“Hieronymo” was much humbled by this, and went a second time to General Crook to have a talk. He assured him that he had always wanted to be at peace, but that he had been as much sinned against as sinning; that he had been ill-treated at the San Carlos and driven away; that the Mexicans had been most treacherous in their dealings with his people, and that he couldn’t believe a word they said. They had made war upon his women and children, but had run like coyotes from his soldiers. He had been trying to open communications with the Mexican generals in Chihuahua to arrange for an exchange of prisoners. If General Crook would let him go back to San Carlos, and guarantee him just treatment, he would gladly work for his own living, and follow the path of peace. He simply asked for a trial; if he could not make peace, he and his men would die in these mountains, fighting to the last. He was not a bit afraid of Mexicans alone; but he could not hope to prolong a contest with Mexicans and Americans united, in these ranges, and with so many Apache allies assisting them. General Crook said but little; it amounted to this: that “Hieronymo” could make up his mind as to what he wanted, peace or war.
May 21st was one of the busiest days of the expedition. “Hieronymo,” at early dawn, came to see General Crook, and told him he wished for peace. He earnestly promised amendment, and begged to be taken back to San Carlos. He asked permission to get all his people together, and said he had sent some of his young men off to hurry them in from all points. He could not get them to answer his signals, as they imagined them to be made by Apache scouts trying to ensnare them. Chiricahuas were coming in all the morning,—all ages, and both sexes,—sent in by “Chihuahua” and his party; most of these were mounted on good ponies, and all drove pack and loose animals before them. Early in the day there was seen winding through the pine timber a curious procession,—mostly young warriors, of an aggregate of thirty-eight souls,—driving steers and work cattle, and riding ponies and burros. All these were armed with Winchester and Springfield breech-loaders, with revolvers and lances whose blades were old cavalry sabres. The little boys carried revolvers, lances, and bows and arrows. This was the band of Kaw-tenné (Looking-Glass), a young chief, who claimed to be a Mexican Apache and to belong to the Sierra Madre, in whose recesses he had been born and raised.
APACHE WARFARE.
The question of feeding all these mouths was getting to be a very serious one. We had started out with sixty days’ supplies, one-third of which had been consumed by our own command, and a considerable percentage lost or damaged when mules rolled over the precipices. The great heat of the sun had melted much bacon, and there was the usual wastage incident to movements in campaign. Stringent orders were given to limit issues to the lowest possible amount; while the Chiricahuas were told that they must cut and roast all the mescal to be found, and kill such cattle and ponies as could be spared. The Chiricahua young men assumed the duty of butchering the meat. Standing within five or six feet of a steer, a young buck would prod the doomed beast one lightning lance-thrust immediately behind the left fore-shoulder, and, with no noise other than a single bellow of fear and agony, the beef would fall forward upon its knees, dead.
Camp at this period presented a medley of noises not often found united under a military standard. Horses were neighing, mules braying, and bells jingling, as the herds were brought in to be groomed. The ring of axes against the trunks of stout pines and oaks, the hum of voices, the squalling of babies, the silvery laughter of children at play, and the occasional music of an Apache fiddle or flute, combined in a pleasant discord which left the listener uncertain whether he was in the bivouac of grim-visaged war or among a band of school-children. Our Apache scouts—the Tontos especially—treated the Chiricahuas with dignified reserve: the Sierra Blancas (White Mountain) had intermarried with them, and were naturally more familiar, but all watched their rifles and cartridges very carefully to guard against treachery. The squaws kept at work, jerking and cooking meat and mescal for consumption on the way back to San Carlos. The entrails were the coveted portions, for the possession of which the more greedy or more muscular fought with frequency.
Two of these copper-skinned “ladies” engaged in a pitched battle; they rushed for each other like a couple of infuriated Texas steers; hair flew, blood dripped from battered noses, and two “human forms divine” were scratched and torn by sharp nails accustomed to this mode of warfare. The old squaws chattered and gabbled, little children screamed and ran, warriors stood in a ring, and from a respectful distance gazed stolidly upon the affray. No one dared to interfere. There is no tiger more dangerous than an infuriated squaw; she’s a fiend incarnate. The packers and soldiers looked on, discussing the “points” of the belligerents. “The little one’s built like a hired man,” remarks one critic. “Ya-as; but the old un’s a He, and doan’ you forgit it.” Two rounds settled the battle in favor of the older contestant, although the younger remained on the ground, her bleeding nostrils snorting defiance, her eyes blazing fire, and her tongue volleying forth Apache imprecations.
But all interest was withdrawn from this spectacle and converged upon a file of five wretched, broken-down Mexican women, one of whom bore a nursing baby, who had come within the boundaries of our camp and stood in mute terror, wonder, joy, and hope, unable to realize that they were free. They were a party of captives seized by “Hieronymo” in his last raid into Chihuahua. When washed, rested, and fed a small amount of food, they told a long, rambling story, which is here condensed: They were the wives of Mexican soldiers captured near one of the stations of the Mexican Central Railway just two weeks previously. Originally there had been six in the party, but “Hieronymo” had sent back the oldest and feeblest with a letter to the Mexican general, saying that he wanted to make peace with the whites, and would do so, provided the Mexicans returned the Apache women and children held prisoners by them; if they refused, he would steal all the Mexican women and children he could lay hands on, and keep them as hostages, and would continue the war until he had made Sonora and Chihuahua a desert. The women went on to say that the greatest terror prevailed in Chihuahua at the mere mention of the name of “Hieronymo,” whom the peasantry believed to be the devil, sent to punish them for their sins.
“Hieronymo” had killed the Mexican soldiers with rocks, telling his warriors he had no ammunition to waste upon Mexicans. The women had suffered incredible torture climbing the rough skirts of lofty ranges, fording deep streams of icy-cold water, and breaking through morasses, jungles and forests. Their garments had been rent into rags by briars and brambles, feet and ankles scratched, torn, and swollen by contusions from sharp rocks. They said that when “Hieronymo” had returned to the heart of the mountains, and had come upon one of our lately abandoned camps, his dismay was curious to witness. The Chiricahuas with him made a hurried but searching examination of the neighborhood, satisfied themselves that their enemies—the Americans—had gained access to their strongholds, and that they had with them a multitude of Apache scouts, and then started away in the direction of our present bivouac, paying no further heed to the captured women or to the hundreds of stolen stock they were driving away from Chihuahua. It may be well to anticipate a little, and say that the cattle in question drifted out on the back trail, getting into the foot-hills and falling into the hands of the Mexicans in pursuit, who claimed their usual wonderful “victory.” The women did not dare to turn back, and, uncertain what course to pursue, stayed quietly by the half-dead embers of our old camp-fires, gathering up a few odds and ends of rags with which to cover their nakedness; and of castaway food, which they devoured with the voracity of famished wolves. When morning dawned they arose, half frozen, from the couches they had made, and staggered along in the direction taken by the fleeing Chiricahuas, whom, as already narrated, they followed to where they now were.
And now they were free! Great God! Could it be possible?