But reckless shooting up of his bailiwick, endangering the homes and innocent lives of his constituents was an entirely different matter. The hurrahing came closer, the clatter of Colts and hoof-beats more distinct.

"Here they come," Buckey said. "Yep," Henry said."

"Deputy?" Buckey asked. "You're it, if you like." They walked out into the street. Character istically, Buckey was a step in the lead. His Colt was hitched forward, but his arm was upraised. "Whoa up there!" he shouted above the hubbub. "You're under arrest!" A burly puncher sneered down from his mount at the mild-looking fellow who blocked the way. Then he spied the badge on Henry's coat. He levelled his gun and cut loose. With a whoop, his companions joined in the fun. They didn't know Buckey O'Neill. Lead whirred past Henry's ears. He went for his gun and returned the fire with interest. Buckey, however, was away ahead of him. His Colt bucked with a snort, and the leader of the Texas men jerked out of the saddle, a shat tered hip for his pay. Another's gun spun into the air as Buckey's slug smashed his arm.

A burley puncher sneered down from his mount at the mild-looking fellow who blocked the way. Then he spied the badge on Henry's coat. He levelled his gun and cut loose. With a whoop, his companions joined in the fun. They didn't know Buckey O'Neill. Lead whirred past Henry's ears. He went for his gun and returned the fire with interest. Buckey, however, was away ahead of him. His Colt bucked with a snort, and the leader of the Texas men jerked out of the saddle, a shat tered hip for his pay. Another's gun spun into the air as Buckey's slug smashed his arm.

Henry was less considerate. He abruptly terminated the career of one carouser with a slug in the wishbone. The fellow crashed headlong into the street, quickly followed by a comrade, who took quite a spell to recover. The celebration suddenly lost zest for the exuberant bad men who remained in the saddle. They had seen of what these lawmen could do with a Colt. And that hellion of a deputy-they'd had a plenty of him from now on out! Dropping their irons, they slid to the ground with arms up-raised. With con siderable meekness, they marched into the cala boose, escorted by the one hundred and eighty pounds of human dynamite that was known as Buckey O'Neill. Instantly, word swept the town. In saloon and gambling hall heads clustered together. "You hear about Buckey that shootin' fool?" "Sure thing! Them Texas boys were bad medicine, too. He sure doused 'em with their own kind of dope!"

Instantly, word swept the town. In saloon and gambling hall heads clustered together. "You hear about Buckey that shootin' fool?" "Sure thing! Them Texas boys were bad medicine, too. He sure doused 'em with their own kind of dope!"

"That ain't half. Any buckaroo what c'n shoot while Henry Garfias is drawin' gits the right 'o way from me!"

From that moment out, desperadoes thought twice before they monkeyed with the mild mannered Buckey.

Setting other men's opinions up into type was never the job for Buckey. He had opinions of his own. But more, he had progressive ideas, and meant to be heard.

In other words, Buckey's nethermost portions were expressly designed for the editor's chair.

Within six months, he had leaped the vast gap between the pressroom and throne. Char acteristically, he made it in just one jump.

It was May in 1880. Bright new leaves graced the cottonwoods; mesquite and palo verde blossoms dabbed the desert with gay splotches of color. Phoenix proudly expand ed as activity in the northern mines struck a new high, and her citizens watched with in terest the new enterprises of Charles and H. Н. McNeil. They had recently arrived from San Jose, California, and being printers, they immediately began printing the daily Arizona Gazette. Their first edition was scarcely dry when Buckey walked into the shop. The brothers immediately liked him. His straightforward manner was pleasant; his opinions were fresh. They chatted amiably about this and that. Had Buckey been to California? No, but he intend ed to go. Yes, Phoenix was growing and there was room for a second paper. But it had to be good. The McNeils complimented Buckey's printing on the Herald. Buckey was pleased, but of course he was more of an editor than he ever was a printer. Was that so? The visit was going nicely when Buckey picked up the newly printed Gazette, sniffed, and held his nose.

The brothers glanced at each other. They scowled. "And what's wrong with the sheet?" they demanded. Buckey plunked one foot on a chair, leaned forward, and went to work. "Boys," he told the McNeils, "you fellows are unbeatable printers. The composition is perfect!"

The scowls diminished. Buckey went on. "All you need is an editor and a little more news. I can write, and I know my way around. I'm your huckleberry. Why, listen, between the three of us Buckey O'Neill was the Gazette's first editor. Under his guidance the paper got off to a start that has carried it down through the years. Buckey was pleased with his newly acquired editorship. It gave him a far-reaching voice, which to a young man with ideas is a wonder ful thing. It gave him a sense of power, of being a force in the community. He leaned back in his chair, and gazed out over the rich but arid Salt River Valley, burning in the sun against the purple backdrop of mountains be yond. A dream of empire wafted vaguely through his mind. "Water," he thought. "If water could be brought from those hills down into the valley-"

It was a dream that one day Buckey was to help in bring true. But now it was only a fancy, for three hundred miles to the south, the first low growl which Charley McClintock had cursed in picturesque, four-letter lang uage was growing into a roar that soon could be heard from coast to coast. Buckey cocked an ear and listened.

Tombstone!

The editor's chair had yet to produce a shine on the seat of his pants when Buckey's feet began to itch.

