ARIZONA'S HAUNTED WILDERNESS

BY CECIL CALVIN RICHARDSON SHERIFF OF COCONINO COUNTY Less than twenty miles from Flagstaff is the beginning of Arizona's only wilderness area. It lies between Sycamore Canyon, the Verde River, and Oak Creek Canyon. Here are miles of thick forest and rough country penetrated by only a few good-weather trails and dim forest roads, as wild a strip of country as can be found anywhere in the Southwest.

It is a land of shadows, wild animals, and the "ghosts of yesterday." A few ranches and homesteads cling to its outer fringes, but the interior is no place for amateur hikers and explorers. Each year there are those who wander into this area and become lost, to be plucked out by a hardened and cynical bunch of Coconino citizens whose one hope is that the "damfools will just sit down some place and build a fire when night comes." Planes, horses and jeeps have been used to find lost hunters, amateur explorers and hikers.

During the early days of Arizona Territory this wilderness area was an outlaw paradise, with a phantom population of horse-rustlers, robber hideouts, and rest-camps for travel-weary "owl-trailers" beset by hard-riding posses. On the map of Arizona it is plainly marked "Wilderness Area," and it lies some twenty miles south-west of Flagstaff and U.S. Highway 66. Part of it is in the Coconino National Forest. But as one oldtimer stated, "it belongs to God, the government, and the ghosts of yesterday!"

In this area you will find such descriptive names as Secret Mountain, Lost Mountain, Maroon Mountain, Bear Mountain, Bear Sign Canyon, Sycamore Pass, Rattlesnake Basin, Winter Cabin, Secret Canyon, Black Mountain, Turkey Butte, Doe Mountain, and many others.

Today the population consists mostly of roving mountain lions and brown bear that prey on the deer, antelope and elk that feed along dim forest aisles, and the ghosts and legends of yesterday.

One of the earliest legends tells of a lost mine, variously referred to as "The Lost Padre Mine," "The Phantom Spanish Village," and "The Lost Arrasta Mine." Although scoffed at by some of the oldtimers who have spent a life-time prospecting in parts of this area, rumors persist that it has been found and lost again in recent years.

The main points of the legend state that the Span-ish fathers established a small arrasta-type mine in an isolated canyon in this area many, many years ago, with a small settlement of rough cabins. The mine was worked only a short time, the Spaniards withdrew, and by now nature has all but obliterated traces of their occupancy. About all that remains are crumbling cabins, parts of the mine shaft and workings, all but engulfed by new growth of timber and lesser vegetation.

The canyon itself is but a small one, isolated and all but hidden in rough, heavily timbered country. But despite the scoffing of some residents, there are those who still believe in the legend and will patiently continue the search. Lost mines seldom become "lost" in the minds of many.

At any rate more than a century after the Spaniards came, hardy American pioneers followed in their footsteps, but they did not tarry long in this wilderness. And then came the land-hungry settlers who took one look at its rough terrain, and then went on around it to find more suitable locations. But the outlaw took a second look at this wild country and liked what he saw. It was about halfway between settlements in the north and south, and there was enough of it to satisfy the most finicky and modestly retiring "gentleman of the hootowl trail." Here he could lose himself for days, weeks, or even months from impatient lawmen. It was here that the "Phantom Band" of horse-rusttlers had a more or less permanent camp. Stolen bands of horses were brought in from the south and kept hidden in a secret canyon until it was safe to move them on up north to Utah, Colorado, or even New Mexico and Nevada. In the meantime brand experts changed the brands on them so cleverly that they fooled even the canny eyes of astute livestock inspectors. This band of horse-rustlers was the "elite" of the West, and got its name from the fact that the main members were for the most part respectable citizens who had but one thing in common, the love of horseflesh and a quick dollar! They raided the southern ranches and settlements with clock-work precision that showed canny planning and execution. Although these men took part in the raids, and in the selling of the horses afterwards, they did not linger for long in the wilderness hideout. Hired help took care of the camp and horses for them there. But these men did all the expert details such as planning raids, changing brands, and selling the horses.Like phantoms, they disappeared in the night, to appear in some far-off place to sell "legitimate" horses. So shrewd were the ring-leaders of this band that most of them later retired with only the shadow of suspicion clinging to them. They, of course, lost some horses and men in the natural course of events, but even the hired help could not put the "finger" on their bosses. If there is such a thing as a successful horse-thief, these men could have laid a very good claim to the title. The Wilderness was also the hideout for many years for other travelers of the "hoot-owl trail" going either from north to south, or vice-versa. Here they could rest up for as long as they needed to, get a change of horses, and then slip away in the night to distant parts. For over half a century many outlaws used this wilderness area for a hideout. Some of them were only lone drifters wanted for serious crimes in other states, but for the most part they came in small groups or bands, used its sanctuary for a while, and then disappeared into the limbo of whispered legends. I have been into most of this area, along dim trails, and over the many pronged forest paths that lead into this part of the wilderness, and I have seen hundreds of deer, antelope, turkey, and even bear and mountain lions there, but I can safely say that I have not seen any ghosts, not even that most prolific one, the "lost hunter."

