FORT YUMA TO TUCSON.
Fort Yuma is popularly believed to be in Arizona, but is in reality in the extreme southeastern corner of California. The fort itself stands on a high bluff, on the west bank of the Rio Colorado, which alone separates it from Arizona, and is usually occupied by two or three companies of U. S. troops. Directly opposite, on the east bank of the Colorado, stands Arizona City, a straggling collection of adobe houses, containing then perhaps five hundred inhabitants all told. Here and at Yuma are located the government store-houses, shops, corrals, etc., as the grand depot for all the posts in Arizona. Hence, considerable business centres here; but it is chiefly of a military nature, and if the post and depot were removed, the "City" as such would speedily subside into its original sand-hills. Being at the junction of the Gila and Colorado, where the main route of travel east and west crosses the latter, it is also the first place of any importance on the Colorado itself; and hence would seem to be well located for business, if Arizona had any business to speak of. The distance to the mouth of the Colorado is one hundred and fifty miles, whence a line of schooners then connected with San Francisco two thousand miles away via the Gulf of California. From the head of the Gulf, light-draught stern-wheel steamers ascend the Colorado to Yuma, and occasionally to La Paz, and Fort Mojave or Hardyville—one hundred and fifty, and three hundred miles, farther up respectively. Sometimes they had even reached Callville, some six hundred miles from the Gulf, but this was chiefly by way of adventure, as there was no population or business sufficient to justify such risks ordinarily.
The Rio Colorado itself, or the great Red River of the west, although rising even beyond Fort Bridger, in the very heart of the continent, and draining with its tributaries the whole western slope of the Rocky Mountains for two thousand miles, was yet pronounced an unnavigable stream, after the first few hundred miles, and rather a hard river to navigate even that distance. Much of the way it runs through a comparatively rainless region in summer, and the last few hundred miles it ploughs its course along through a sandy alluvium, where its channel is constantly shifting, and sand-bars everywhere prevail. The tiny river-steamers reported the channel never in the same place for a week together, and they always tied up when night came, for fear of running ashore or grounding in the darkness. The current, moreover, was usually very swift; so that between the sand and water together, voyaging on the Colorado was regarded generally as a slow kind of business. These boats usually took from three days to a week, to make the one hundred and fifty miles, from the mouth of the river to Arizona City, and from ten to twenty days more to ascend to Hardyville—three hundred miles farther—whence, however, they descended to the Gulf again, with water and sand both to help them, in a tithe of the time. In all, there were three boats then on the Colorado, supported chiefly by a contract they had to transport government stores. Without this, there was not enough travel or freight, apparently, to keep even one running, though it was hoped the development of mines in Arizona would soon make business more brisk.
As a means of a water communication, from the Gulf of California into the very heart of the continent, it would seem, that this great river ought to have become more useful to civilization, than it has. But the difficulties of navigating it, even to Callville, were reported great; and beyond that, was the insuperable obstacle of the Big Cañon of the Colorado, which nobody then knew anything about, except as a geographical mystery, but which Prof. Powell has since explored so gallantly. At Yuma, the river was a turbid, rolling flood, broad and deep; and, judging by what we saw of it there, it would seem, that steamers of proper draught and build ought to be able to stem its current, and be of great service hereafter to all the upper country. The rates then current on the river were as follows: From the mouth of the Colorado to Yuma or Arizona City, 150 miles, twenty dollars per ton, coin; to La Paz, 300 miles, forty dollars per ton; to Fort Mojave or Hardyville, 450 miles, sixty dollars per ton. The rates from San Francisco to the mouth of the river, some 2000 miles, were then from twelve to fifteen dollars per ton, coin, besides; so that every load of freight put down at Arizona City or Hardyville, cost say thirty-five dollars and seventy-five dollars per ton, coin, respectively, for transportation alone. This may have been good business for the transportation companies; but it was death to mining, and other private enterprises, and operated practically as a prohibition to business, over most of the country there. It made Arizona substantially inaccessible, to population and trade, by this route (and there was no other so advantageous), and the whole country was hoping against hope, with prayers without ceasing, for a sometime oncoming railroad.