The bonanza fever spread like fire in the wind. Swarms of wild-eyed men billowed over the desert like clouds of smoke. On foot and horseback, in buggies, wagons, anything. Just so it moved toward Tombstone. High wheel freighters turned away from the northern hills to lumber across the desert. Stages pounded through dust and sand, bulging with fortune-hungry souls from every corner of the west. "Silver! Silver! We'll all be rich!" was the cry in every throat as waves of bonanza-mad humans surged into the wilderness to gouge fortune from the bleak and lonely hills where Ed Scheifflin had found the rainbow's end.

Tombstone! In 1879, one hundred hardy souls made up her population. Twelve months later a thousand men swaggered along her rocky streets, to make way for thirteen thousand more who soon plunged in with bulging eyes, frantic in their greed for wealth. The Tough Nut and Contention, the Lucky Cuss and Goodenough disgorged their silver treasure in one resplendant gush.

Buckey sat in the office of the Phoenix Gazette. Alternately, he talked to himself and soothed his itching feet. I'm an editor now, and that's what I want, he heard a little voice. Why sashay off on a tangent? Maybe there is excitement down there. What of it? Not one in a hundred will dig out enough to pay his keep. What if they are all heading that way? What if it? What of it? I stay put, and that's that.

Two weeks later he was in Tombstone. But on the way south to the last of the Helldoradoes, Buckey paused briefly in Tucson and treated the local boys to one of those sparklets of action that constantly illuminated his career. Congress street was a bustling thoroughfare, dotted with groups of men idling in the sun. Buckey moved along it, chatting casually with an oversized bruiser who boasted somewhat more than a local reputation. Buckey seemed dwarfed alongside him, and the fellow sensed an opportunity to enhance his reputation at Buckey's expense. As they passed one of the larger groups of men. Buckey happened to make some sort of innocuous statement.

"You're a liar!" the big man disagreed loudly.

"What was that?" Buckey quietly asked.

"I said that you lie!" the fellow insisted, and the audience sat up and took notice.

Buckey had to reach up, but he reached. He took one of the fellow's ears in each of his powerful hands and churned him up and down like a puppet on the loose end of a string. When Buckey finally grew tired, the counter feit bad man turned tail and ran. That night, he departed from Tucson by the light of the moon.

Such a spine tickler was naturally too good to keep and the story was circulated around the Tombstone bars seventy-five miles away even before Buckey's arrival. As a result, when he made his way along Allen street, Tombstone's rocky thoroughfare, men greeted him with chuckles and hearty slaps on the back.

"By the ears!" they guffawed. "I'd like to have seen it! Let's have a drink on that one!"

They proceeded to the resplendent Oriental and drinks were on the house. Buckey naturally wound up at the faro bank of that garish emporium of spirits and chance. The liquor was good, but his luck was better. He made more than expenses. During the game, Buckey's friends proposed that he throw in with them on a promising mining claim near by. Buckey thought for a moment as he watched the turn of the card.

"Nope," he replied as he hauled in a pile, "I don't think so. The only difference in mining and bucking the tiger is the element of time. I'll take the tiger. You win or lose, and don't have to wait so long to find out which it is."

And with that bit of philosophy discharged, he pocketed his gains and made for the street. It was a philosophy that Buckey didn't live up to for long, for his heavy gambling soon diminished, and he was destined to later make a modest fortune on a claim in the northern hills. But now, in the midst of the most frantic boom town the world has even known, he looked up and down the street and asked, "Where's John Clum's newspaper?"

"The Epitaph? Down the street and and turn to the right."

Buckey followed directions and forthwith became a reporter on the Tombstone Epitaph.

The Tombstone Epitaph. No other spot on the face of the earth could have a paper with a name like that. And indeed, none ever has had. But aside from the distinction of being the only paper to ever display that singular title on its masthead, the Epitaph was also dis tinguished by the stable of writers it managed to corral. John P. Clum, its owner, was a well known territorial publisher in his own right, and reporters who rallied around him included O'Brien Moore, Sam Purdy, John Dunbar, and of course, Buckey O'Neill. Each was strictly an individualist of the old, old school. Each knew that the worth while end of the Horn of Plenty was the end that pro duced all the noise. So among them they whip ped up a sheet which for hot, spot, and spicy news has yet to be beaten or tied.

Wyatt Earp, most famous of frontier mar shals, was ramrodding the town with the assist ance of his brothers and some well directed slugs from the snout of his Buntline Special. The deadly Earp-Clanton feud was blasting its way into frontier history and its participants into the great beyond, and naturally the boys of the Fourth Estate were in there pitching on that and every occasion. They well knew on which side of the bread to spread the butter, and dispensed plenty of copy for strictly east ern consumption.

Buckey was right there in the thick of the wordage.

Buckey, however, worked with his head, not his hands. He could readily be termed intel lectual for the simple reason that that is exactly what he was. One word in the way he spoke, or a step in the way that he walked proved him a gentleman, inside and out. A college graduate with a degree in law, Buckey had already demonstrated his remarkable adapt ability by leaving behind him an utterly East ern background and training to head for Ari zona. Yet, upon his arrival in Phoenix, he was Western as cactus, and just as hard to handle.Born on February 2, 1860, in St. Louis, Missouri, Buckey came from impeccable Irish American stock. He was one of four children born to Mary and Captain John Owen O'Neill, who, when Buckey was scarcely one year old, moved to Washington, D. C. in anticipation of the Civil War that was about to break. Captain John raised a company of Volunteers to fight in the Union Army a feat which his young son Buckey was later to duplicate in the war with Spain. He fought as an officer of Company K, 116th Pennyslvania Volunteers, part of the famous Meagher's Irish Brigade, so brilliant in the annals of the Civil War.

