But Bowie was established the next year, 1862—the same year as Camp Grant—and like Camp Grant, since that time it had been trailing Apaches almost every day. What with the attacks on the stages, east and west, and on livestock, and what with the vengeful ambushing of the soldiers themselves, by the Chiricahuas, anybody stationed at Bowie was certain to have plenty of excitement. Why, the graveyard there was enough to give one the shudders. It was a famous graveyard.
Before inspecting the graveyard, Jimmie reported to Jack Long. Jack and the pack train were here. So was Lieutenant Almy, being entertained by brother officers of the Fifth and Third Cavalry.
“So it’s sure ’nough peace, is it?” commented Patron Jack, after he had heard the story of everything that had occurred near Dragoon Springs. “All right. Gin’ral Howard means well, like as not. But did you tell old Cochise what I said? No? Humph! One thing’s sartin, anyhow: if he was put on trial before a jury o’ Arizony people, they’d vote yewnanimous to hang him an’ half his band. Yes, sir-ee.”
“You bet yuh,” chimed in Slim Shorty, the cencero.
And, as a matter of fact, when the general arrived at Tucson, the newspaper and people there talked just as Jack talked. They said that Cochise should be punished, instead of being granted a reservation, and his Stronghold, for his own. Nevertheless, Cochise stayed there, true to his word, until he died, in 1874; and Taza also kept from war, until in 1876 he died. But with Geronimo and Nah-che matters went different, just as Maria prophesied.
“Now I will show you the graveyard, amigo,” proffered Maria, when Jimmie had been dismissed from duty, by old Jack.
The graveyard really was about the only thing of consequence to see, at Bowie. It was the largest graveyard at any of the army posts in Arizona. The many wooden slabs, marking the resting-place of soldier and traveler, read much alike, except for the names.
“Killed by the Apaches.” “At the Hands of the Apaches.” “Victim of the Apaches.” “Met his Death by Apaches.” “Of Wounds Inflicted by the Apaches.” And so forth, and so forth.
Maria seemed to be proud of this collection, but it was too melancholy for Jimmie. He was very glad when, on a sudden, a series of loud whoops attracted his attention. A short, brick-topped, familiar figure in old shirt outside of old trousers, was beckoning to him, on the way from the parade ground. A trumpet was blowing “Boots and Saddles,” cavalrymen were running to the stables, and packers were hustling at the post mule-corral.
So Jimmie legged back, to find out what was up. Micky Free, the red-head, met him, and grinned delightedly, his one blue eye sparkling. Micky had started a moustache, red like his hair. He showed hard travel.