March 2d, while still at Arizona City, inspecting the depot there, we saw something of a Yuma sand-storm. The whirlwinds we had observed in the distance, when crossing the Colorado Desert a day or two before, seemed to have been only its precursors. It struck Yuma on the 2d, and promised to be only a passing blow, lulling away at eventide; but on the 3d, it resumed its course, with increased violence, and all day long rolled and roared onward furiously. We had heard much of these Yuma sand-storms, and on the whole were rather glad to see one, disagreeable as it proved. The morning dawned, hot and sultry, without a breath of air anywhere. Along about 9 a. m., the wind commenced sweeping in from the Desert, and as it increased in power uplifted and whirled along vast masses of sand, that seemed to trail as curtains of tawny gossamer from the very sky. As yet, it was comparatively clear at Yuma, and we could see the sweep and whirl of the storm off on the Desert, as distinctly as the outlines of a distant summer shower. But, subsequently, the Desert itself seemed to be literally upborne, and sweeping in, on the wings of the wind. The heavens became lurid and threatening. The sun disappeared, as in a coppery fog. The landscape took on a yellowish, fiery glare. The atmosphere became suffocating and oppressive. Towards noon, the wind rose to a hurricane; the sand, if possible, came thicker and faster, penetrating into every nook and cranny; the air became absolutely stifling, until neither man nor beast could endure it passably. People kept within doors, with every window closed, and animals huddled in groups with their noses to the ground, as if the only place to breathe. As night approached, the tempest gradually ceased, as if it had blown itself out; but it followed us on a minor scale, for a day or two afterwards, as we journeyed up the Gila. The ill-defined horror, and actual suffering of such a day, must be experienced to be appreciated. Out on the Desert, in the midst of the storm, the phenomenon no doubt would amount much to the same thing as the simooms of the Sahara. Travellers or troops caught in these sand-storms have to stop still, and instances are not rare where persons have lost their lives, in attempting to battle with them. They obliterate all signs of a road, where they actively prevail, whirling the sand into heaps and ridges, like New England snow-drifts; and the next travellers, who chance along, have either to go by the compass, or employ a guide, who understands the lay of the mountains, and country generally. Col. Crittenden, of the 32d Infantry, who crossed the Desert with a portion of his command some time after, was detained two days by such a storm, and his men suffered greatly, especially for want of water.
These sand-storms, it appears, are pretty much the only storms they ever get at Yuma, and they would not be unwilling there to dispense with even these. In the spring and summer, they frequently prevail there, sweeping in from the south and southwest, and it is not too much to say, that they are simply execrable. They have done much to make the name of Fort Yuma proverbial on the Pacific Coast, as the hottest place in the Union; and in San Francisco there was a story current about a soldier, who died at Yuma in a customary spree, and of course went to tophet. Subsequently, however, the story ran, his ghost came back for his blankets, because as alleged he had found the climate there much colder than Yuma—a sort of Alaska to California! The Post stands on a high gravel bluff, facing to the east and south, exposed to the blazing sun throughout the day; and, consequently, becoming saturated through and through with heat, retains it for months together. Hence, in the summer months, for weeks together, the thermometer there ranges from 100° to 125° in the shade, and the chief end of the garrison becomes an effort to keep cool, or even tolerably so. A tour of duty there was commonly regarded on the Coast, as a kind of banishment to Botany Bay; and yet we found the officers a very clever set of gentlemen, and spent some days there quite delightfully. Col. W., the commandant, proved to be an old acquaintance of the Army of the Potomac; and Dr. J., the surgeon, an old school-mate.
