Animation and bustle prevailed everywhere; small fires were burning in secluded nooks, and upon the bright embers the scouts baked quantities of bread to be carried with them. Some ground coffee on flat stones; others examined their weapons critically and cleaned their cartridges. Those whose moccasins needed repair sewed and patched them, while the more cleanly and more religious indulged in the sweat-bath, which has a semi-sacred character on such occasions.
A strong detachment of packers, soldiers, and Apaches climbed the mountains to the south, and reached the locality in the foot-hills where the Mexicans and Chiricahuas had recently had an engagement. Judging by signs it would appear conclusive that the Indians had enticed the Mexicans into an ambuscade, killed a number with bullets and rocks, and put the rest to ignominious flight. The “medicine-men” had another song and pow-wow after dark. Before they adjourned it was announced that in two days, counting from the morrow, the scouts would find the Chiricahuas, and in three days kill a “heap.”
On May 11, 1883 (Friday), one hundred and fifty Apache scouts, under the officers above named, with Zeiber, “Mickey Free,” Severiano, Archie McIntosh, and Sam Bowman, started from camp, on foot, at daybreak. Each carried on his person four days’ rations, a canteen, 100 rounds of ammunition, and a blanket. Those who were to remain in camp picketed the three high peaks overlooking it, and from which half a dozen Chiricahuas could offer serious annoyance. Most of those not on guard went down to the water, bathed, and washed clothes. The severe climbing up and down rough mountains, slipping, falling, and rolling in dust and clay, had blackened most of us like negroes.
Chiricahua ponies had been picked up in numbers, four coming down the mountains of their own accord, to join our herds; and altogether, twenty were by this date in camp. The suggestions of the locality were rather peaceful in type; lovely blue humming-birds flitted from bush to bush, and two Apache doll-babies lay upon the ground.
Just as the sun was sinking behind the hills in the west, a runner came back with a note from Crawford, saying there was a fine camping place twelve or fifteen miles across the mountains to the south-east, with plenty of wood, water, and grass.
For the ensuing three days the white soldiers and pack-trains cautiously followed in the footsteps of Crawford and the scouts, keeping a sufficient interval between the two bodies to insure thorough investigation of the rough country in front. The trail did not improve very much, although after the summit of a high, grassy plateau had been gained, there was easy traveling for several leagues. Pine-trees of majestic proportions covered the mountain-tops, and there was the usual thickness of scrub-oak on the lower elevations. By the side of the trail, either thrown away or else cachéd in the trees, were quantities of goods left by the Chiricahuas—calico, clothing, buckskin, horse-hides, beef-hides, dried meat, and things of that nature. The nights were very cool, the days bright and warm. The Bávispe and its tributaries were a succession of deep tanks of glassy, pure water, in which all our people bathed on every opportunity. The scouts escorting the pack-trains gathered in another score of stray ponies and mules, and were encouraged by another note sent back by Crawford, saying that he had passed the site of a Chiricahua village of ninety-eight wickyups (huts), that the enemy had a great drove of horses and cattle, and that the presence of Americans or Apache scouts in the country was yet undreamed of.
Additional rations were pushed ahead to Crawford and his command, the pack-trains in rear taking their own time to march. There was an abundance of wood in the forest, grass grew in sufficiency, and the Bávispe yielded water enough for a great army. The stream was so clear that it was a pleasure to count the pebbles at the bottom and to watch the graceful fishes swimming within the shadow of moss-grown rocks. The current was so deep that, sinking slowly, with uplifted arms, one was not always able to touch bottom with the toes, and so wide that twenty good, nervous strokes barely sufficed to propel the swimmer from shore to shore. The water was soft, cool, and refreshing, and a plunge beneath its ripples smoothed away the wrinkles of care.
On May 15, 1883, we climbed and marched ten or twelve miles to the south-east, crossing a piece of country recently burned over, the air, filled with soot and hot dust, blackening and blistering our faces. Many more old ruins were passed and scores of walls of masonry. The trail was slightly improved, but still bad enough; the soil, a half-disintegrated, reddish feldspar, with thin seams of quartz crystals. There were also granite, sandstone, shale, quartzite, and round masses of basalt. In the bottoms of the cañons were all kinds of “float”—granite, basalt, sandstone, porphyry, schist, limestone, etc.; but no matter what the kind of rock was, when struck upon the hill-sides it was almost invariably split and broken, and grievously retarded the advance.