THE OVERLAND MAIL

West and continued to the summit of the pass which was two and a half miles from the station. The elevation at the summit is five thousand one hundred feet, the highest point on the Western Division of the route. The present road through the pass is located a mile or more north of the old Butterfield road, but converges with it near the summit of the pass and follows over it a short distance west of that junction. From this point the old road continued on curving southwest, making a gradual descent to the large basin lying between the Chiricahua and the Dragoon mountains. Apache Pass or Puerto del Dado was appropriately named for it was a notorious hide-out for the Apaches. The list of atrocities committed along the road through the pass by them is a long and bloody one. Near the summit of the pass is the site of one of the most atrocious crimes recorded in its bloodstained history. This was in February, 1861. The trouble apparently originated in a report to the commander at Fort Buchanan that the Apaches had raided the beef contractor's cattle and had abducted a boy. Lieutenant George Nichols Bascom of the Seventh Infantry, with a detachment of some sixty men were immediately sent in pursuit of the Indians. (This is sometimes called the "Mickey Free" incident.) In the Dragoon Mountains, the stronghold of Chief Cochise, the troops came upon a party of Chiricahua Apaches led by Cochise himself. He met the soldiers under a flag of truce and denied that his tribe had stolen the child. He promised to hunt for the lost boy. For some reason, Lieutenant Bascom became angered with Cochise and ordered his men to seize all the Indian leaders and tie them up. In the encounter one of the Indians was killed, and four, including Cochise, were captured. Within a short time, however, though he had three bullets in his body, Cochise managed to escape and rejoin his followers. The Apaches were now burning for revenge and immediately began hostilities. Lieutenant Bascom and his three remaining hostages arrived at the Apache Pass station on February 5, having been unable to find the boy. At the same time, the Indians planned a mass attack on the station.

On the following day, the Butterfield Mail from the east, which was due late in the evening, arrived at the station nearly two hours ahead of time, and left immediately after a change of teams. It reached the western entrance of the Pass while it was light, which probably saved the lives of the occupants of the coach. Here, about a mile and a half from the station, it was discovered that an attempt had been made to block the narrow road with dried grass piled in heaps. This was a fire-trap form of ambush frequently used against emigrant trains but attempted here for the first time against the Butterfield Mail. The road was cleared and the coach proceeded on its way unmolested. About a mile farther on the travelers were horrified by the ghastly spectacle they saw. Here by the roadside were the remains of an emigrant train that had recently been attacked and burned. All members of the party had been massacred and their mutilated bodies were lying among the still smoldering embers. Chained to the charred wagon wheels were the bodies of eight of the unfortunate victims, who had been burned alive. The stage went on its way, for the driver and conductor deemed it foolhardy, now that darkness was falling, to risk turning back to the station to report the tragedy. About half way to the western entrance of the Pass and Ewell's, the next station west, the eastbound mail was met and the occupants told of the tragic happenings ahead. The frightful news, alarming as it was, could not deter the passengers of the eastbound stage from continuing on to the Apache Pass station. There were nine persons on board the coach, besides the conductor, A. B. Culver, brother of the station keeper, and the driver. All were well-armed and now prepared for an emergency. Among the passengers was Superintendent William Buckley who was making a tour of inspection over the line. It was dark when the stage entered the Pass, and reached the summit without trouble. But as it clattered along on the downward grade, the driver urging his mules to their utmost, a volley of shots, fired from ambush, rang out. Two mules went down in a heap and the driver was wounded. Every man aboard the vehicle returned the fire. Then under cover of the rifles of the passengers, Buckley and the conductor succeeded in cutting the two wounded animals out of the traces and they managed to fight their way to the Apache Pass station, the wounded driver still holding the reins over the remnant of his team. As soon as the news of the massacre and the attempted ambush had reached Lieutenant Bascom, riders were immediately sent to Fort Buchanan, one hundred and fifty miles to the southwest for additional troops and medical aid. The Butterfield Mail was halted that night for the first time in history, by Indian trouble. The Apaches planned a mass attack on the station but were uncertain as to the number of defenders. Next morning a lone Indian appeared at a distance from the station, bearing a white flag. The Lieutenant, not deceived by such a trick, knowing that it was an act of subterfuge to learn the strength of the defenders, refused to parley. The station keeper, C. W. Culver, however, with one of his helpers named Welch, and a driver, named J. F. Wallace, disregarded the regulations imposed by the company as well as the warning of Lieutenant Bascom. They went boldly out to meet the bearer of the false flag of truce. It was a fatal act, for before a rescuing hand could be extended, the three had been seized. Culver and Welch, however, managed to elude their captors and flee toward the station. But Welch was killed by a bullet before he could reach safety while Culver, although seriously wounded, was rescued. Wallace was carried away a prisoner.A few days later Assistant Surgeon B. J. D. Irwin in command of fourteen mounted troops, plus a civilian guide on his way to Apache Pass with a relief expedition from Fort Buchanan, found the remains of Wallace and the bodies of five other unfortunates evidently from the wagon train. They had been staked out on the plain west of the Pass where the bodies had been left to be further mutilated by vultures and coyotes.From Apache Pass station, the road followed a course almost due west across the flat plain to Ewell's, the next station, which was located about five miles southwest of Dos Cabezas Springs. This station was approximately fifteen miles west of Apache Pass and was established in 1859. It was named for Captain R. S. Ewell, of the First Dragoons, who was one of the founders of Fort Buchanan and in charge of that post in 1860.