Captain John retired from the battle of Fred ericksburg with five wounds as souvenirsonly part of fourteen sustained throughout the conflict. So the spirit and fight that were Buckey's can easily be traced to their source. But while his father was gaining distinction on the field of battle, Buckey was gaining edu cation in the grammar schools at home. He continued through Gonzaga, where he gained thorough knowledge of printing, and during these years acquired his skill with every sort of firearm. No son of Captain John O'Neill would ever reach manhood without being able to handle a gun!

Later, Buckey was graduated from National University's course in law, during which time he became exceedingly proficient in shorthand. He was admitted to the bar in the District of Columbia, where his father now served as provost marshal, but before he could settle down to serious parctice, he succumbed to a severe attack of wanderlust. Little did he realize, or care, perhaps, that it would lead him straight to Arizona where he would share in blazing out the history of the West with such a diametrically opposite sort of man like Wyatt Earp.

But it can be readily understood that while the vast excitement of a rip-roaring camp such as Tombstone was like a tantalizing cup that Buckey simply had to sample, it was also a cup that soon grew pallid to his taste. The boom-campers, the outlaws and lead-slinging lawmen just weren't of his sort. He was, frankly, way over their heads. And the proof of it lay in the fact that the last one on earth to make anything of it would be none other than Buckey O'Neill.

Nevertheless, the immense ugliness of Tomb stone itself and the crass atmosphere that per vaded it soon began to pall Buckey's sensibili ties. The initial flush of boom camp excite ment wore thin, leaving him but one thing to do and he did it. He followed his feet. His toes pointed westward, and once again he was on the move. California? Ah, yes, and more. Tropic seas and the Southern Cross. Honolulu! Ah! The languid lureIn 1881, the charms of Hawaii were the real McCoy. There was luaus, come one and come all. There was roast pig and poi. There was fish, and you could eat it baked or raw. Hula hips really were something. Grass skirts more nearly were nothing. There were coco palms and the Southern Cross and glamorous, dark-skinned wahines. There was plenty of okolehau. Here was enchantement, where men could go to pot however they choose, and a great many frequently did. In short, it was Old Hawaii.

dark-skinned wahines. There was plenty of okolehau. Here was enchantement, where men could go to pot however they choose, and a great many frequently did. In short, it was Old Hawaii.

Buckey didn't like it. It took all the steam right out of his soul and slowed him down to a walk. Two weeks were plenty, and he grabbed the first boast for the coast.

Southern California! Buckey had heard tell, and was anxious to give it a whirl. The sun beat down and baked him. The fog rolled in and froze him. The sun beat down, and the fog rolled out. The fog rolled in, and the sun died out. Buckey blew hot. And then he blew cold. And then he caught the flu.

"Why live in a double-boiler like this?" he wanted to know with a snort of disgust, and high-tailed it for Arizona.

Phoenix, however, was still in the doldrums as a result of the Tombstone bonanza. Buckey set out for Santa Fe, where he had heard of a newspaper job. It was a good job, and he took it, but lasted a little less than a month. Arizona was in his blood, and he was going back to stay.

Arizona was in his blood, and he was going back to stay. He dispensed with the job and made ready to leave. It was a warm afternoon, so he first cooled his brow by hoisting one or two amid the conviviality of each of several bars. Then he set out down the street, grinning broadly for no reason at all, except that the world seemed bright and friendly. Men accepted his cheery greeting with a laugh and a wave of the hand. Maidens demurely lowered their eyes as the smiling young Irishman passed, but more than one dainty heart experienced a definite flutter as its owner turned to watch the engaging stranger pursue his uncertain course.

Buckey ended up at the courthouse, and forthrightly marched in to have a look around. He halted uncertainly at an open doorway and peered in. A group of men were seated at tables. An examiner stood at the front of the room. He looked up at Buckey.

"Come in and sit down," he said, and thrust out a pencil and paper.

Grinning happily, Buckey accepted.

A shorthand test to qualify court reporters was in progress. The examiner read aloud with gradually increasing speed. Applicants began to drop by the wayside. The examiner read faster. More aspirants dropped out, but the grinning Irishman kept on. The examiner turned on the steam. Buckey stuck with him, easily, and the examiner mumbled in his effort to increase the speed.

"Hey, you!" he exploded, "don't try to be funny! Nobody can write shorthand that fast!"

Quietly, Buckey read back every word the examiner had read. There wasn't an error. The examiner whistled through his teeth.

"Man alive, the job's yours!" he exclaimed.

Buckey's eyebrows jumped with amazement. "Job? Hell, I don't want any job. I'm just keeping in practice!"

Leaving the group to stew in its own consternation, he set out once more in the general direction of a saloon.

On the way back to Phoenix from Santa Fe, Buckey ran into an old acquaintance from Tombstone.

"What's news?" he asked brightly, and the friend could have been blind and still know that Buckey was speaking. All over Arizona people knew Buckey O'Neill was around when they heard a cheery, "Howdy! What's news?"

Buckey's friend on the road was doubly glad to hear it. He was pretty well down on his luck.

"Well, Buckey, I tell you," he said, "things has been fair up till recent. I scratched out a good stake down in Tombstone, but I lost the whole poke at the tables. Things'll pick up, though. Things'll pick up."

"Sure as shooting they will. They've been plenty good with me." Buckey dug into his jeans. "Here, you take this. It'll give you a boost, and I've got lots more where that came from."

The man gazed at the silver that Buckey thrust into his hands. "Say, Buckey, thanks," was all that he could say.

