Altogether, it was an honor to be in pack service with such an expedition, especially as Captain Crawford had volunteered for the Sierra Madre trip because it was the more dangerous of the two.
Lieutenant-General Phil Sheridan, commander of the United States Army, had come out to Bowie from Washington, to see the columns off. He and General Crook inspected the whole outfit, in a parade at the fort.
“Well,” reported Chief of Scouts Horn, after a conference in General Crook’s quarters, “this is the idea: The general says we’re to go down into Mexico and stay six months, if necessary, and when we strike a trail we’re to follow it as long as it shows a single moccasin track or pony track. Savvy? When we’ve killed all the bucks who don’t surrender, and corralled all the women and children, we can come up home with our batch. Then he’ll tell ’em what’ll happen next.”
The march veered west through the Dragoon Mountains, in the hope of striking the up trail and following it down. But heavy rains had washed out the signs, so the course was continued straight south, for the Sierra Madre country again. The Chiricahuas were bound to be there, if at any place.
Throughout the month of December the pack-train job was the same tough job as that when General Crook led on, in 1883: up hill, down hill, sliding, scrambling, falling, barking shins and bruising hoofs and feet, amidst terrific canyons, thorny brush, sharp rocks, towering cliffs, sun and rain, heat and cold. Tom Horn scouted far ahead with a few picked scouts; the captain and his lieutenants and the plucky doctor, and old Concepcion, rode keenly with the eager main body; and Jimmie, assistant chief packer in place of Tom Moore, hustled his toiling pack-trains of fifty mules each, so as to bring them into camp on time every evening.
Now it was the first week in January. There was only one pack-train. Captain Crawford had ordered that the two others be sent back to the border, two hundred miles, with Lieutenant Faison, the commissary and quarter-master, for supplies. So Jimmie had detached the trains of “Chileno John” and Sam Wisser. He had stayed.
Chief Scout Horn had been gone two weeks; but he kept runners out with news from him. He had discovered fresh sign: Indian and cattle trails; cattle carcasses; and a recent camp. Ka-e-ten-na and Chato had just come in. They brought word for Captain Crawford to push on, and join the advance. Tom would be waiting—he knew that the Chiricahuas were yonder before him.
The captain sent for Jimmie.
“We must reduce our packs again,” he said, “for a forced march. You will pack four of your strongest mules with twelve days’ rations for eighty men. The personal outfit will be cut down to one blanket for each man. Take the shoes off the mules, to avoid noise. The rest of the outfit will be left here, under guard of those men who are unable to travel. Which of your packers have you in mind, to go on?”
“Jimmie Dunn, captain,” smiled Jimmie.