The Post here was established about 1857 to overawe the Yumas, then a stalwart and numerous tribe of Indians, occupying both banks of the Colorado for a hundred miles or more. Though much reduced, they still numbered over a thousand souls; and physically speaking, were the finest specimens of aborigines we had seen yet. They cultivate the river-bottoms to some extent, and raise barley, wheat, beans, melons, etc.—for their surplus of which, when any, they find a ready market at Fort Yuma and Arizona City. Some chop wood for the river-steamers, and others indeed we found employed on the steamers themselves, as deck-hands, firemen, etc. Altogether, these Yumas seemed to have more of the practical about them, than any savages we had met yet, and no doubt they might be saved to the race for generations to come, were proper efforts made to protect and care for them. They had been peaceable for years, and scores of them thronged the Post and the depot, every day we were there. The men wore only a breech-cloth, with long ends fluttering fore and aft; the women but little more, though some of them affected a rude petticoat. Both sexes, as a rule, were naked from the waist up, and many of each were superb specimens of humanity; but all seemed corrupted and depraved, by contact with the nobler white race. The open and unblushing looseness and licentiousness of the riff-raff of Arizona City, with these poor Indians, was simply disgusting, and it is a disgrace to a Christian government to tolerate such orgies, as frequently occur there, under the very shadow of its flag. Great blame attaches to the army, in former years, for ever admitting these poor creatures within the precincts of the Post there at all. Some time before, it was said, the commanding officer sent for Pasquol, their head-chief, and bade him order his squaws away.
"My squaws?" he indignantly responded; "no my squaws now! White man's squaws! Before white man come, squaws good—stay in wigwam—cook—fish—work in field—gather barley—heap good. But now squaws about Fort all day—City all night—and Yumas no want 'em. White man made squaws a heap bad. White man keep 'em!"
And with this, old Pasquol, a stately old savage, wrapped his blanket about his shoulders, and strode haughtily away. As far as we could learn, there had never been a missionary, or teacher of any kind, among these poor Yumas; and to all who feel a call in that direction, we would suggest the place as a superb field, for earnest missionary work. Will not some of our religious organizations, now that they have got the Red Man so fully in their hands, make a note of this, and try to look a little after these splendid savages, degraded though they be, as well as the Cheyennes and Sioux, and other more eastern tribes?
At Fort Yuma we overhauled Gov. McCormick and wife, who had left San Francisco in advance of us, and who were now about to leave for Prescott, then the capital of Arizona. On reflection, however, rather than lose such good company, they decided to journey with us to Tucson, and thence somewhat back to Prescott; whence we designed returning to Los Angelos again, via Fort Mojave. Accordingly, we left Arizona City, March 4th, our route lying up the Gila easterly two hundred miles to Maricopa Wells, and thence southerly one hundred miles to Tucson, the oldest and most considerable town in the Territory, and now again the capital. Much as we had "roughed it," while en route from Wilmington to Fort Yuma, according to all reports we would have to rough it much worse before reaching Tucson, if we trusted to the wayside ranches; and, therefore, before setting out, we secured a joint cook, and provided ourselves with a tolerable larder. Our "outfit" consisted of two four-mule ambulances, into which and outside we stowed and strapped ourselves, baggage, rations, forage, cooking utensils, etc., as best we could. Expecting to "camp-out" at night, we also took along two extra wagon-sheets, to pitch as tents, if necessary; but never found occasion to use them, except as beds, beneath those exquisite skies. There was no cavalry then at Yuma, and the road as far as Maricopa Wells being reported comparatively safe, we decided to proceed thither without escort, depending upon our own courage and vigilance. Nevertheless, we took the precaution before starting to arm our cook and both drivers with Springfield muskets, while we ourselves were equipped with a Spencer or Remington rifle apiece, as well as our revolvers.
