On the Border with Crook

by John Gregory Bourke

So long as the representative of the Government, Mr. Vincent Collyer, remained in Arizona; so long as there flickered the feeblest ray of light and hope that hostilities might be averted and peace secured, Crook persisted in keeping his troops ready to defend the exposed ranchos and settlements as fully as possible, but no offensive movements were permitted, lest the Apaches should have reason to believe that our people meant treachery, and were cloaking military operations under the mask of peace negotiations. These conferences, or attempts at conferences, came to naught, and at last, about the date of the attack made upon General Crook and his party at Camp Date Creek, orders were received to drive the Apaches upon the reservations assigned them and to keep them there.

The time fixed by General Crook for the beginning of his campaign against the Apaches had been the 15th of November, 1872—a date which would have marked the beginning of winter and made the retreat of the different bands to the higher elevations of the mountain ranges a source of great discomfort, not to say of suffering to them, as their almost total want of clothing would cause them to feel the fullest effects of the colder temperature, and also there would be increased danger of detection by the troops, to whose eyes, or those of the Indian scouts accompanying them, all smokes from camp-fires would be visible.

The incident just related as happening at Camp Date Creek precipitated matters somewhat, but not to a very appreciable extent, since Mason’s attack upon the bands of Apache-Mojaves and Apache-Yumas in the “Muchos Cañones” did not take place until the last days of the month of September, and those bands having but slender relations with the other portions of the Apache family over in the Tonto Basin, the latter would not be too much on their guard. Crook started out from his headquarters at Fort Whipple on the day set, and marched as fast as his animals would carry him by way of Camp Verde and the Colorado Chiquito to Camp Apache, a distance, as the roads and trails then measured, of about two hundred and fifty miles. Upon the summit of the Colorado plateau, which in places attains an elevation of more than ten thousand feet, the cold was intense, and we found every spring and creek frozen solid, thus making the task of watering our stock one of great difficulty.

Our line of march led through the immense pine forests, and to the right of the lofty snow-mantled peak of San Francisco, one of the most beautiful mountains in America. It seems to have been, at some period not very remote, a focus of volcanic disturbance, pouring out lava in inconceivable quantities, covering the earth for one hundred miles square, and to a depth in places of five hundred feet. This depth can be ascertained by any geologist who will take the trail out from the station of Ash Fork, on the present Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, and go north-northeast, to the Cataract Cañon, to the village of the Ava-Supais. In beginning the descent towards the Cataract Cañon, at the “Black Tanks,” the enormous depth of the “flow” can be seen at a glance. What was the “forest primeval” at that time on the Mogollon has since been raided by the rapacious forces of commerce, and at one point—Flagstaff, favorably located in the timber belt—has since been established the great Ayers-Riordan saw and planing mill, equipped with every modern appliance for the destruction of the old giants whose heads had nodded in the breezes of centuries. Man’s inhumanity to man is an awful thing. His inhumanity to God’s beautiful trees is scarcely inferior to it. Trees are nearly human; they used to console man with their oracles, and I must confess my regret that the Christian dispensation has so changed the opinions of the world that the soughing of the evening wind through their branches is no longer a message of hope or a solace to sorrow. Reflection tells me that without the use of this great belt of timber the construction of the railroad from El Paso to the City of Mexico would have been attended with increased expense and enhanced difficulty—perhaps postponed for a generation—but, for all that, I cannot repress a sentiment of regret that the demands of civilization have caused the denudation of so many square miles of our forests in all parts of the timbered West.

Our camp was aroused every morning at two o’clock, and we were out on the road by four, making long marches and not halting until late in the afternoon. Camp Apache was reached by the time expected, and the work of getting together a force of scouts begun at once. One of the first young men to respond to the call for scouts to enlist in the work of ferreting out and subjugating the hostiles was “Na-kay-do-klunni,” called afterwards by the soldiers “Bobby Doklinny.” I have still in my possession, among other papers, the scrap of manuscript upon which is traced in lead pencil the name of this Apache, whom I enrolled among the very first at Camp Apache on this occasion. The work of enlistment was afterwards turned over to Lieutenant Alexander O. Brodie, of the First Cavalry, as I was obliged to leave with General Crook for the south. “Bobby,” to adopt the soldiers’ name, became in his maturity a great “medicine man” among his people, and began a dance in which he used to raise the spirits of his ancestors. Of course, he scared the people of the United States out of their senses, and instead of offering him a bonus for all the ghosts he could bring back to life, the troops were hurried hither and thither, and there was an “outbreak,” as is always bound to be the case under such circumstances. “Bobby Doklinny” was killed, and with him a number of his tribe, while on our side there was grief for the death of brave officers and gallant men.