"Forget it!" Buckey said with a wave, and was on his way. He was forever emptying his pockets for friends who were down on their luck. Even now, he would have to hoof it all the way to Phoenix because he hadn't kept a dime. But he had a warm feeling inside.

Before long, he trudged into Phoenix. His pockets were flat and his stomach flatter. He looked around for something to do. The local newspaper still had nothing of interest to offer, so Buckey deserted the Fourth Estate. He tooted up to Prescott.

Prescott was both the Territorial Capital and Yavapai county seat. Things were humming in the administration of local and territorial government. In the courts, competent shorthand reporters were scarce. Buckey had an ace up his sleeve, and he played it. He sat himself up as a free-lance court reporter, and soon was making the circuit, reporting sessions for Judge DeForest Porter. This was the life for him. He was in on everything worth while of a controversial nature, and was making innumerable friends throughout the north-central section as well. Buckey loved it. He even toyed with the thought of settling in Prescott for good.

Unfortunately, the term was the last of Judge Porter's incumbency. At the close of the session, Buckey lost his job.

He immediately returned to Phoenix, where during the summer Charley McClintock had died, leaving the Herald without an editor. Buckey took over the chair of his old-time boss, editing the Herald for a few brief months. But he quickly realized that the dearth of court reporters offered far brighter prospects than editorship of the Herald. So, in July, when Judge D. H. Pinney of the Second Judicial District arrived in Phoenix, fresh from his comfortable home in Lockport, Illinois, Buckey offered the Judge his services. The Judge, testy and disgusted with what impressed him as this Arizona wilderness, bluntly declined. He would choose a reporter when and if he got ready.

Oddly, none was to be found around Phoenix, so the Judge did without. He then proceeded to Globe to hear some matters there. The cases were criminal in nature, and a transcript of testimony essential. The Judge looked around for a shorthand reporter. There was a good one in town, he was told, and directed his informants to have him report to the courtrom at once. The man promptly did so, and the Judge's jaw dropped. The reporter was Buckey O'Neill.

For some reason, the personalities of the two men had clashed from the instant they met, but the Judge had to have a reporter, and Buckey was the only one to be had. The Judge signed him on.

The docket was brief, and required but two days to be heard. Court then adjourned, and Judge Pinney handed Buckey a certificate drawn on the Territorial treasurer in the amount of seventy-five dollars.

Buckey sniffed. Seventy-five? In a warrant that wasn't worth nearly face value? Nothing doing!

The Judge stood his ground. "Now back in Illinois-"

"What makes you think you're back in Illinois? You appointed me reporter for this court. The law sets my salary at one thousand dollars a year, payable five-hundred dollars for each six-months term."

"My good man, you have been in the employ of this court exactly two days."

"Correct. But once appointed, my term is six months and my salary is five-hundred dollars. I'm ready to work the rest of the term. Whether I do or not is up to you."

Pinney was obstinate. "Then you most certainly do not!" he replied.

"Then give me the five-hundred."

"I will not! You'll take seventy-five or nothing!"

"Very well, then. It's nothing. But don't forget this I've got that money coming, and I don't intend to lose it." Buckey stalked out of the courtroom, leaving the Judge with a warrant in his hand and no reporter in his court. By the time the year was out, Judge Pinney, sour and disgruntled with the Judgeship which from Illinois had appeared to be such a luscious political plumb, forgot the whole thing and went home to Lockport.

Buckey went back to Prescott, but he didn't forget. He merely put the matter aside. It was good to be back in Prescott. The crisp, bracing air and the fresh smell of pine seemed to fill him with zest for life. Things began coming his way. It was 1883, and during the first week of September, M. V. Howard resigned as stenographic court reporter. Buckey was appointed in his place. It was the first of a long line of positions that Buckey was to fill in the township, both to his own greater credit and the glory of Prescott.

The Circuit Court shortly convened, and Buckey rode to Mineral Park to open the session there. It was late in September when he returned, heading for Prescott at lively gait. There was excitement in Prescott, and things to do. After a month in the back country, he was anxious to get back to the lights and take a good whirl at the tables. He gave his horse rein, and sat easily in the saddle. Just ahead was Peach Springs, where he could stop for a meal and a rest. The dream of a sizzling steak, juicy and done to a turn, was floating through his mind. Suddenly, his mount caught a chuck-hole. Buckey sailed through the air with the greatest of ease, and came down to earth with a thump. For a moment, he lay with the world buzzing around in his head. Then, dusty and rumpled, he delivered some colorful expletives and slowly got to his feet. One shoulder was numb and his arm hung limp at his side. Painfully, he made his way into Peach Springs, where a fractured collar bone was patched up, and Buckey arrived in Prescott bandaged and bound like King Tut himself. He always maintained that the fall saved him money. Bound up is he was, he simply couldn't buck the tiger the way that it should be bucked. Buckey was simply incapable of confining his energies to one field of endeavor. His injured hand healed, he continued his reporting in court. He became a lieutenant in the Mil-

She saw her, and knew that he hadn't been wrong. She wasBuckey jerked his eyes straight ahead, but knew she had caught him at it. He was sud-denly warmer than ever. His cheeks were like apples. He ran a finger beneath his collar.

"Warm, I tell you," he said.

"Must have a fever. I'm getting cool. How'd you like that finale?"

"Show over?" Buckey stammered in confusion, his complexion turning deep rose.

"What's eating you?" his friend asked, perplexed.

"Nothing. That girl over there. Who is she? I've never seen her before."

"Oh-oh! Maybe you have got a fever! I don't see any girl.Buckey sizzled. "Come on, now. Cut it. Right there."

