Low Twelve

LOW TWELVE II

Geronimo was on the warpath again. He had been hunted so persistently that he seemed to believe it would soon be all up with him. He came back to his reservation, declaring he was tired of being an outlaw, and would go on the warpath no more. There were few who did not receive these pledges with distrust, for that terrible Apache's blood thirst was unquenchable. No matter if he remained peaceful for years, many would draw their breath in dread. So long as he lived and made his home in the Southwest, no man, woman or child was safe from his fury.

When weeks and months passed without the slightest hostile act on his part, the timid began to hope. During the period named he was a model husband, father and agriculturist. Despite the sterility of the soil, he toiled industriously, he smoked his pipe, he smiled upon his children and the one that happened to be his wife at the time-the old fellow has had seventeen wives at least-and talked pleasantly with the agent and officers who passed the time of day with him. He even seemed to feel a genuine friendship for the men in uniform that had harassed him into sub mission. All the same, the majority of us were convinced that, sooner or later, he would raise the mischief again.

Sure enough, one morning in May, 1885, Geronimo broke from the reservation, taking with him thirty-four warriors, eight youths and ninety-one women. With the least possible delay we were in the saddle, and after the fierce horde, though the best mounted of us knew it was impossible to overtake them. The old chief was aware that pursuit would be instant, and his party did not go into camp till they had ridden one hundred and twenty miles. It was clear that he was aiming for the mountains, where every canyon, cave, stream, ravine and even rock were familiar to the band. We pressed our horses to the limit, but did not overtake the renegades, nor get near enough even to exchange shots with them.

We had a dozen of the best Apache scouts with us, and plunged into the mountains under their guidance. Directed by the matchless Vikka, who, despite his fifty-odd years, was as active, wiry, powerful and alert as ever, we ran Geronimo down and made him prisoner, though most of his party got away. It was the chief we were after, and we should rather have caught him than all the rest. He was sullen and defiant, and we felt particularly impatient with him.

"Confound it!" said Captain Swartmore to me; "it wasn't managed right."

"I am not sure I understand you, captain."

"Yes, you do; what's the use of playing off like that? We had it all fixed. Captain Cook or I was to fire off his revolver accidentally when the dusky devil was in the way. We were ready to apologize after he had skipped to his happy hunting grounds, but the whole thing was over, and he had surrendered before we came up."

"You ought to have let some of the rest of us into your secret."

"There shouldn't have been any need of anything like that; America expects every man to do his duty."

"The opportunity was mine. I'm sorry I didn't know of your little arrangement, but next time I'll bear it in mind."

I may remark parenthetically that such "arrangements" are carried out oftener than most folks suppose. For instance, I happen to, know of a certainty that it was understood when the party went out from Fort Yates, in December, 1890, to arrest Sitting Bull, excuse was to be found for shooting him while "resisting arrest," and it was accordingly so done.

But Geronimo having been accepted as a prisoner, that was the end of it. We held him that day and night, and then, by gracious! if he didn't break away again. More than that, he came back several nights later with several of his best, or rather worst, warriors, entered our camp, went to the tent of one of the officers, seized his wife and whispered to the terrified captive that the only way to save her life was to show him the tent in which his wife was held prisoner. The woman was glad enough to show him, whereupon he set her down, rushed to the right tent, caught up his wife and was off again before any one excepting the lady knew he had been in camp.

Matters were in this exasperating state when that magnificent soldier (afterward killed in the Philippines), Captain Henry W. Lawton, took charge of the immediate campaign against Geronimo. He believed the chief would retreat to his stronghold in the Sierra Madres, south of the Rio Grande. We had an understanding with the Mexican authorities by which permission was given to the soldiers of each country to run down the hostiles on either side of the line. No matter where Geronimo went, we should be after him, and, moreover, the forces of our sister republic would do all they could to help us.

