Major Brown's command was near the latter place on December 28, 1872, when one of the friendly scouts came up to the officer, saying:
"Heap 'Pache down below in cave. I show you there, if your men follow. I live there once, but now heart bad against Geronimo."
"My men will follow any trail you lead them on," said the United States officer. "We will be ready to fight any band of Apaches in Arizona in fifteen minutes. Lead us to the fort."
The soldiers welcomed the news of a near-by fight with a cheer, for they were tired of perpetual marching with no enemy in view, and, starting from their bivouac in a small box cañon at the first appearance of a certain star in the East, they pushed onward through the night. At daybreak they were at the cañon of the Salt River, where, in a cave halfway down the face of a vertical cliff, the Apaches were in hiding. The trail leading to this stronghold was narrow and dangerous, so narrow in fact, that, should the Indians have discovered the presence of the whites before they reached some rocky hills, they could have annihilated the command. "Men, will you follow me?" asked the gallant Major, at this juncture. "We will," came from every throat. "Then look to your carbines and ammunition," continued Brown. "Put some crackers, bacon, and coffee in your blankets slung over your shoulders; fill your canteens with water; give a look at your moccasins, and follow me."
The friendly scouts gathered about little fires, and stuffed themselves full of mule meat, while the soldiers were picketing the horses and mules. Then their medicine men walked before them, telling them what to do, how to shoot, and how to creep upon the enemy. This ceremony was soon over, and, as the bright light of the guiding star began to twinkle in the East, the soldiers and slinking redskins softly began the descent to the cave of the Apaches.
Moving like a long file of spectres, the band of attackers crept down the sides of the barren mountain. For an hour or more the progress was leisurely. The air was chill and blew keenly through the scraggy cedars, which, like ghostly sentinels, nodded and beckoned in the wind. At the crest of each hill the column halted for a few moments, when a warning "Tzit! Tzit!" hissed from the rear, signalled that the last man had reached his place in line. Thus the black army of death approached the sleeping followers of Geronimo.
Midnight had come, and all was silence. The sharp yelp of a coyote sounded far off across the barren waste, and Nantje (the head Indian scout) turned, seizing Major Brown firmly about the body. "Quiet," he whispered. "We have discovered a footprint in the soil!" All were still, as the keen-eyed scout lay down upon the trail with some comrades by his side, and, with their blankets over their heads so that not the slightest gleam could escape, struck a few matches and inspected the sign. "Ugh! Ugh!" growled Nantje. "It is a big bear's foot. He has been here but an hour past. It is good luck for us, for when a bear crosses the path of a war party, they will meet the enemy and will be successful!"
Moving onward again for three or four hours, suddenly the warning, "Tzit! Tzit!" sounded from the advance guard. "Ponies!" whispered the scouts, and there in a small, grassy glade were fifteen Pima ponies, which had been driven up the mountain by Apache raiders that very night. "See," cried Nantje, "the sweat is not yet dry upon their flanks. Their knees are full of cactus thorns, against which they have been driven during the night. The Apaches have done this."
"Carefully, now," whispered Major Brown. "Advance with great caution, and make no noise. We are within rifle shot of the enemy."