Dragoon Springs, the next station, twenty-five miles southwest from Ewell's was located about two miles southeast of the present Dragoon post office. The springs were evidently discovered by the Army scouts who accompanied the first detachment of United States Dragoons. These troops had been sent to establish and garrison the posts at Fort Buchanan and Tucson, in the early part of 1856, hence the name given to this watering place-from which the station took its name.

Dragoon station, the most westerly of the original chain of ten fortified stone constructed station buildings erected on the mail route was located in the heart of the savage Apache country. It was on the Indian path to Sonora, in a region still known as Cochise Stronghold, and was designed to withstand the assaults of these warring tribes. One of the most dastardly and atrocious triple murders ever committed in the Southwest occurred here, not perpetrated by the Apaches but by Mexicans.

Six Americans, Preston Cunningham, Silas St. John, William Brainard, James Laing, James Burr and Frank de Ruyther composed the maintenance crew. In addition there were three Mexican employees, Guadalupe Rameriz, Pablo Rameriz, known as El Chino-both from Sonora and Bonifacio Miranda of Chihuahua.

According to St. John's account of the harrowing events of that fateful night, he occupied a room in the northeast corner of the walled enclosure near the main gate. Cunningham used the storeroom in the southeast corner and Burr had his bed on the ground outside the main gate. The Mexican helpers also slept outside. Brainard and de Ruyther had left for the San Pedro the day before.

At midnight St. John arose and aroused Guadalupe to relieve Laing who had stood the first watch, and then went back to sleep. About an hour later, St. John was awakened by the uneasy commotion of the stock, and shortly afterward, he heard a low whistle followed by blows and outcries. He sprang up just as the three Mexicans, all plainly distinguishable in the roofless wing, under the star-studded sky, dashed into his room to attack him. Two of the men were armed with axes, while the third carried a heavy stone maul. As the three flung themselves upon the unarmed man, cornered as he was, he fought them off with his bare fists; but not before they had inflicted several severe wounds which would have meant death to a man of lesser physical strength and indomitable courage. One axe stroke had cut deep into his right hip; one of his forearms and a hand were terribly gashed; but the worst and most serious was a blow which had all but severed his left arm below the shoulder. In spite of all this, he managed to get hold of his Sharp's rifle with his wounded hand and knock the axes from the hands of his assailants and then drive the three out of the room, but he was unable to raise the gun to his shoulder to fire it. He dropped the gun and grasped his revolver and fired a shot just as the three rushed back to renew the attack. The shot had the desired effect for the assassins fled before he could fire a second one. St. John bound up his wounds as best he could and waited in agony for daylight. He could hear the moans of his wounded companions, but he was helpless to give aid. When daylight came he succeeded in staunching the flow of blood from his left arm by means of a tourniquet made from his handkerchief, a stone and a stick. Fortunately, the hemorrhage from his hip ceased. He managed to drag himself out into the enclosure and the sight that met his eyes was sickening and heart-rending. Cunningham, who was an old man, had three terrible gashes in his head, but was still alive, though unconscious. Outside the entrance gate was the body of Burr, dead, with his skull crushed from a blow. Laing was mortally wounded but still breathing. The following day, Thursday, St. John recovered sufficient strength to crawl about the enclosure. He sought what shelter there was from the molten sun, in the shade of the walls, for it was torturously hot and he was tormented by fever, pain and thirst. There was no water in the station nor in the corral. At night the barking of the coyotes, the piteous complaining of the starving and thirsty stock, only added to the hideousness of the situation.

Sometime about midnight, Cunningham breathed his last. The following morning, Friday, vultures came in flocks and draped themselves on the rafters of the unfinished roofs. St. John frightened them away, but they mutilated the body of the unfortunate Burr. By night the neglected animals in the corral were moaning in distress. Wolves were now attracted to the scene of horror and St. John would scare them from the gate with shots from his revolver. Saturday found him suffering indescribable torment. The vultures returned and perched, with an air of expectancy, above the still breathing body of Laing. At night wolves fought and tore at Burr's body, only a few feet from where St. John was lying. By firing an occasional shot into their midst he could drive them away temporarily, but they would come skulking back. The following morning, Sunday, when it seemed that the tortured and agonized man could endure his sufferings no longer, help came.

A travelling correspondent from the Memphis "Avalanche," a man by the name of Archibald, was making the journey east over the route to El Paso on horseback. He was accompanied by a guide, and when they arrived within hailing distance of the station they sensed something was wrong. The flag was not flying from the staff and the place appeared deserted. Fortunately, they had the courage to dismount and investigate, and were soon at the side of the half-demented man who was lying in his blood-matted clothes on a pile of feed sacks. St. John's lips and tongue were so swollen that he could utter no sound. Archibald dashed away to the spring for water, a quarter of a mile south. Before he returned, a contingent of Colonel Leach's road-building crew with three wagons (these had left Mesilla, August 23, and were on their way to San Diego) fortunately arrived on the scene and gave timely first-aid to the suffering man. His wounds were found to be filled with maggots, which condition undoubtedly saved St. John's life. The remains of Burr and Cunningham were buried. Laing was still alive but beyond all help. He died and was buried next day.

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