The captain at once ordered his men to stop, but before the command was understood, there was a report from a Mexican rifle, and the gallant Captain Crawford fell back with a bullet in his brain. With a muttered curse, a young Apache called Dutchy returned the shot and avenged the death of his beloved captain that he was unable to prevent.
In this unfortunate skirmish the Mexicans lost one of their bravest officers, Mauricio Coredor, who was one of their best Indian fighters, and had rendered great service to both nations by ridding the earth of Victorio, that bloodthirsty and cruel Apache, a worthy predecessor of Geronimo. They also lost another officer and two privates; while four of their number were wounded, or, according to some accounts, nine.
Of the United States force, two privates were wounded; the commanding officer being the only one whose injury was fatal.
When the firing ceased, Lieutenant Maus, the second in command, accompanied by one comrade, advanced to confer with Capt. Santa Anna Perez. The United States uniform is not always an all-sufficient guarantee in such cases, and the Mexican commander was doubtful what course to pursue. Lieutenant Maus proposed that when they should reach Nacori, he would produce papers to show that he was what he claimed to be. But Captain Perez resolved that he would not fail in discretion and refused to allow an Apache to approach his camp, even though a United States scout. Matters between the two officers were finally adjusted, by each giving the other a letter, stating the manner in which the fight occurred; so that neither would be censured by his superior officer for firing upon the troops of a friendly nation. Having escorted the body of Captain Crawford to Nacori, where it was temporarily interred (and afterward conveyed to Kearney, Nebraska, for burial), Lieutenant Maus took the command and encamped with all his force on the bank of the San Bernardino Creek, whence he sent a courier to Fort Bowie to inform General Crook of the request of Geronimo's band for an interview, looking to a surrender. Meanwhile, as usual, the wishes of the settlers had far outrun the facts, and it was confidently asserted that Geronimo had already surrendered with all his warriors. General Crook at once assented to the request, and set off for the rendezvous.
The journey of forty miles was soon made and communications opened with the hostiles, whose camp was about twenty-five miles south of that of Lieutenant Maus. The Indians called for more time, on the plea that it was difficult to collect all the braves belonging to the band, as they were scattered through a rough mountain country difficult of access by couriers. Meantime the settlers were anxious for the surrender, for well they knew that their lives and stock were in constant jeopardy while Geronimo and his marauders were at large, so they gave their imaginations full rein, and had the whole business arranged to their satisfaction several times before General Crook had even fixed a date for it. So it came about that the slippery Geronimo surrendered as many times in the spring of 1886 as he had been killed the previous fall. Unfortunately for the peace and safety of the people of the three territories, surrendering in imagination and on paper was no more effective than killing done in the same way; and Geronimo remained in his camp until the latter part of March.
At last the interview took place under the shade of large sycamore and cottonwood trees. Captain Bourke, who was present, made a verbatim record of the conference. Said he:
"Geronimo began a long disquisition upon the causes which induced the outbreak from Camp Apache; he blamed 'Chato,' 'Mickey Free,' and Lieut. Britton Davis, who, he charged, were unfriendly to him. He was told by an Indian named 'Nodiskay' and by the wife of 'Mangus,' that the white people were going to send for him, arrest and kill him; he had been praying to the Dawn (Tapida) and the Darkness, to the Sun (Chigo-na-ay), and the Sky (Yandestan), to help him and put a stop to those bad stories that people were telling about him and what they had put in the papers. [The old chief was here apparently alluding to the demand made by certain of the Southwestern journals at the time of his surrender to Crook in 1883, that he should be hanged.] 'I don't want that any more; when a man tries to do right, such stories ought not to be put in the newspapers. What is the matter that you [General Crook] don't speak to me? It would be better if you would speak to me and look with a pleasant face; it would make better feeling; I would be glad if you did. I'd be better satisfied if you would talk to me once in a while. Why don't you look at me and smile at me? I am the same man. I have the same feet, legs and hands, and the sun looks down on me a complete man; I wish you would look and smile at me. The Sun and the Darkness, the Winds, are all listening to what we now say. To prove to you that I am now telling you the truth, remember I sent you word that I would come from a place far away to speak to you here, and you see me now. Some have come on horseback and some on foot; if I were thinking bad or if I had done bad, I would never have come here. If it had been my fault would I have come so far to talk with you?' He then expressed his delight at seeing 'Ka-e-ten-na' once more; he had lost all hope of ever having that pleasure; that was one reason why he had left Camp Apache."
"To this speech General Crook replied, through the interpreter, 'I have heard what you have said. It seems very strange that more than forty men should be afraid of three; but if you left the reservation for that reason, why did you kill innocent people, sneaking all over the country to do it? What did those innocent people do to you that you should kill them, steal their horses, and slip around in the rocks like coyotes? What had that to do with killing innocent people? There is not a week passes that you don't hear foolish stories in your own camp; but you are no child—you don't have to believe them. You promised me in the Sierra Madre that that peace should last, but you have lied about it. When a man has lied to me once I want some better proof than his own word before I can believe him again. Your story about being afraid of arrest is all bosh; there were no orders to arrest you. You sent up some of your people to kill 'Chato' and Lieutenant Davis, and then you started the story that they had killed them, and thus you got a great many of your people to go out. Everything that you did on the reservation is known; there is no use for you to try to talk nonsense. I am no child. You must make up your mind whether you will stay out on the warpath or surrender unconditionally. If you stay out I'll keep after you and kill the last one if it takes fifty years. You are making a great fuss about seeing 'Ka-e-ten-na'; over a year ago I asked you if you wanted me to bring 'Ka-e-ten-na' back, but you said 'no.' It's a good thing for you, Geronimo, that we didn't bring 'Ka-e-ten-na' back, because 'Ka-e-ten-na' has more sense now than all the rest of the Chiricahuas put together. You told me the same sort of a story in the Sierra Madre, but you lied. What evidence have I of your sincerity? How do I know whether or not you are lying to me? Have I ever lied to you? I have said all I have to say; you had better think it over to-night and let me know in the morning.'"
Thus the conference ended with the best of prospects for a treaty, and an immediate end of hostilities. The Indians were subdued and had determined to surrender, but it was not to be. There is one power which was not taken into account, but which proved to be more potent for evil than the representatives of the Government—Crook and his army—were for good. John Barleycorn appeared at this turning point of the treaty, and proved to be stronger than Uncle Sam, by promptly undoing all that Crook and the lamented Crawford had done.