"Oh-h-h. That girl. Certainly, I know her well."

"Damn it, who is she?"

"Oh, all right. Hold your horses till I get it out. Her name is Miss Schindler. Cap-tain Schindler's daughter up at the post. You know him-transferred in from San Francisco a short spell back. She's teaching the officers' kids at the post school."

"H-m-m."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Just thinking I'd like to go back to school."

It didn't take long after that. There was a band concert on the grounds at the post. Buckey probably would have gone in the ordinary course of events, but now, neither hell nor high water could keep him away. He arrived in company with his friend, jittery as a colt.

"Be a good concert tonight," he kept repeating. "Good concert."

His companion was nobody's fool. "Just stick with me," he said patiently. You'll meet her."

Shortly, he made good his promise. "Miss Schindler," he was saying, "may I present Mr. O'Neill? Buckey, Miss Pauline."

Something else must have been said, and the concert must have been played, but neither Pauline nor Buckey were ever quite sure whether it was or not. A mellow light still warms those attractive dark eyes as Mrs. O'Neill speaks of it now. "He was so nervous he almost dropped his white cowboy hat in the dust," she recalls. "It worried me nearly sick. I later discovered he was always like that when first meeting strangers, and very inclined to blush. That made him mad, which made him redder. Red cheeks and white hat were a contrast that night! But he rolled a cigarette and was very much at ease. Owen was lost without a cigarette."

Odd that everyone should always call him Buckey except Pauline. To her, he was always Owen. It was some little time, just the same, before he dispensed with the Miss when ad-dressing Pauline. You had to really know a girl before you could do that. But with the handicap of conventions considered, Buckey wasted no time in getting to know Captain Schindler's daughter.

"It wasn't long before he just called me Pauline," Mrs. O'Neill now admits with a sly little wink. "We youngsters were scandalous at times!"

Ah, yes, Miss Pauline. Scandalous indeed. Buckey was positively forward. But love is contagious in any decade, and Buckey should be excused. He really had it bad.

How bad is not difficult to say, for Buckey told everyone for miles. In fact, he finally told Pauline. She seemed to know how he felt. The Journal-Miner soon carried the item:

MARRIED

O'NEILL SCHINDLER In Prescott Arizona, April 27th, 1886, By Reverend Guibotosi, Wm. O. O'Neill and Miss Pauline M. Schindler.

The hill side neighborhood in East Prescott adopted by the newlyweds for their home was popularly lampooned as "Snob Hill," although social distinction in Prescott was something that didn't exist. Saloonkeeping was an in-dustry equal to mining or banking. Montezuma, the street which is still unofficially known as "Whiskey Row," boasted thirty-five saloons side by side-a formidable showing for a popu-lation of thirty-five hundred. Gambling was a highly respectable trade, and frock-coated gentlemen who made their living at tables and wheels formed a very acceptable crowd. They were not necessarily the mustachioed slickers so commonly envisioned in fiction. There were picnics at Granite Dells, venison roasts and bear hunts, with an occasional Indian chase tossed in for spice. Parades and dances, jack-hammer contests and sizzling ro-deos-exceedingly good fun, with a drinking bout or two just to brighten things up.

As a whole, Prescott enjoyed the company of each of its component parts. It was demo-cratic as ham and eggs, accepting even a Harvard graduate without being thrown from its stride. The particular Harvard man which Prescott accepted was Back Bay born and bred. He found himself able to tolerate Buckey and one or two others among these frontier rustics, and brought himself to attending a gathering of local young men one evening when boredom was unusually heavy. He had had a few drinks and shot a few bucks on the tables during the few weeks since his arrival in town, and his eyebrows jumped with astonishment when he saw gamblers, croupiers and saloon men arrive at the gathering, very much as though they belonged there. In fact, he was horrified. He hastened directly to Buckey, who was chatting with friends.

"May I have a word with you, gentlemen?" he asked. "In private?"

"Sure thing," Buckey said. "Why not spill it right here? "We're all friends."

"Very well. Those those persons who just entered why doesn't someone expel them?"

Buckey glanced around. No one looked suspicious to him. "What persons do you mean?"

"Those saloonkeepers and why, that man right there he maintains a gambling hall!"

Buckey was perplexed. "Why, yes, he does. What about it?"

"Do you mean such people are admitted?"

"Admitted?. Of course they're admitted. Why not?"

"Scandalous! Positively scandalous. Gentle men, we can't associate with these these menials. Something has to be done. We must draw the line!"

Buckey stared. Others gaped. "Forget it," Buckey said, a bit irked. "They won't mention it if you don't!"

The son of the royal purple clicked his heels. "Degrading!" he spurted. "Degrad-ing!" Nose aloof, he flounced out the door.

Buckey stayed to enjoy the meeting. Afterwards he took a short turn along Whiskey Row with a few cronies before going home. Suddenly, he jerked to a halt.

"Look!" he exclaimed. "By the Great Horned Spoon take a look!"

Sprawled on the wooden sidewalk that fronted Whiskey Row lay Prescott's Harvard man He was irretrievably blotto.

"Don't touch him! Wait here," Buckey directed with a mischievous grin, and disappeared through swinging dors. He came out with a crowd at his heels, triumphantly waving a piece of chalk. With dignity appropriate to the occasion, he drew a circle around the recumbent form.

"BROTHER," he printed, "WE HAVE DRAWN THE LINE!"

Buckey's incisive wit produced many a laugh around Prescott, but occasionally the laugh was on him. The most embarrassing point in his colorful life chose a tragic occasion during which to occur.. It was at the moment a man was meeting death.