One of the white men met at Camp Apache was Corydon E. Cooley, who had married a woman of the Sierra Blanca band, and had acquired a very decided influence over them. Cooley’s efforts were consistently in the direction of bringing about a better understanding between the two races, and so far as “Pedro’s” and “Miguel’s” people were concerned, his exertions bore good fruit. But it is of Mrs. Cooley I wish to speak at this moment. She was, and I hope still is, because I trust that she is still alive, a woman of extraordinary character, anxious to advance and to have her children receive all the benefits of education. She tried hard to learn, and was ever on the alert to imitate the housekeeping of the few ladies who followed their husbands down to Camp Apache, all of whom took a great and womanly interest in the advancement of their swarthy sister. On my way back from the snake dance of the Moquis I once dined at Cooley’s ranch in company with Mr. Peter Moran, the artist, and can assure my readers that the little home we entered was as clean as homes generally are, and that the dinner served was as good as any to be obtained in Delmonico’s.

For those readers who care to learn of such things I insert a brief description of “Cooley’s Ranch” as we found it in that year, 1881, of course many years after the Apaches had been subdued. The ranch was on the summit of the Mogollon plateau, at its eastern extremity, near the head of Show Low Creek, one of the affluents of the Shevlons Fork of the Colorado Chiquito. The contour of the plateau is here a charming series of gentle hills and dales, the hills carpeted with juicy black “grama,” and spangled with flowers growing at the feet of graceful pines and majestic oaks; and the dales, watered by babbling brooks flowing through fields of ripening corn and potatoes. In the centre of a small but exquisitely beautiful park, studded with pine trees without undergrowth, stood the frame house and the outbuildings of the ranch we were seeking. Cooley was well provided with every creature comfort to be looked for in the most prosperous farming community in the older States. His fields and garden patches were yielding bountifully of corn, pumpkins, cucumbers, wheat, peas, beans, cabbage, potatoes, barley, oats, strawberries, gooseberries, horse-radish, and musk-melons. He had set out an orchard of apple, crab, dwarf pear, peach, apricot, quince, plum, and cherry trees, and could supply any reasonable demand for butter, cream, milk, eggs, or fresh meat from his poultry yard or herd of cows and drove of sheep. There was an ice-house well filled, two deep wells, and several springs of pure water. The house was comfortably furnished, lumber being plenty and at hand from the saw-mill running on the property.

Four decidedly pretty gipsy-like little girls assisted their mother in gracefully doing the honors to the strangers, and conducted us to a table upon which smoked a perfectly cooked meal of Irish stew of mutton, home-made bread, boiled and stewed mushrooms—plucked since our arrival—fresh home-made butter, buttermilk, peas and beans from the garden, and aromatic coffee. The table itself was neatly spread, and everything was well served. If one Apache woman can teach herself all this, it does not seem to be hoping for too much when I express the belief that in a few years others may be encouraged to imitate her example. I have inherited from General Crook a strong belief in this phase of the Indian problem. Let the main work be done with the young women, in teaching them how to cook, and what to cook, and how to become good housekeepers, and the work will be more than half finished. In all tribes the influence of the women, although silent, is most potent. Upon the squaws falls the most grievous part of the burden of war, and if they can be made to taste the luxuries of civilized life, and to regard them as necessaries, the idea of resuming hostilities will year by year be combated with more vigor. It was upon this principle that the work of missionary effort was carried on among the Canadian tribes, and we see how, after one or two generations of women had been educated, all trouble disappeared, and the best of feeling between the two races was developed and maintained for all time.

From Camp Apache to old Camp Grant was by the trail a trifle over one hundred miles, but over a country so cut up with cañons, and so rocky, that the distance seemed very much greater. The cañon of the Prieto or Black River, the passage of the Apache range, the descent of the Aravaypa, were all considered and with justice to be specially severe upon the muscles and nerves of travellers, not only because of depth and steepness, but also because the trail was filled with loose stones which rolled from under the careless tread, and wrenched the feet and ankles of the unwary.

Of the general character of the approaches to old Camp Grant, enough has already been written in the earlier chapters. I wish to add that the marches were still exceptionally long and severe, as General Crook was determined to arrive on time, as promised to the chiefs who were expecting him. On account of getting entangled in the cañons back of the Picacho San Carlos, it took us more than twenty-four hours to pass over the distance between the Black River and the mouth of the San Carlos, the start being made at six o’clock one day, and ending at eight o’clock the next morning, a total of twenty-six hours of marching and climbing. Every one in the command was pretty well tired out, and glad to throw himself down with head on saddle, just as soon as horses and mules could be lariated on grass and pickets established, but General Crook took his shot-gun and followed up the Gila a mile or two, and got a fine mess of reed birds for our breakfast. It was this insensibility to fatigue, coupled with a contempt for danger, or rather with a skill in evading all traps that might be set for him, which won for Crook the admiration of all who served with him; there was no private soldier, no packer, no teamster, who could “down the ole man” in any work, or outlast him on a march or a climb over the rugged peaks of Arizona; they knew that, and they also knew that in the hour of danger Crook would be found on the skirmish line, and not in the telegraph office.