We had no more than fairly started on our pursuit when news came that Geronimo and his band had not gone to Mexico, but had broken up into small parties, and were raiding, like so many jungle tigers, through Southwestern Arizona and Northwestern Sonora. Lawton thereupon changed his original plan and took up the direct pursuit.

Lawton's command consisted of thirty-five men of Troop B, my own Fourth Cavalry, twenty Indian scouts, twenty men of Company D, Eighth Infantry, and two packtrains. We left Fort Huachuca early in May, and pressed the pursuit with the utmost vigor in our power.

It was as hot as the hinges of Hades. Never have I experienced such weather as we suffered during the following weeks. In June, fresh detachments of infantry and scouts took the places of those that were worn out, and before the close of the following month we had traveled fourteen hundred miles and the hostiles were driven southeast of Oposura. If we had no rest ourselves, neither had the Apaches. Three different times we burst into their camp, and, abandoning their animals and material, they scattered like quail to cover in the mountains. As Lawton said in his account of the campaign, "Every device known to the Indian was practiced to throw me off the trail, but without avail. My trailers were good, and it was soon proved that there was no spot the enemy could reach where security was assured."

When the cavalry succumbed, infantry and Indian scouts took their places. So terrific were the heat and hardships that many of the strongest soldiers gave out, until only fourteen of the infantry were left. When there was not a shoe to the feet of any one, Lieutenant A. L. Smith with his cavalry took their work upon themselves. This incredible pursuit was due to General Miles, who had taken the place of General Crook, relieved at his own request.

It was the privilege of several of us who had been in at the start to stick it out to the end. Among the iron-limbed scouts were a number also who withstood the frightful heat and privations. Chief of those was Vikka, that wonderful Apache, with an eye like the eagle's, muscles of steel and an endurance that seemed not to know the meaning of fatigue. Often I looked at him as he rode his gaunt pony, without saddle, at my side and envied the salamander who seemed to revel in the furnace-like temperature. Frequently the fingers of the men were blistered by contact with the iron of their weapons. Many times, when we had struggled on to some well-known spring or water hole, we found it either dry or so befouled by the hostiles that had been ahead of us that one would have died of thirst before touching the water. Our poor horses suffered with us, and more than one succumbed, not so much from exhaustion as from thirst. There were times when the muddiest pool that could hold the fluid in solution would have been welcomed like iced nectar by us. We seemed to become mere automata, moving without will of our own, but held to the fearful work by a blind, aimless, dogged persistency that nothing but death could stop.

The throbbing afternoon was well advanced when Vikka and I reined up our ponies on the edge of a stretch of sand that was hot enough to roast eggs. A mile or more to the westward loomed a mountain spur, whose blue tint throbbed in the flaming sunshine, as if it were the phantasmagora of a disordered brain. The Apache trail led in that direction, and we were morally sure that Geronimo and his band were gathered there, unless, with that persistency which was a feature of their retreat, they had pressed through and were fleeing into the broken region beyond. We had pushed our horses to the limit, and Lieutenant Smith halted the command among the hills not far to the rear of where my dusky companion and myself paused to scan the white, blistering sand that stretched away to the mountain spur. By permission of the officer, Vikka and I had ridden this comparatively short distance, and it rested with us whether we should advance any farther toward the enemy.

This expanse of plain was a bed of sand that pulsated in the intolerable sunlight. It was ridged and hummocky in many places, having been thus twisted and flirted about by the gusts of wind that sometimes played pranks with the mobile stuff. Not so much as a shriveled cactus or yellow spear of grass showed; it was a scene of horrible waste and desolation from which one would shrink as from the core of Death Valley itself.

Vikka checked his pony directly at my side, and we peered across the fiery waste at the cool-looking spur in the distance. The sweat on our animals was baked dry. How we stood it is beyond my comprehension, but a man can become accustomed almost to anything. A few months previous, a half hour's exposure to such merciless heat would have tumbled me headlong from my saddle with sunstroke; but I had ridden for hours through this hellish temperature and felt no special ill effects. The point seemed to have been reached where the dull body becomes inured and insensible to that which in ordinary circumstances would be fatal.