The killing of popular Deputy Sheriff Mur-phy by cattle thief Dilda ranks high among the fiendish murders committed on the Arizona frontier. Interest in the gruesome affair arises solely from the fact that Dilda was summarily brought to justice and hanged. A sparse forty-seven days separated the date of the crime and his death on the gallows. Territorial executions were conducted as bald-faced object lessons for prospective evil-doers, and were carried out with the public on hand. Everyone was there. In this particular in-stance, resentment was extraordinarily rife, and there was talk of concluding Dilda's career in a manner beyond the law. The Prescott Grays were ordered out to forestall such un-toward events, and Buckey was in command.

Dilda's last moments grew near. The guards-men "presented arms." Soldierly erect, sword unsheathed, Buckey stood at the head of his men with tightened nerves. Suddenly, the signal came. The killer plunged through the trap.

Briefly, Buckey watched. He had seen men die before, but this was something different. His stomach felt funny, his head began to reel. He gladly would have shot it out with the murderous fiend in a free and open fight. But this this! The fellow had no chance!

People turned from the ghastly sight to find Buckey outstretched in the dust. He had fainted dead away. Friends rushed to pick him up, and he immediately revived. Too late. He never lived the moment down. Buckey O'Neill had fainted! Buckey could take it just the same, and was always quick to admit that he couldn't stand to see anyone killed when "he didn't have a chance."

Buckey's literary efforts in Hoof and Horn make extremely colorful reading. Chief Justice H. D. Ross of the Supreme Court of Arizona remarks that Buckey's ideas were usually about thirty years in advance of his time, and the truth of the statement is nowhere more evident than in the pages of Hoof and Horn. But more than that, listen while Buckey prognosticates a phase of American literature that had yet to be born, a phase that twenty years later was to engrave upon the American scene the Western pulp magazine in all its prolific splendor, replete with million-word-a-year writers and their oddly formulized stories.

The Cowboy in Literature

Already the literary quill drivers of the nation are devoting their talents and attention towards developing about the only remaining typical character of life in the West which has not been worked to bedrock the cowboy. The migratory miner of the Mark Twain lead, the ready handed gambler of the Bret Harte school, the voyageur of the Jesuit mission days, and the score of other types of mankind which the pe-culiar requirements of life in the West called into existence, have been, with this single exception, worn threadbare. What the role will be in which the cowboy wins a lasting identity and place in American litrature, remains to be seen. To predict with any certainty what that role will be is now impossible, as the true character of the subject has not been caught by any who have essayed to portray it. That it abounds in material fit for epic and romance no one will gainsay who has read the masterly delineations of moss-trooper life in Scotland, penned by the authors of Waverley and kindred novels. Were William of Delorlaine an actual entity of the nineteenth century, his constant effort would not be devoted so much nto baffling 'Percy's best bloodhounds' as dodging sheriff's posses on charges of 'cattle lifting.' It is but the lapse of time that throws en-chantment around such characters, and who knows but what the future may deal as kindly in this respect with the 'rustler' of the present day. To the imagination of the future poet and novelist the present life of the cowboys cannot but appeal forcibly. Take it whether it be on the bleak steppe-like plains of the north, or the sun-burnt mesas of the south, it is an existence filled with adventure and danger.

Perhaps it was Buckey's colorful writing that gave Hoof and Horn the impetus that resulted in expansion. Perhaps it was the fact that it filled a long felt need among cattlemen of Arizona. At any rate, Buckey's brain-child expanded from ten to twelve pages.

Buckey prospered with it. He moved his bride into a more pretentious home in West Prescott, across Granite Creek, giving the location the flavor of a "newspaper row." As the editor of the Prescott Jornal-Miner remarked, "The editorial fraternity of Prescott is now concentrated in that locality. Hoof and Horn and Courier, by this move, have become next door neighbors, while the Journal-Miner is only a block away. The city council did wisely in straightening the Granite street bridge when they did."

And the Journal-Miner was right, for Buckey was about to dust off Item Two in his file of unfinished business. He determined to run for office, and the Courier squared away in the opposite corner as the mouthpiece of the opposition.

Storming political ramparts of the Old Guard is tough work for the novice in any man's land. It was bitterly so around Prescott, where the bailiwick bosses were decidedly obstinate about injecting young blood into political veins. The charmed circle of chronic officeholders held no room for Buckey. He was barely twenty-six. But, impertinent squirt that he was in the eyes of Old Guard bosses, he determined to run for Probate Judge on the minority Republican ticket. The old boys glared down their noses in frigid disdain. Some were antagonistic. For instance, "Uncle Billy" Wilkerson, who had reposed in some public office or other for over fifteen years. He didn't intend to be ousted.Still Buckey stood a fair chance. The Judgeship was no particular plum, so Buckey's sights were trained reasonably low. He was a lawyer, capable of professional performance in the post which he sought. But he was not a Believing that candor is as commendable in a political candidate as in any other individual, I desire to call your attention to a few facts concerning my candidacy for the Probate Judgeship of your county, subject to the action of the Republican County Convention. A resident of Arizona for nearly ten years not because I was forced to come here, or lacked the means of leaving-I have, during that period, fully realized the fact that men are elected to public office in Arizona, not so much on account of their possessing pre-eminent qualifications, as a liberal endowment of that valuable article commonly called 'gall' and having, by a long connection with the Territorial press, gathered more of that commodity than anything else, I have concluded to shy my 'castor into the political arena' to realize something on it. I do so entirely on my own responsibility. No 'anxious public, the 'solicitation of many friends, nor 'the wishes of many prominent citizens' have made the slightest effort to 'bluff me into doing it. To be frank, it is not a case where the office is wearing itself out hunting for a man not much! Here it is the man wearing himself out hunting the office, and rustling like sheol to get it, for the simple reason that is is a soft berth, with a salary of $2,000 per annum attached. While in the way of special qualifications, I have no advantage over seventy-five per cent of my fellow citizens in the County, yet I believe I am fully competent to discharge all the duties incident to the office in an efficient manner, if elected. If you coincide in this opinion, support me, if you see fit; if you do not, you will by no means jeopardize the safety of the universe by defeating me.