With a host of "adios" and "good-byes," from our Yuma friends, we swung out of Arizona City late that morning, through sand knee-deep, and thus were fairly off for Tucson. The roads proved heavy all that day, and the remains of the sand-storm kept us company; yet we succeeded in making thirty-one miles, and went into camp before night-fall on the banks of the Gila. Some twenty miles out we passed Gila City, consisting of two adobe huts and an abandoned mine, then famous as the spot where Gen. McD., and some San Francisco friends, had recently made rather "permanent investments." Thence on to Maricopa Wells, indeed all the way from Arizona City, the road ascends the south bank of the Gila, and confines itself pretty closely to it, except here and there where it strikes across the mesas, to avoid some bend in this most tortuous of streams. The Gila itself ordinarily is an insignificant river, apparently famed more for quicksands than water; but just now its banks were full with the spring freshet, and its usual fords dangerous if not impassable. Its valley is of uncertain breadth, from one to five miles, though its river bottoms—its only really valuable land—are of course much narrower. Beyond the valley, on either side, are high mesas or plateaus, covered often with barren volcanic rocks, like the table-lands of Idaho; and, beyond these still, are substantial mountain-ranges. The range on the north, day after day, was a constant wonder and delight. Instead of ridges and peaks, it seemed to be rather a succession of domes, and towers, and castellated ramparts, sharp and well-defined against a peerless sky, chief among which was Castle Dome—a superb dome-like mountain, that dominated the landscape for two or three days together. These dome-shaped mountains are a feature of Arizona, and abound everywhere in the Territory, especially in the northern part of it.
As already intimated, we found the Gila very high and still rising. In several places, it had just washed the banks away, destroying the road, and we had to pick our way across the bottoms, through the chemisal and mesquite, to the connecting part, the best we could. In this way, it seems, its channel is constantly shifting, and this was said to be one of the chief drawbacks to constructing acequias, and cultivating its fine bottom lands by irrigation. The head of an acequia to-day, tapping the river well, a month hence may be three feet or more out of water, and then all the work of excavating ditches, damming the river, etc., has to be done over again. The bed of the Gila itself, in the main, seems to be pure quicksand. At one point, a station-keeper showed us where a year before piles had been driven down fifty feet, in making a wing-dam to divert a portion of the river into an acequia; but at the first freshet, the cross currents had underbored everything, and left the head of the acequia high and dry. No doubt the river-bottoms are all exceedingly fertile, and would produce well, if irrigated; but not otherwise. Of these, there is a considerable breadth, at many points along the Gila, and, here and there, there had been some attempts at cultivation, but scarcely any worth mentioning.
These bottoms nearly everywhere abound with bunch-grass and mesquite-timber—the one the delight of horses and cattle, the other invaluable in that treeless region. The mesquite has but little height; but its trunk is often two and three feet in diameter, though only about as many high, from which point it throws out great, sturdy, black, gnarled limbs for a distance of thirty or forty feet all around. We saw many of them, that I think could not have been more than five or six feet in height, the bend of the branches included; nevertheless, with their crooked and gnarled limbs, they sprawled over the ground for a diameter of fully seventy-five or one hundred feet. At first they strike you as dwarfs, puny in aspect and purpose; but afterwards, as stunted giants, massive in strength and power, writhing in very anguish, because unable to tower higher. For lumber purposes, the mesquite amounts to but little; but for fuel, it is invaluable, and the future settlers on the Gila will prize it highly. It occurs pretty much all through Arizona, on the best river-bottoms, and everywhere seems a providential institution. It makes a fire-wood scarcely inferior to oak or hickory, and bears a bean besides, which constitutes a large part of the subsistence of the Mexicans and the Indians there. These mesquite beans make a very sweet and palatable dish, and horses, mules, cattle, etc. are especially fond of them. The Mexicans we met en route to California, were subsisting upon them almost entirely, and subsequently in wandering through a Pimo village, we found them in every storehouse. A Pimo belle, for a bundle of cigarritos, cooked us a dish of them, and we have eaten worse things in New York and Washington. Said an old Arizonian one day, "Wherever you see mesquites, strangers, look out for good land, you bet!" and we found it so invariably. Indeed, with a moderate amount of enterprise, and a small amount of capital, we saw no good reason why the valley of the Gila should not eventually be dotted with excellent farms. The land is all there, and plenty of water to irrigate it (if only the Gila can be subdued, and surely it can), and the climate the year round must be delicious. But, as a rule, we found the country desolate and forsaken, with the exception of a starving ranch here and there, whose dirty and dilapidated proprietor cared more to swear at his snarling half-cayote dogs, and sell an occasional glass of mescal or whiskey, than to do an honest hard day's work. The truth is, the most of these settlers, as well as too many throughout Arizona generally, were exiles or emigrants from Arkansas and Texas, with little in them of the kind of stuff that founds states and builds empires. They knew how to drink, and swear, and "shoot a Red Skin, sir, on sight;" but were strangers to honest toil and steady industry, and therefore missed their logical and golden fruits—prosperity and thrift. Of course, like all such everywhere, they were opposed to "Chinese cheap labor;" and, like the good William Nye, hated the "Heathen Chinee," even worse than the negro.