I looked across at Vikka. His dirty, luxuriant hair dangled about his shoulders, but he was without the slightest head covering. Not so much as a feather showed among his horse-hair like locks. That skull must have withstood a hundred degrees, but it mattered nothing to him. Not a drop of moisture showed on the rough, bronzed features, though if it had appeared it probably would have evaporated in a flash. He was scantily clothed, but I presume it would have been all the same to him if one of the dirty blankets of his tribe swathed his shoulders. He wore leggins and strong moccasins, and, as I have said, rode his pony without saddle and with only a halter. He needed nothing more. Many times I had admired the physique of this remarkable man. He was over six feet tall and as symmetrical as a Greek statue. He was immensely powerful, but, like all his race, showed only a moderate muscular development. His endurance was incredible. I have known him to scout for thirty-six hours in succession, during which his mental faculties were keyed to the highest point, and yet he appeared as bright and alert as if just roused from sleep. General Crook has said that any one of the Apaches would lope for fifteen hundred feet up the side of a mountain, and at the end you could not observe the slightest increase of respiration. I have known Vikka to do it time and again, without the first evidence of what he had passed through.

This remarkable Apache spoke English quite well, and sometimes he told me of his past life. He had been one of the most implacable miscreants that served under Mangus, and there is no question that he had committed shuddering deeds of atrocity, but he had a bitter quarrel with Geronimo, and hated him and all the hostiles with an unquenchable hatred.

Now and then when on that last campaign in the Southwest, in which we ran the Apache leader to earth, I would suddenly recall the warning that Jared Jennings spoke to me when spending the evening with him at his hotel. "Never trust any Indian," was its substance, and he added that the race were capable of pretending friendship for years, with the unfaltering purpose of seizing the best opportunity for biting the hand that fed them.

So it was that more than once when in special peril, I asked myself whether it was safe fully to trust Vikka. It would seem that he had already served the United States so well, and had struck so many blows against his people, that, if he meditated treachery, he could never atone for these acts. I recalled that on more than one occasion I had trusted him so fully that he could have brought about my death without causing a shadow of suspicion. When I thought of all this, I compressed my lips and muttered, "I will never doubt him; he has been tested by fire."

And yet the old, vague, tormenting suspicion would come to me, and it came again when I glanced sideways at him, and saw his black eyes gazing off across the shimmering plain toward the mountain spur. The misgiving was unreasonable, but it would not down. I shuddered as I reflected that when he should bound back to barbarism and his own natural self, his first victim must be myself. Why did he wait so long before striking? Was he planning some huge treason that would overwhelm us all?

Hardly had I asked myself the question when I flung it aside, impatient that I had allowed it a momentary lodgment in my thoughts. "He is the type of faithfulness. I have trusted him with my life and will do so again whenever it is necessary."

I raised the glass, which I carried slung about my neck, and leveled it at the elevations in the distance. Brought out more clearly, I noted the high hill in the foreground, and the gray rocks and stunted pines. Another lower peak rose to the right a little farther back, while the crown of a third showed faintly beyond. The intense heat caused a throbbing of the air, which made the objects flicker and dance in one's vision. Naught that resembled animal life was discerned. It was as inert and dead as at the morn of creation.

Then I carefully studied the white, lumpy sand that stretched between. Not even a rattlesnake or insect could be seen wriggling at our feet. I lowered the glass and offered it to Vikka. He shook his head. I never knew him to use such help, for his keenness of vision was marvelous.

"See 'Pache?" he asked, in his sententious fashion.

"No; I can't catch sight of hide or hair of them, but no doubt they are among the hills and watching us."

"I see 'Pache!" was his startling remark.

"Where?" I demanded, whipping up the glass again. "I know you have mighty good eyes, Vikka, but I ought to do as well as You with the telescope."