Yours fraternally, W. O. O'NEILL.

Wretched example of all the Territorial politician should be. He had refreshing ideas on how to wage a campaign, and he opened his drive with the quaintest. Voters would appreciate candor, so Buckey proposed to be candid. He waded in like an innocent babe. His guard was wide and his chin was out. He flipped his Stetson into the ring with an astonishing statement.

There, in a nutshell, is Buckey O'Neill. Who else would presume to open a campaign with quite such a statement as that?

Democrats came to life with a start. This was indecent exposure, and they must tweak that young upstart's Republican nose! Buckey must gain respect for his elders. Besides, no self-respecting mud-slinger of the old school could resist such delightful temptation as that. Buckey's opponents were almost wholly outstanding and honorable men. There was a point in political warfare beyond which they refused to go. But among them were a few who would sink to the depths to further their own ambitions. Like Buckey, these few also had some ideas on how to wage a campaign, and proposed to put them to use. They meant to finish Buckey O'Neill.

In the dank back room of a print shop, shadowy forms scurried about in diabolical glee. There was the acrid stench of lamps turned low. The odor of printer's ink. Cigar butts littered the floor. Heads circled over a table in flickering light, and knowing smiles guttered the faces. No one knows who they were, but they had scoured the details of Buckey's career. Each coveted morsel, each speck of dirt, had been pounced upon and saved. The results were painfully meager, but these boys were quite unconcerned with fact. They were fully equipped with imagination designed for unsavory use, and they gurgled with delight as they beheld their masterpiece.

On one tiny sheet they had produced a compendium of slander that was a credit to their trade. They scattered it over the county by the light of the moon, and of this much they were certain they had smeared Buckey O'Neill.

should Their essay warmed up like this: The Probate Judge of this County be like Caesar's wife-above suspicion.

The question is: Does Mr. O'Neill fill this bill?

W. O. O'Neill is well educated, wields a ready pen, and, were he possessed of those moral traits which adorn and elevate true manhood, would be a citizen we would all delight to honor.

Unfortunately he is not so constituted. W. O. O'Neill is known far and wide as 'Buckey' O'Neill, because of his fondness for faro, and the dash and recklessness with which, when in funds, he piles the red or white chips upon his favorite card.

He is also a drunkard. Though young in years, his bleared eye and flushed face give evidence that the nights of dissipation-the days of continuous drunks are slowly but surely undermining a naturally strong and vigorous constitution.

He prides himself upon being a spoilsmanopenly declares that no higher principle governs his political actions than the spoils of of office. Confessedly a mountebank among men, he is a libertine among women; glorying in his vices, he assails all that is reputable in manhood, or chaste and virtuous in womanhood.

To confirm what is herein said as to his peculiar views of obligations a public officer owes to the people, and the qualifications necessary to secure it in Arizona, read his announcement of his candidature for the office of Probate Judge.

It is acclaimed by his friends that "Buckey" has reformed since his marriage. That such a statement is untrue is well authenticated. His neighbors know that in the small hours of the morning he has been taken home to his waiting and expectant bride in a state of beastly intoxication, introducing into his home that brutality which adheres to every animated specimen of total depravity.

Oddly enough, the statement was anonymous.

Nevertheless, at the time, the charges had been made. Their circulation was widespread. Results were quick and devastating. Buckey, himself, was sore as hell. He had stuck his chin out and the dirty bums had cracked it! He wrote a letter to the Journal-Miner. He branded his attackers every name in the book, insinuating a few that weren't. It probably did little good. Besides, he needn't have bothered, for the Journal-Miner whacked the nail on the head.

"It will act as a boomerang upon its authors, and elect W. O. O'Neill Probate Judge." Buckey's chances thus increased by the day, but the campaign still was close. Wilkerson was noticeably silent about disclaiming knowledge of the leaflet. He was a veteran campaigner who let the chips fall where they may. But a lot of people wondered. Nevertheless, election day arrived and waned, and the incumbent's wisdom became more apparent. Wilkerson held a slim lead. A few precincts weren't in, but he reportedly ordered a great oyster dinner to celebrate his victory. Guests arrived in convivial mood. Congratu-lations went the rounds. First courses were served, and the oysters were being set down. Wilkerson beamed as a messenger arrived bearing final results of the vote. He looked over the message and blinked. He looked again. His smile suddenly faded. Impossible!

But it was true. Buckey had carried the outlying precincts and was elected by exactly eight votes.

