On the Border with Crook

by John Gregory Bourke

One of the best citizens of the place, a Mexican gentleman named Fernandez, I think, who kept a monte pio, or pawnbroker’s shop, in the centre of the town not a block from the post-office, was found dead in his bed one morning, and alongside of him his wife and baby, all three with skulls crushed by the blow of bludgeons or some heavy instrument. All persons—Mexicans and Americans—joined in the hunt for the assassins, who were at last run to the ground, and proved to be three Mexicans, members of a gang of bandits who had terrorized the northern portions of Sonora for many years. They were tracked by a most curious chain of circumstances, the clue being given by a very intelligent Mexican, and after being run down one of their number confessed the whole affair, and showed where the stolen jewellery had been buried under a mesquite bush, in plain sight of, and close to, the house of the Governor. I have already written a description of this incident, and do not care to reproduce it here, on account of lack of space, but may say that the determination to lynch them was at once formed and carried into effect, under the superintendence of the most prominent citizens, on the “Plaza” in front of the cathedral. There was another murderer confined in the jail for killing a Mexican “to see him wriggle.” This wretch, an American tramp, was led out to his death along with the others, and in less than ten minutes four human forms were writhing on the hastily constructed gallows. Whatever censure might be levelled against this high-handed proceeding on the score of illegality was rebutted by the citizens on the ground of necessity and the evident improvement of the public morals which followed, apparently as a sequence of these drastic methods.

Greater authority was conferred upon the worthy Teutonic apothecary who had been acting as probate judge, or rather much of the authority which he had been exercising was confirmed, and the day of evil-doers began to be a hard and dismal one. The old judge was ordinarily a pharmacist, and did not pretend to know anything of law, but his character for probity and honesty was so well established that the people, who were tired of lawyers, voted to put in place a man who would deal out justice, regardless of personal consequences. The blind goddess had no worthier representative than this frontier Hippocrates, in whose august presence the most hardened delinquents trembled. Blackstone and Coke and Littleton and Kent were not often quoted in the dingy halls of justice where the “Jedge” sat, flanked and backed by shelves of bottles bearing the cabalistic legends, “Syr. Zarzæ Comp.,” “Tinc. Op. Camphor,” “Syr. Simpl.,”and others equally inspiring, and faced by the small row of books, frequently consulted in the knottier and more important cases, which bore the titles “Materia Medica,” “Household Medicine,” and others of the same tenor. Testimony was never required unless it would serve to convict, and then only a small quantity was needed, because the man who entered within the portals of this abode of Esculapius and of Justice left all hope behind. Every criminal arraigned before this tribunal was already convicted; there remained only the formality of passing sentence, and of determining just how many weeks to affix as the punishment in the “shane gang.” An adjustment of his spectacles, an examination of the “Materia Medica,” and the Judge was ready for business. Pointing his long finger at the criminal, he would thunder: “Tu eres vagabundo” (thou art a tramp), and then proceed to sentence the delinquent on his face to the chain-gang for one week, or two, or three, as the conditions of his physiognomy demanded.

“Jedge, isn’t thet a r-a-a-ther tough dose to give t’ a poor fellow what knowed your grandfadder?” asked one American prisoner who had received an especially gratifying assurance of the Judge’s opinion of his moral turpitude.

“Ha! you knowed my grandfaddy; vere abouts, mine frient, you know him?” queried the legal functionary.

“Wa’al, Jedge, it’s jest like this. Th’ las’ time I seed the ole gent was on th’ Isthmus o’ Panama; he war a-swingin’ by his tail from th’ limbs of a cocoanut tree, a-gatherin’ o’ cocoanuts, ’n——”

“Dare; dat vill do, mine frient, dat vill do. I gifs you anodder two viks mit der shane-gang fur gontembt ov goort; how you like dat?”

Many sly jokes were cracked at the old judge’s expense, and many side-splitting stories narrated of his eccentricities and curious legal interpretations; but it was noticed that the supply of tramps was steadily diminishing, and the town improving in every essential. If the Judge ever made a mistake on the side of mercy I never happened to hear of it, although I do not attempt to say that he may not, at some time in his legal career, have shown tenderness unrecorded. He certainly did heroic work for the advancement of the best interests of Tucson and a good part of southern Arizona.

The orders of the War Department transferring General Crook to the command of the Department of the Platte arrived in the middle of March, and by the 25th of that month, 1875, he, with his personal staff, had started for the new post of duty. A banquet and reception were tendered by the citizens of Prescott and northern Arizona, which were attended by the best people of that section. The names of the Butlers, Bashfords, Marions, Heads, Brooks, Marks, Bowers, Buffums, Hendersons, Bigelows, Richards, and others having charge of the ceremonies, showed how thoroughly Americanized that part of Arizona had become. Hundreds walked or rode out to the “Burnt Ranch” to say the last farewell, or listen to the few heartfelt words of kindness with which General Kautz, the new commander, wished Crook godspeed and good luck in his new field of labor. Crook bade farewell to the people for whom he had done so much, and whom he always held so warmly in his heart; he looked for the last time, it might be, upon the snowy peak of the San Francisco, and then headed westward, leaving behind him the Wonderland of the Southwest, with its fathomless cañons, its dizzy crags, its snow-mantled sierras, its vast deserts, its blooming oases—its vast array of all the contradictions possible in topography. The self-lacerating Mexican penitente, and the self-asserting American prospector, were to fade from the sight, perhaps from the memory; but the acts of kindness received and exchanged between man and man of whatever rank and whatever condition of life were to last until memory itself should depart.

The journey from Whipple or Prescott to Los Angeles was in those days over five hundred miles in length, and took at least eleven days under the most favorable conditions; it obliged one to pass through the territory of the Hualpais and the Mojaves, to cross the Colorado River at the fort of the same name, and drive across the extreme southern point of Nevada, and then into California in the country of the Chimahuevis; to drag along over the weary expanse of the “Soda Lake,” where for seven miles the wheels of the wagons cut their way into the purest baking soda, and the eyes grew weak with gazing out upon a snowy area of dazzling whiteness, the extreme end of the celebrated “Death Valley.” After reaching San Bernardino, the aspect changed completely: the country became a fairyland, filled with grapes and figs and oranges, merry with the music of birds, bright with the bloom of flowers. Lowing herds and buzzing bees attested that this was indeed a land of milk and honey, beautiful to the eye, gladsome to every sense. The railroad had not yet reached Los Angeles, so that to get to San Francisco, travellers who did not care to wait for the weekly steamer were obliged to secure seats in the “Telegraph” stage line. This ran to Bakersfield in the San Joaquin Valley, the then terminus of the Southern Pacific Railroad, and through some of the country where the Franciscans had wrought such wonderful results among the savages whom they had induced to live in the “Missions.” In due course of time Crook arrived at Omaha, Nebraska, his new headquarters, where the citizens tendered him a banquet and reception, as had those of the California metropolis—San Francisco.