Plainly enough, the general was outward bound on business!
“U-ga-shé (U-gah-shay)!” barked Lieutenant Gatewood, at the scouts. And away they went, afoot, in their red head-bands and flapping shirts and leggin-moccasins, across the boundary, with Alchisé and “Peaches” in the lead, as guides. They all spread out in a broad front, to cover the country. Their officers rode just behind, with Archie MacIntosh and Sieber the Iron Man.
The general and aides and cavalry escort followed. Then there ambled the long files of pack-trains—Frank Monach’s first. A guard of the cavalry closed the rear.
The “good-by” and “good luck” cheers of the border guard died in the distance. The march to “get” Geronimo, Nah-che and the other Chiricahuas had actually begun.
At first about twenty-five miles a day were covered. But the country grew rougher and hotter. Only two or three of the Mexican villages were inhabited; many others were deserted and in ruins, on account of the Chiricahuas. The brush along the streams was thick, the flowers were large and bright. High, bluish mountains loomed on right and left and before.
It was fine Apache country, all right—and “Peaches” was leading straight into it, for within a few days fresh moccasin tracks might be seen frequently.
“To-morrow for the Sierra Madre,” said Frank Monach, in camp on the night of May 7. “Then we’ll be hangin’ on by our toe-nails. What I’d like to know is, whether Geronimo’ll wait for us or whether he’ll keep a-goin’ himself.”
The huge jumble of the Sierra Madre range frowned directly before. It certainly appeared mighty rough. No white men had yet ventured to penetrate far into the Sierra Madre; but the general was determined, as Al Sieber said, “to open it up.”
He was so anxious, that this night the march had continued until after eleven o’clock, and camp had been made without fires, in the bottom of a deep canyon. So dark it was that even the mules lost their places.