That hair-raising cry, “The Apaches are up!” was to be expected at any moment, and never failed to inspire panic among the white settlers of the arid lands.
Among his lesser accomplishments Geronimo was said to be a past master in the art of manufacturing illegal tizwin, a native beverage, of which there is more fight and deviltry in a single glass than in a whole barrel of ordinary fire-water.
Not only was he reported adept in tizwin production, but also it was said that he had extensive knowledge of poisonous herbs, and of others with purely narcotic properties—such as those which science calls of the datura family—indigenous to the soil over which he roamed.
How much of all this was true and how much false will probably never be known; but that a part, at least, was reliable, the weird disaster which befell the scout and his pards will bear testimony.
From the northern outlet of Bonita Cañon Little Cayuse led the way directly westward through a spur of the Chiricahuas.
Traveling was rough and difficult, and toward nightfall the scout deemed it essential that they should locate a spring or water-hole and rest their mounts for a few hours. Silver Heels and Navi, despite the vaunts of their owners, had begun to show unmistakable traces of weariness.
Cayuse’s service with the army had given him a good knowledge of the topography of that part of the country, and he lead the scout and Dell toward a spring with which he was well acquainted.
The spring was in a little valley, hemmed in on all sides by granite bluffs.
Before descending into the valley, the scout and his pards made a careful survey of the spring from a safe distance. Water was a precious quantity in those parts, and its presence was quite apt to draw the roving bands of red trouble-makers.
Careful scouting failed to reveal the presence of any Apaches, and the three riders picked their way down the valley’s slope and reached the spring.