At Gila Bend, some fifty miles from Maricopa Wells, the river makes a sharp curve north, and the road leaves it, for a direct course across the Bend to Maricopa Wells. This embraces what is known mainly as the Maricopa Desert—a wide circuit of level country, practically a waterless desert, though with some good land here and there. In wet seasons and during rainy months, water remains in a few holes near the middle of the Desert; but we found all long since dry. The distance is usually made in two stages, water being carried along for drinking and cooking purposes; but our "outfit" was light, and taking an early start and driving late, we pushed through in one. The Desert itself, as level as a house-floor, is covered with a sort of fine gravel, that makes an excellent road, over which our wheels rolled easily. Near its eastern borders, a range of barren mountains crosses the Desert from north to south, apparently blocking the way; but the road climbs along through a narrow cañon, that opens as you approach, and makes the plains beyond very readily. This cañon is a noted resort of the dread Apaches, and several attacks had recently occurred here. Before leaving Fort Yuma we had been told we would find hostile Indians here, if anywhere. But we took the precaution to dismount from our ambulances, and skirmish through on foot; and consequently, Señors Apaches failed to show themselves, if there. Our experience was the same all the way to Tucson. Subsequently, while en route thither, we passed several other places, where we had been warned to look out for Apaches, especially at Picacho, where the mountains crowd down to the road, and form something like a cañon again. But a prudent vigilance by day, and a few simple precautions by night, carried us safely through; and we were more than ever convinced, that the great majority of Indian attacks come from carelessness and neglect, on the part of the attacked.
A few miles west of Gila Bend, between Berk's Station and Oatman's Flat, we passed a group of rocks, that interest everybody, but which nobody seemed to know much about. They stand near the roadside, and consist of smooth red porphyry, or some such stone, curiously carved with figures of men, birds, beasts, fishes, etc. Many of the figures are now quite indistinct, but sufficient remain to show what they were, and their very indistinctness—coupled with the hardness of the stone—proves their great antiquity. The rocks themselves, when struck, ring like genuine clink-stones; and, it would seem, only the sharpest and hardest instruments could make much impression on them. The place is called "Painted Rocks," and we had only time for a cursory examination; but the sculpturing seemed too remote for Spanish times, and was generally attributed to the days of the Aztecs. However this may be, they appeared to be there as a species of hieroglyphics, and doubtless have a story to tell, that some future Champollion may unfold. It may be, that the ancient travel for Mexico left the Gila here, or about here, and struck across the country for the Santa Cruz and so south, flanking the Maricopa Desert, and that these sculptured rocks record the place as the starting-point—as a sort of finger-board or mile-stone. This is only a conjecture; but here, at least, is work for the archæologist and antiquarian, as well as at so many other points in Arizona.
