“What good is peace?” retorted Santos. “The Arivaipa asked for peace, and the white people and the Papagos killed our women and stole our children. We are still at peace, but none of our women and children have come back, and we are hungry. We would have done better to fight like the Chiricahua and the Tonto.”
In a few days, or early in May, General Howard did indeed appear at Camp Grant. He was traveling in a six-mule army ambulance, with an escort of cavalry from post to post. Colonel Crittenden and staff rode out a short distance to meet him. The four companies of Fifth Cavalry and Twenty-third Infantry were drawn up, to receive him; their worn uniforms brushed and every button and buckle polished.
General Howard certainly looked like a fine, soldierly officer. He was as tall as, and rather heavier than General Crook; with full brown beard and handsome, lion-like countenance; in dusty campaign hat, and double-breasted blue coat with two rows of brass buttons down the front, and shoulder-straps bearing the single star each of a brigadier general (which was his regular rank), and with an empty right sleeve pinned to his sword belt.
“Yep, I jedge he’s all right,” announced the ambulance driver, to an inquiring group of soldiers and scouts, after the parade had been dismissed. The driver was a lean, lank, exceedingly solemn man who could not be induced to smile. “Only thing I have against him is his callin’ me ‘Dismal Jeems’—him an’ his aide Cap’n Wilkinson. I dunno why. All the way over from Fort Yumy I’ve tried my best to cheer ’em up. I told ’em about every massacree along the hull road; told ’em we were liable to be scalped, any mile; told ’em all the cheerfulest things I could think of. But somehow I didn’t make a hit. The gen’ral’s powerful pious, too—holdin’ prayer-meetin’ on Sunday an’ readin’ his Bible whenever he has a chance.
“But the Yumas an’ Pimas cottoned to him, an’ down at Tucson the people liked him fust-rate. The Pimas an’ Papagos have promised to come in to a council with the Arivaipas here next week, an’ the Mexicans who have the Arivaipa kids have promised to fetch ’em, an’ I s’pose when we all get together thar’ll be a grand killin’ match. But I’m a cheerful man an’ alluz aim to look on the bright side o’ things.”
With that, “Dismal Jeems” drew a more melancholy face than before, sighed heavily, and slouched away to rub down his sweaty mules.
General Howard was not here to stay long, this time. He spent most of one day at the agency; then he left for Fort Whipple, to confer with General Crook. But he was coming back; he had set May 21 as the date for the big peace council.
“What do you think of the soldier chief, Santos?” asked Jimmie. Old Santos, ex-chief, usually was to be found sitting in the sun, on the bench in front of the agency store. He did not live in the hills with Es-kim-en-zin.
“The soldier chief is a good man. He pointed to the sky and said: ‘I have a Father up there. So have you. There is only one Father. Your Father and my Father are the same. So you and I are brothers.’ That was a wise speech. We shook hands, and we are brothers. I am glad. His words tell me that he is a wise chief, and his sleeve tells me that he is a great warrior. Now I trust him, because he thinks as I do.”