On the Border with Crook

by John Gregory Bourke

The Apaches are not the only tribe in Arizona; there are several others, which have in the past been a source of trouble to the settlers and of expense to the authorities. One of these was the Hualpais, whose place of abode was in the Grand Cañon, and who were both brave and crafty in war; they were then at Camp Beale Springs in northwestern Arizona, forty-five miles from the Colorado River, and under the care of an officer long since dead—Captain Thomas Byrne, Twelfth Infantry, who was a genius in his way. “Old Tommy,” as he was affectionately called by every one in the service or out of it, had a “deludherin’ tongue,” which he used freely in the cause of peace, knowing as he did that if this small tribe of resolute people should ever return to the war-path, it would take half a dozen regiments to dislodge them from the dizzy cliffs of the “Music,” the “Sunup,” the “Wickyty-wizz,” and the “Diamond.”

So Tommy relied solely upon his native eloquence, seconded by the scantiest allowance of rations from the subsistence stores of the camp. He acquired an ascendancy over the minds of the chiefs and head men—“Sharum,” “Levy-Levy,” “Sequonya,” “Enyacue-yusa,” “Ahcula-watta,” “Colorow,” and “Hualpai Charlie”—which was little short of miraculous. He was an old bachelor, but seemed to have a warm spot in his heart for all the little naked and half-naked youngsters in and around his camp, to whom he gave most liberally of the indigestible candy and sweet cakes of the trader’s store.

The squaws were allowed all the hard-tack they could eat, but only on the most solemn occasions could they gratify their taste for castor oil—the condition of the medical supplies would not warrant the issue of all they demanded. I have read that certain of the tribes of Africa use castor oil in cooking, but I know of no other tribe of American Indians so greedy for this medicine. But taste is at best something which cannot be explained or accounted for; I recall that the trader at the San Carlos Agency once made a bad investment of money in buying cheap candies; they were nearly all hoarhound and peppermint, which the Apaches would not buy or accept as a gift.

Tommy had succeeded in impressing upon the minds of his savage wards the importance of letting him know the moment anything like an outbreak, no matter how slight it might be, should be threatened. There was to be no fighting, no firing of guns and pistols, and no seeking redress for injuries excepting through the commanding officer, who was the court of last appeal. One day “Hualpai Charlie” came running in like an antelope, all out of breath, his eyes blazing with excitement: “Cappy Byrne—get yo’ sogy—heap quick. White man over da Min’nul Pa’k, all bloke out.” An investigation was made, and developed the cause of “Charlie’s” apprehensions: the recently established mining town of “Mineral Park” in the Cerbat range had “struck it rich,” and was celebrating the event in appropriate style; bands of miners, more or less sober, were staggering about in the one street, painting the town red. There was the usual amount of shooting at themselves and at the few lamps in the two saloons, and “Charlie,” who had not yet learned that one of the inalienable rights of the Caucasian is to make a fool of himself now and then, took fright, and ran in the whole fourteen miles to communicate the first advices of the “outbreak” to his commanding officer and friend.

Captain Byrne was most conscientious in all his dealings with these wild, suspicious people, and gained their affection to an extent not to be credited in these days, when there seems to be a recurrence to the ante-bellum theory that the only good Indian—be it buck, squaw, or puling babe—is the dead one. I have seen the old man coax sulking warriors back into good humor, and persuade them that the best thing in the world for them all was the good-will of the Great Father. “Come now, Sharum,” I have heard him say, “shure phat is de matther wid yiz? Have yiz ivir axed me for anythin’ that oi didn’t promise it to yiz?”

Poor Tommy was cut off too soon in life to redeem all his pledges, and I fear that there is still a balance of unpaid promises, comprehending mouth organs, hoop skirts, velocipedes, anything that struck the fancy of a chief and for which he made instant demand upon his military patron. To carry matters forward a little, I wish to say that Tommy remained the “frind,” as he pronounced the term, of the Hualpais to the very last, and even after he had been superseded by the civil agent, or acting agent, he remained at the post respected and regarded by all the tribe as their brother and adviser.

Like a flash of lightning out of a clear sky, the Hualpais went on the war-path, and fired into the agency buildings before leaving for their old strongholds in the Cañon of the Colorado. No one knew why they had so suddenly shown this treacherous nature, and the territorial press (there was a telegraph line in operation by this time) was filled with gloomy forebodings on account of the “well-known treachery of the Indian character.” Tommy Byrne realized full well how much it would cost Uncle Sam in blood and treasure if this outbreak were not stopped in its incipiency, and without waiting for his spirited little horse to be saddled—he was a superb rider—threw himself across its back and took out into the hills after the fugitives. When the Hualpais saw the cloud of dust coming out on the road, they blazed into it, but the kind Providence, which is said to look out for the Irish under all circumstances, took pity on the brave old man, and spared him even after he had dashed up—his horse white with foam—to the knot of chiefs who stood on the brow of a lava mesa.

At first the Hualpais were sullen, but soon they melted enough to tell the story of their grievances, and especially the grievance they had against Captain Byrne himself. The new agent had been robbing them in the most bare-faced manner, and in their ignorance they imagined that it was Tommy Byrne’s duty to regulate all affairs at his camp. They did not want to hurt him, and would let him go safely back, but for them there was nothing but the war-path and plenty of it.

Tommy said gently, “Come back with me, and I’ll see that you are righted.” Back they went, following after the one, unarmed man. Straight to the beef scales went the now thoroughly aroused officer, and in less time than it takes to relate, he had detected the manner in which false weights had been secured by a tampering with the poise. A two-year-old Texas steer, which, horns and all, would not weigh eight hundred pounds, would mark seventeen hundred, and other things in the same ratio. Nearly the whole amount of the salt and flour supply had been sold to the miners in the Cerbat range, and the poor Hualpais, who had been such valiant and efficient allies, had been swindled out of everything but their breath, and but a small part of that was left.

Tommy seized upon the agency and took charge; the Hualpais were perfectly satisfied, but the agent left that night for California and never came back. A great hubbub was raised about the matter, but nothing came of it, and a bitter war was averted by the prompt, decisive action of a plain, unlettered officer, who had no ideas about managing savages beyond treating them with kindness and justice.