“Why did you come down in here, where I thought white men could not come?” demanded Geronimo, direct.
“I came down to capture or destroy you and your band,” answered the weary Lieutenant Maus, just as direct.
“I see you speak the truth,” replied Geronimo. He shook hands, sent a long talk, of various complaints, to “Cluke,” and engaged to meet the general at the border when the March moon was full.
“Do you think he will do it, Chato?” queried Jimmie.
“Yes. Ka-e-ten-na has told him what a big people the Americans are. Besides, Geronimo is sending in old Nana, and some women. Chihuahua wants to come in. Juh has been killed by the Mexicans. Pretty soon Geronimo will have no one left.”
Nana arrived, again, and Geronimo’s wife, and one of Nah-che’s wives, and another Chiricahua, and several children. Lieutenant Maus divided his few rations with the Geronimo band, and proceeded. Matters looked better.
But that was a long, sorrowful march, carrying Captain Crawford through the three hundred miles of mountains and rain. He lived, unconscious, for five days—he had an “indomitable will,” as had said Doctor Davis. Without having spoken a word he died on January 17. Of course there was no thought of leaving him behind, in the wilds, so his body was still carried on, in the litter.
He was buried at the little Mexican town of Nacori, near the border, until he might be reburied in the United States. The mayor of the town promised to have the grave guarded.
The news of the expedition was telegraphed by helio to Bowie. Scout runners already had been dispatched ahead.