This story persists to the present day. If you can believe them, many people have seen the Lost Hunter. But it is always someone who is also lost at the time, usually another hunter. The Lost Hunter is usually seen in the mists of early morning, after a wearying night. He glides silently from tree to tree, always just out of speak-ing range. Once he realizes that he is being observed, he will raise his rifle and point it toward the other lost hunter. But for some unexplained reason he never fires. While his victim is shivering in awful fear of the crashing bullet, he lowers the rifle and disappears into the surrounding gloom of the forest, and a high, derisive laugh floats back, to echo about his paralyzed victim. Occasionally he has been seen at dusk, on some high, rocky ridge near the badlands of Sycamore Canyon, but he always disappears, leaving no trace of his footsteps. So far as is known he has never taken a shot at anyone, but fancy tales of his presence persist with each hunting season, and probably will for years to come. The deer here have a peculiar habit of standing very still for a moment, gazing at you in dumbfounded amazement, but the moment you move, they disappear with amazing rapidity. Even the squirrels have a trick all their own. They dash in front of you and disappear right before your eyes although you'd swear you saw one go right up a tall pine just in front of you. But don't you believe it! After a couple of days of acute observation I solved that riddle; it's only an illusion. A squirrel darts toward a tree at full speed, but his color blends with it, and at the last moment he disappears around the trunk and races on to the next tree, safely out ofyour sight! It's a neat timing trick if you can do it, and believe me they are past masters at the art. The paths and trails are not safe for the unwary; they twist and turn about on themselves in such utter confusion that you are soon lost. Even the sun is of little help; it seems far away and disappears above the trees, to reappear in some unexpected place. After that you are lost. It is best then to find a well-marked trail, or an open space, build a fire and make yourself comfortable. If you live long enough someone will find you; it won't lengthen your life a bit to run around in circles. Such people always die of exhaustion and exposureat least that's what the Coroner's jury says! High on a ridge that separates the Sycamore Canyon area from the forest there is a narrow defile. Over this comes the mountain lions and big lumbering brown bears. They may hole up in the rocky gorges of the Sycamore, but the forest area is their hunting ground. This was easily proved by a game department trapper who used only one trap and one place on this narrow ridge. In a short time he caught four mountain lions and four bears, all in the same trap and at the same spot. It would certainly be no place to pitch your camp for a few days. A camp is fair game to a lion or bear, and the odds are all in his favor. Only a fool will take a shot at either one in the darkness at close quarters. The best chance is that you won't hit him and wound him. The ghosts of the outlaws of yesterday are real in many ways today; they have left their marks on the dim trails, in the silent canyons, and on all the high points in the rough country. Lonely men playing hide-and-seek with the law-abiding citizens have been known to do strange things when left to their own devices. There is the totally unconfirmed story of the grizzlebearded murderer who crept out of the Wilderness to a homesteader's cabin on the outer fringe, one cold morning, hungry and desperate. No doubt he came to rob, and perhaps to kill, but he found only a very sick family, most of them ill with smallpox. He stayed, took care of them until they were on the way to recovery, and then disappeared, back into the wintry wilderness, to die of the disease, alone and untended. Then there is the story of the mean, lazy outlaw who stole the tame, pet horses from widow women and children. While I do not vouch for its authenticity, I like it-at least the ending! It seems that this male hombre and a couple of pals of his ilk, while holed up in the wilderness, were frowned upon by the other outlaws. In the words of an old outlaw, it was considered all right to rustle horses from the big "spreads," as these ranchers would run your hide off for a couple of days, then give up. But if you stole horses that were the pets of some nester's widow and kids, that was a "horse of another color!" All the nester neighbors around for miles would gather like a flock of hawks on your trail, and when all the signs played out they didn't quit. For days they would hang around and snoop here and there like blood hounds.And so, after an especially bad-smelling raid by this onery bunch, the other outlaws took matters into their own hands. They sent an "innocent dude" out to contact the leader of the nesters trying to trail the stolen horses south of the wilderness, who advised him that the self-respecting outlaws were fed up with the lowdown oneriness of these three who stole from widows and orphans. And that at daylight these same three bad hombres would be escorted to the boundary with all the stolen horses, with the place of emergence specified in detail.Sure enough, at daylight, the "odorous three" came out of the wilderness at this place, driving the stolen horses. Nor was there any fight to the death; the other outlaws had thoughtfully removed the shootin' irons from the thieves!

