The rate of speed attained by the Apaches in marching is about an even four miles an hour on foot, or not quite fast enough to make a horse trot. They keep this up for about fifteen miles, at the end of which distance, if water be encountered and no enemy be sighted, they congregate in bands of from ten to fifteen each, hide in some convenient ravine, sit down, smoke cigarettes, chat and joke, and stretch out in the sunlight, basking like the negroes of the South. If they want to make a little fire, they kindle one with matches, if they happen to have any with them; if not, a rapid twirl, between the palms, of a hard round stick fitting into a circular hole in another stick of softer fiber, will bring fire in from eight to forty-five seconds. The scouts by this time have painted their faces, daubing them with red ochre, deer’s blood, or the juice of roasted “mescal.” The object of this is protection from wind and sun, as well as distinctive ornamentation.
The first morning’s rest of the Apaches was broken by the shrill cry of Choddi! Choddi! (Antelope! Antelope!) and far away on the left the dull slump! slump! of rifles told that the Apaches on that flank were getting fresh meat for the evening meal. Twenty carcasses demonstrated that they were not the worst of shots; neither were they, by any means, bad cooks.
When the command reached camp these restless, untiring nomads built in a trice all kinds of rude shelters. Those that had the army “dog tents” put them up on frame-works of willow or cotton-wood saplings; others, less fortunate, improvised domiciles of branches covered with grass, or of stones and boards covered with gunny sacks. Before these were finished smoke curled gracefully toward the sky from crackling embers, in front of which, transfixed on wooden spits, were the heads, hearts, and livers of several of the victims of the afternoon’s chase. Another addition to the spolia opima was a cotton-tailed rabbit, run down by these fleet-footed Bedouins of the South-west. Turkeys and quail are caught in the same manner.
Meanwhile a couple of scouts were making bread,—the light, thin “tortillas” of the Mexicans, baked quickly in a pan, and not bad eating. Two others were fraternally occupied in preparing their bed for the night. Grass was pulled by handfuls, laid upon the ground, and covered with one blanket, another serving as cover. These Indians, with scarcely an exception, sleep with their feet pointed toward little fires, which, they claim, are warm, while the big ones built by the American soldiers, are so hot that they drive people away from them, and, besides, attract the attention of a lurking enemy. At the foot of this bed an Apache was playing on a home-made fiddle, fabricated from the stalk of the “mescal,” or American aloe. This fiddle has four strings, and emits a sound like the wail of a cat with its tail caught in a fence. But the noble red man likes the music, which perhaps is, after all, not so very much inferior to that of Wagner.
Enchanted and stimulated by the concord of sweet sounds, a party of six was playing fiercely at the Mexican game of “monte,” the cards employed being of native manufacture, of horse-hide, covered with barbarous figures, and well worthy of a place in any museum.
The cooking was by this time ended, and the savages, with genuine hospitality, invited the Americans near them to join in the feast. It was not conducive to appetite to glance at dirty paws tearing bread and meat into fragments; yet the meat thus cooked was tender and juicy, the bread not bad, and the coffee strong and fairly well made. The Apaches squatted nearest to the American guests felt it incumbent upon them to explain everything as the meal progressed. They said this (pointing to the coffee) is Tu-dishishn (black water), and that Zigosti (bread).
All this time scouts had been posted commanding every possible line of approach. The Apache dreads surprise. It is his own favorite mode of destroying an enemy, and knowing what he himself can do, he ascribes to his foe—no matter how insignificant may be his numbers—the same daring, recklessness, agility, and subtlety possessed by himself. These Indian scouts will march thirty-five or forty miles in a day on foot, crossing wide stretches of waterless plains upon which a tropical sun beats down with fierceness, or climbing up the faces of precipitous mountains which stretch across this region in every direction.
The two great points of superiority of the native or savage soldier over the representative of civilized discipline are his absolute knowledge of the country and his perfect ability to take care of himself at all times and under all circumstances. Though the rays of the sun pour down from the zenith, or the scorching sirocco blow from the south, the Apache scout trudges along as unconcerned as he was when the cold rain or snow of winter chilled his white comrade to the marrow. He finds food, and pretty good food too, where the Caucasian would starve. Knowing the habits of wild animals from his earliest youth, he can catch turkeys, quail, rabbits, doves, or field-mice, and, perhaps, a prairie-dog or two, which will supply him with meat. For some reason he cannot be induced to touch fish, and bacon or any other product of the hog is eaten only under duress; but the flesh of a horse, mule, or jackass, which has dropped exhausted on the march and been left to die on the trail, is a delicious morsel which the Apache epicure seizes upon wherever possible. The stunted oak, growing on the mountain flanks, furnishes acorns; the Spanish bayonet, a fruit that, when roasted in the ashes of a camp-fire, looks and tastes something like the banana. The whole region of Southern Arizona and Northern Mexico is matted with varieties of the cactus, nearly every one of which is called upon for its tribute of fruit or seed. The broad leaves and stalks of the century-plant—called mescal—are roasted between hot stones, and the product is rich in saccharine matter and extremely pleasant to the taste. The wild potato and the bulb of the “tule” are found in the damp mountain meadows; and the nest of the ground-bee is raided remorselessly for its little store of honey. Sunflower-seeds, when ground fine, are rich and nutritious. Walnuts grow in the deep ravines, and strawberries in favorable locations; in the proper season these, with the seeds of wild grasses and wild pumpkins, the gum of the “mesquite,” or the sweet, soft inner bark of the pine, play their part in staving off the pangs of hunger.
The above are merely a few of the resources of the Apache scout when separated from the main command. When his moccasins give out on a long march over the sharp rocks of the mountains or the cutting sands of the plains, a few hours’ rest sees him equipped with a new pair,—his own handiwork,—and so with other portions of his raiment. He is never without awl, needle, thread, or sinew. Brought up from infancy to the knowledge and use of arms of some kind,—at first the bow and arrow, and later on the rifle,—he is perfectly at home with his weapons, and knowing from past experience how important they are for his preservation, takes much better care of them than does the white soldier out of garrison.
He does not read the newspapers, but the great book of nature is open to his perusal, and has been drained of much knowledge which his pale-faced brother would be glad to acquire. Every track in the trail, mark in the grass, scratch on the bark of a tree, explains itself to the “untutored” Apache. He can tell to an hour, almost, when the man or animal making them passed by, and, like a hound, will keep on the scent until he catches up with the object of his pursuit.