This fall and winter no word came from Geronimo. But in March (which was the year 1883) the expected news broke—and bad news it was.
Jimmie chanced to be in the telegraph office at Thomas when the message came. He took it off the wire as fast as the operator did. It was from Bowie, in the south.
“Band of hostiles crossed line raiding north through Whetstone Mountains. Heading west for New Mexico probably. More.”
“Where’s that adjutant?” barked the operator, tearing off his sheet. “Things are hummin’. Gee whizz, isn’t that man ever around when he’s needed?”
But the adjutant of course got the message at once.
“More” came thick and fast, from all directions. The Chiricahuas numbered only twenty-six warriors. They were under Chato, the Flat-nose. They had dodged the patrol, outwitted all the troops and volunteers, the telegraph and railroad did not stop them; on a circle of eight hundred miles, traveling at seventy-five miles a day they swung through Arizona and southwestern New Mexico, stealing fresh horses whenever needed, and killing miners and settlers.
“Picked men for the pursuit,” were the orders from the general at Whipple. This appeared to leave Jimmie, with his lame leg, out of scout service. Well, he might do some good in his regular job, anyway. But the last news was the worst news of all.
Near Silver City, southwestern New Mexico, a horrible act was committed by the Chato band. They overtook Judge H. C. McComas, driving on the main road with his wife and little boy, Charley; they tortured and killed the two grown-ups, and carried off Charley, aged six years.
This made soldiers and settlers alike furious. Jimmie could stand the strain no longer. He had been captured, once, himself. He threw aside his line-man position and rode over to Fort Apache, to find Frank Monach, pack-master.