With the exception of some mesquite, iron-wood, and palo-verde trees, scattered here and there along the Gila and its bottoms, the whole country from Yuma to Tucson is practically treeless, and must continue so from want of rains. Sage-brush and grease-wood abound, as in Utah and Idaho, and throughout the great internal basin of the continent generally; and on the uplands, you find the great columnar cactus in full vigor and maturity. Indeed, from the time we struck the Colorado Desert, we were fairly into the cactus region of the continent, but the varieties were few, and the size moderate, till we got well into Arizona. Here they increased in height and bulk, until we reached the Maricopa Desert, where we found them thirty and forty feet high, by two or three feet in diameter, with perpendicular branches halfway up, nearly half as large as the main stem. This variety is a green fluted column, with its edges armed with semi-circular thorns, and bears a cluster of apples on top, from which the Indians extract a rude molasses or sugar. Inside, it is a frame-work of reedy poles, that serve many useful purposes in that woodless region. These immense cacti dot the country over to Tucson, and beyond—indeed, down to Mexico, and largely through it—and are a leading feature of southern Arizona. Sometimes you miss them altogether; but, as a rule, they occur more or less on the mesas or plateaus nearly everywhere, and seem in the distance like monumental columns. Their clustering groups and varying heights, when seen from afar, have all the effect of a rural cemetery; only here the shafts are emerald green, instead of marble white. In fights with the Indians, they often prove of value as a defence, and their huge trunks secrete a fluid much akin to water, that has saved the life of many a thirsty traveller, when lost amid these arid wastes. How such a gigantic vegetable or immense plant can thus nourish here, where nothing else comparatively will grow, is a continuing mystery and perpetual astonishment. It would seem more fit for a luxuriant soil and a tropical climate. Yet here it is, magnum opus, mocking the naturalist apparently to scorn.
At Maricopa Wells, and thence up the Gila, we found a large settlement of the Maricopa and Pimo Indians. The Maricopas, it seems, are an offshoot of the Yumas, and number less than a thousand souls. The Pimos foot up five or six thousand, and from them are sprung the Papagos—a great tribe dominating all southern Arizona. The Maricopas and Pimos have a Reservation here together, some twenty-five miles long by four or five wide, embracing both sides of the Gila, and live in twelve different villages scattered over it. Two of these are occupied wholly by Maricopas—the rest, by Pimos. Both tribes are a healthy, athletic, vigorous-looking people, and they were decidedly the most well-to-do aborigines we had yet seen. Unlike most Indians elsewhere, these two tribes are steadily on the increase; and this is not to be wondered at, when one sees how they have abandoned a vagabond condition, and settled down to regular farming and grazing. They have constructed great acequias up and down the Gila, and by means of these take out and carry water for irrigating purposes, over thousands of acres of as fine land as anybody owns. Their fields were well fenced with willows, they had been scratched a little with rude plows, and already (March 9th) they were green with the fast springing wheat and barley. In addition, they raise corn, beans, melons, etc., and have horses and cattle in considerable numbers. One drove of their live stock, over two thousand head, passed down the road just ahead of us, subsequently when en route to Tucson, and we were told they had many more. The year before, these Indians had raised and sold a surplus of wheat and corn, amounting to two millions of pounds, besides a large surplus of barley, beans, etc. The most of this was bought by Indian traders, located at Maricopa Wells and Pimo villages, at from one to two cents per pound, coin, in trade; and then resold to the government, for the use of troops in Arizona, at from six to seven cents per pound, coin, in cash. This is a specimen of the way in which the old Indian Ring fleeced both the Indians and the government, and I give it as a passing argument in favor of the new policy. These Indians, it appears, have practiced agriculture somewhat from time immemorial, and they should be encouraged in it, as there is no surer way of "pacifying" or civilizing them. During the rebellion, they furnished two companies to the Union volunteers in Arizona, and the most of these had just re-enlisted, to serve as scouts against the Apaches. These wore a mongrel uniform, half Indian, half soldier; but the rest, only the traditional breech-cloth.
Their wigwams are oval-shaped, wicker-work lodges, made of poles, thatched with willows and straw, and this in turn overlaid with earth. An inverted wash-bowl, on an exaggerated scale, would not be a bad representation of one of them. They are usually five or six feet high in the centre, by fifteen or twenty in diameter, and would be very comfortable dwellings, were it not for their absurd doors. These are only about thirty inches high, by perhaps twenty wide, and consequently the only mode of entrance is on your hands and knees. While halting at the Pimo villages for a day, we managed to crawl into one, for the sake of the experience; but the smoke and the dirt soon drove us out. There was a dull fire in the centre, but with no means of exit for the smoke, except the low doorway. Rush or willow mats covered the rest of the floor, and on these three or four Pimos lay snoozing, wrapped in hides and blankets. Various articles of rude pottery, made by themselves, were stowed away under the eaves of the roof; and at the farther side, suspended from a roof-pole in a primitive cradle, was a pretty papoose sound asleep. As we crawled in, the venerable head of the family, raising himself on his elbow, saluted us with:
"Ugh! White man?"