Along with the judgeship, Buckey inherited the title of County Superintendent of Schools. No one in the territory regarded education more highly than he. He concluded the post should be more than merely a title, and immediately things began to hum. He journeyed to Tonto Basin and ironed out a long standing dispute over educational matters there. He organized more new school districts in Yavapai county than anyone had ever conceived, and he went to bat on a subject that had long been a crying need. It was the enactment of a compulsory school law. Buckey presented the Territorial Superintendent of Schools with an impressive array of figures and facts in support of his contention, not the least being the fact that only three out of every ten children in Arizona were being exposed to education of any sort. The result of Buckey's effort was that the next Territorial Legislature passed the first compulsory school law ever enacted in Arizona. Meanwhile, Buckey filled his spare time with projects of varying magnitude. He was re-appointed reporter of District Court, practiced law on the side, held down the probate judge-ship, and acted as County Superintendent of Schools. He kept Hoof and Horn in the groove, with printing contracts coming its way.

One might easily presume that Buckey's myriad activities would drain the bottomless well of his energy. Far from it. No man with writer's blood in his veins can happily exist without finding time to scribble. Buckey found it at night. Pauline was a talented pianist, and Buckey adored her music. She played lilting Irish airs for hours at a time while Buckey sat by and wrote. When Pauline grew tired, Buckey would quit. He couldn't accomplish a thing without Pauline's musical accompaniment.

Buckey wrote tales of the frontier of which he was so much a part. They were paradoxes, spun by a man as strange to their brooding sadness as were the melodies to which they were written. But they were yarns that rang the bell, for Buckey was no amateur when he turned his hand to the short story field. He produced what his contemporaries wanted to read, and magazines were quick to take almost whatever he wrote. The old Argonaut carried much of his stuff, tales of the Army, of Indian days, and Mexico.

"Requiem of Drums," was perhaps the most famous. At least, it was aboard this tragedy of Indian custom that Buckey rode into "big time" magazine fiction. He sold it to Cosmopolitan, though strangely enough, he never saw it in print. Through one of those mysti-fying quirks in the routine of a magazine office, "Requiem of Drums" became salted away in the catacombs of somebody's desk. Years later, some curious soul wondered what it might be, tucked in that pigeonhole and cov-ered with dust. He took it out and read. Say, what was this?

"Hey, boss, take a look-!"

So it was that "Requiem of Drums" finally saw the light of print in Cosmopolitan's February issue in 1902. By a queer twist of fate, it was illustrated by the famous Remington, who had provided the pictures while another man provided the war in which Buckey was to play so dramatic a role. The class of company which "Requiem of Drums" finally kept may be gathered from the fact that it was featured with an adventurous tale by a man named Rudyard Kipling, and a radical sort of fantasy about men on the moon by a man named H. G. Wells.

This story of "Buckey" O'Neill by Mr. Keithley will be concluded in February issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS. We see him next as Sheriff of Yavapai County, a frontier publisher, and as a candidate to Congress on the ticket of the People Party, whose cause he espoused when he no longer felt that the Republican or Democratic Parties were properly serving the people. He develops mining properties near the Grand Canyon and finally Destiny hurls him to a blazing end as one of the most gallant of the Rough Riders. "Buckey," as you will see, "stayed with 'em while he lasted."

Out of the West of Long Ago

(Continued from Page Eleven) Like a stern commander the old horse turned As the troop filed out, and straight to the head He guided them back on that weary trail Till he fell by his fallen rider-deadBut the man and the message saved and he Whose brave heart carried the double load; With his last trust kept and his last race won, They buried him there on the Wingate Road.

Sharlot Hall sings sweetly and beautifully in the lyric; plays grandly symphonic in the epic; but to me she reaches her highest pinnacle in the ballads. Her lyrics carry the crooning of the pine boughs, the lullaby of the mountain stream, and the cheerful carol of the birds. Her epic poems are strong and buoyant and carry the major oratorio of the charging waterfall and the rushing Colorado. Her nature poems reveal her as a sensitive nature mystic and lover of God-made things. In her ballads we find a splendid balance of humor and pathos, the telling of a simple incident which culminates in a great andante movement of mingled harmonious folksong quality of devotion, work, struggle, and happy accomplishment.

Much more could be said of the verse of this gentle, mannerly, forthright, self-sufficient little woman who typifies Arizona in its very finest mien. But somehow one who knows Sharlot Hall cannot think of her for long simply because of her literary accomplishments but rather because of Sharlot Hall herself. Erna Fergusson is right when she says, "They aren't making Sharlot Halls anymore." And you do not flee from this thought even when Miss Hall replies, coyly, "Well, that is true of all of us." You just know that there is a significant way in which this is true about her.

Again the author of Our Southwest well evaluates and concludes, "Miss Hall so completely personifies our matter-of-fact ancestor, who had no illusion about a land that was hard to live in, but chose it just the same." Sharlot Hall is simply greater than anything that has happened to her or than anything that she herself has produced in poetry or prose. She is a charming person, a poetess of renown, and a great soul; a woman who is herself a more worthy monument to the old Southwest than any bit of bronze anywhere in the entire area. Truly she is more rare than a night blooming cereus.

Let Miss Hall herself speak the final word through another of her penetrating concepts in verse "God Speed"

Comrade, whose eyes have seen beyond That last Horizon lone and far; Remoter than the utmost star That watches on the rim of space; I that shall see no more your face, Save in some vision brief and fond; I that alone must go and come, I that alone must stay or roam, Bid you Godspeed and hearty cheer, Bid you a joy untouched by fear On every road a soul may take. To fuller life, to dreamless sleep, To all a heart may give or keep, God speed you, guide your going-yet The roads of earth not quite forget.

All poetic quotations unless otherwise noted in the above are from Cactus and Pine and used by personal permission of Sharlot Hall. The previously unpublished poems are printed by her permission and the rights are presumed covered in the above with holding of all rights by the author.

JANUARY, 1943