Then there is the story of the "outlaw preacher." He was a man of some integrity despite an apparent weakness of the flesh. He was a member of an outlaw band given to traffic in stolen horses, the unlawful robbery of banks, stages, and other miscellaneous places where cold, hard cash was kept. But he was not wholly happy in either profession, nor all bad. The man at least had a conscience of sorts.

He would descend into the valley to the south from his outlaw hideout, in frock coat, stove-pipe hat and a long, mournful face. A tall, gaunt man in his fifties, by his own words he always came to preach "but stayed to rob."

In a few weeks his preaching chores would pall on him although by all accounts he was an excellent "hell and brimstone preacher." His black eyes would take careful note of all that went on in the community, and a restless spell would set in. Finally he could standit no longer. At last he would "get another call to preach some place else," and take tearful leave of his faithful flock. A few days later an outlaw band would gather near this particular place, and that night the leading citizens would lose either livestock or cash, and sometimes both. For a week or two the "preacher" would remain in the outlaw hideout, and then he would become restless again. His manner of leaving was always the same; he would get drunk, but always intersperse his drinks with quotations from the Bible until he could no longer talk intelligibly. Next morning he would saddle up his roan horse and, without a word of goodbye, start out to preach again.

Finally on one of his trips down south he failed to send word to his outlaw brethren, to summon them to rob a community. The outlaws grew worried as the days passed and no word came from him. Then finally, late one night, he came into camp and staggered into the cabin bunkhouse "drunker than a lord!" From his frock coat he pulled out a roll of bills "big enough to choke a cow" and divided it equally with all present. There was a queer look in his eyes, and he was silent to all questions. As soon as he finished handing out the money, he turned without a word and staggered through the open doorway into the shadowy moonlight.

They heard him mount his horse, and then his voice rose in a hoarse chant, "There's an old coyote a howlin' at th' moon-far away-far, far away..." until his voice died away in the distance.

The worried outlaws hunted for him the rest of the night, but although several of them stated that they heard him singing this same song in the distance, they never were able to find him.

And that was the last of the "outlaw preacher" although there were others afterward who claimed they heard him singing that same song on many a moonlit night deep within the wilderness. It may be that he, like so many others, lies in an unmarked grave somewhere in the "haunted wilderness," or that he just simply "went over the hill" to better things in a new life. I have never heard him sing on a moonlit night in the wilderness, but perhaps, like one oldtimer said, I "just didn't listen long enough!"