To which, we, in true Arizona dialect, responded:
"How! Buenos dias, Señor!"
His dignified and elegant answer was:
"Heap good! 'Bacco? Matches?"
We gave him some of each, and shook hands all round, when the aged aborigine was pleased to add:
"Pimos! Americanos! Much friends! Mui Mucho!"
These Indians had long been quiet and peaceable, and it would seem are already on the road to civilization. What they need is school-houses and religious teachers. They had an Agent, an ex-officer of volunteers, who seemed honest and capable. But his hands were tied, as to many essential things, and as a rule he was powerless for good. The Indian Bureau, with its then accustomed wisdom, continued to send him fishing-lines and fish-hooks, although there was not a palatable fish in the Gila—I suppose, because the Indians formerly on the Ohio and the Mississippi needed these; but persistently refused him carts and wagons, although these were constantly called for, to enable them to haul their crops and fuel. As it was, we found the poor squaws gathering their scanty fuel as best they could—often miles away—and lugging it home to their villages, on their backs and heads, from far and near. A single cart or wagon to a village would be invaluable to these poor creatures, and would do more to ameliorate their condition, than a car-load of fish-hooks, or a cargo of trinkets and blankets. Religiously, their ideas seemed confused and vague, except that they believed, in a general way, in some sort of a supreme being, whom they call Montezuma. On the mountains to the west of them, clear-cut against their azure sky, is a gigantic human profile, which they claim is Montezuma asleep. It bears, indeed, a striking resemblance to our own Washington, and is a marked feature of the landscape for many miles.
Thence on to Tucson, nearly a hundred miles south, we found the country much the same as up the Gila, and across the Maricopa Desert. There was a great want of water everywhere, and often we would travel for twenty and thirty miles, before we came to a stream or spring. Our road was almost a dead level, generally free from sand, along which our teams trotted gaily, and it really seemed, as if specially designed for a natural highway here forever. A railroad could want no better route; and here is surely the predestined pathway of our future Arizona Southern, or some such road, into Sonora. Of population there was even less than on the Gila, until we struck the Santa Cruz near Tucson, when ranches again thickened up, and flocks and herds on a moderate scale were not infrequent. The chief characteristic of the country everywhere was the columnar cactus, the gigantic species spoken of on page 368. The farther we got south, the larger it grew and the more it branched out, until it became indeed quite a tree, after a clumsy sort. Sage-brush and grease-wood, of course, constantly occurred, and here and there superb bunch-grass abounded, which will prove invaluable hereafter for grazing purposes, when the country settles up. The mountains usually gave us a wide berth; occasionally, however, they crowded quite down to the road, as at Picacho and Point of Mountains, and as we neared Tucson they shot up into a bold, castellated front off to the east, that would be very surprising outside of Arizona. Here, however, such dome-like peaks, and castellated walls, are frequent features of the scenery.
The weather proved delicious all the way down, and our ride throughout a delightful one. We heard of Apaches at one or two points, but it was always a fortnight before or several miles ahead, and we went through unmolested. Before leaving Maricopa Wells, we were warned of Apaches en route, and as a prudent precaution accepted an escort of three infantry-men, whom we mounted on our ambulances—there being no cavalry on hand. These stood guard in turn at night, and were vigilant by day. But we saw no enemy, and their only service was to arrest an insubordinate and drunken teamster, who afterwards escaped from them, but the next morning returned and resumed his mules. He was a queer genius, indigenous to the Border; but, subsequently, proved himself a brave and gallant fellow—one of the best teamsters I ever knew.