The pack-train was his particular hobby.
“He fetched a lot o’ notions down from Idyho an’ Californy,” explained old Jack, with wag of head; “an’ by jinks, he began to tear things loose as soon as he struck Tooson. Nothin’s too good for the pack-train. Consequence is, now we’ve got critters an’ men who’ll go anywhar a dog’ll go, an’ be fresh for an’ arly start next mornin’. He’s sort o’ pack-train daddy, I reckon.”
Jimmie did not ride clear through to Fort Whipple at Prescott. At Camp Verde, the post fifty miles this side of Whipple, the general sent off dispatches for some of the posts south, and told Jimmie that this was a good chance to reach Camp Grant, where he belonged.
“But if you do fight the Apaches, can I help?” ventured Jimmie.
He loved the bronzed, lean, untiring, wise General Crook, so brief of speech, so kind in manner, so fatherly and yet so soldierly; who quickly learned whatever he didn’t happen to know already, and who somehow got things done without any loud orders.
“I didn’t come in here to fight them,” smiled the general. “I came in to make peace. But those who won’t make peace and keep it, I’ll fight very hard—they may depend on that also. I promised the White Mountain Apaches that I’d protect the good Indians and punish the bad ones; and the only way to control Indians is to do exactly what you promise to do. Now we’ll all have to wait until Mr. Colyer of the Peace Commission has tried. He’ll give them an opportunity to gather upon reservations and learn to support themselves without murdering and stealing. A great deal of the fighting between the Indians and the whites has been unnecessary, because there are white men who don’t believe in good Indians. You go to your friends at Camp Grant. Learn all you can about pack-mules and soldier duties, too, and don’t forget Apache. I haven’t any doubt that some day you can help the Government very much.”
When at last Jimmie was delivered at Camp Grant, and set out for Joe Felmer’s little ranch, above, to surprise Joe, he met him coming in, mule back. As a result, Joe opened his whiskered mouth widely, and almost fell off his mule: for here was Jimmie Dunn, who had been captured by the Apaches in mid-summer of 1870, and now it was the close of August, 1871.
“Hello, black-beard white man,” greeted Jimmie, in his best Apache.