"Don't look right place; ain't in hills-loser by."

It was an astonishing declaration. If the hostiles were not among the mountains, where could they be? Surely this plain of pulsing sand could not hide them without so much as a shrub and hardly a blade of withered grass. Lowering the glass, I looked inquiringly at my companion. The iron countenance was wrinkled with a smile, which showed his even white teeth. I saw that he was not looking at the hills, but at the plain a short way out. What did he see there? Was not this a display of the waggery which he showed at rare intervals? Was he not having a little amusement at my expense?

But it was no time for jest; the scout was in earnest. He certainly had discovered something. Without raising a hand to point, and speaking in a low voice, he said:

"The 'Paches are close; they have laid ambush."

Thus directed, I studied the plain without the aid of the glass. No more than a hundred yards away, I now noted a series of hillocks. They numbered nearly a score. While they bore a general resemblance to other lumps visible in every part of the plain, these were grouped together more compactly. Leading out from where we had halted, the trail of Geronimo's band passed within a few rods, so that had our command kept to the tracks, we must have ridden in front of them.

Every hillock of flaming sand hid the body of an Apache. Those terrible miscreants would grovel in the fiery dirt with every part of the body covered and only the serpentlike eyes peering out and fixed upon the white men. Unsuspicious of anything of the kind, nothing would have been more natural than for us to ride quietly past. Then when our faces were turned away, a jet of fire would spout from each hummock, and half our saddles would be emptied. That very thing has been done more than once in the Indian campaigning in the Southwest.

But Vikka penetrated the subtle trick. Had he failed to do so, his career and mine would have terminated within the following few minutes. Did I need any further proof of his fidelity?

"You are right, Vikka," I said in a low voice. "I see where they are hiding; it won't do for us to go a step nearer them. I think it best we should dash back, for we are nigh enough for them to pick us off as it is."

It was then the dusky scout did a daring thing. He brought his rifle to his shoulder, and taking quick aim, let fly at the nearest hummock. A rasping screech followed, showing that the dusky desperado crouching beneath was hit hard. At the same instant, from every other sand heap a frowsy buck leaped upright, the grains streaming from his dirty clothes like rain, while their war shrieks cut the air. From each hideous exudation issued a tongue of flame and every bullet was aimed at us.

But there had been no pause on our part. Hardly had Vikka pressed the trigger than he wheeled his pony and dashed off on a dead run. I was not a second behind in doing the same, and each threw himself forward on his animal else we could hardly have escaped the storm of bullets that whistled over and about us. Had they aimed at our horses, we must have been dismounted, but before they could repair their mistake we were beyond range. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the frowsy figures running full speed after us, loading and firing as best they could, but our ponies were accustomed to sudden demands upon their energies, and they quickly carried us out of danger. My second glance showed they were loping toward the mountain spur, where doubtless Geronimo and his hostiles were awaiting the result of the attempt to ambuscade us. But they had failed, and fearing pursuit, were speeding across the plain beyond reach of the avenging cavalry.

"I wish," said I, when we drew our animals down to a walk, as we approached the cover where Lieutenant Smith and the command had halted for rest, "that all our men could have stopped where we did."

Vikka looked across at me in a way that showed he did not understand my meaning.

"Instead of riding past the hummocks of sand, we could have charged and routed out the devils, picking them off as they showed themselves."

The scout shook his head.

"I knew where to aim; rest of soldiers would not; sand keep off their bullets; 'Paches shoot first."
"That might be, but they would have been at disadvantage, and we should have made the trick cost them dear."

The fellow was not impressed by my idea. When I came to reflect upon it, I saw he was right. If, instead of riding calmly past the prostrate figures in the sand we should have galloped straight at them, they would have been taken by surprise, but such fellows are never at a loss what to do.' Brief as was the intervening distance, every mother's son of them would have fired before we could reach them, and with appalling results to us. Even if we had first emptied our carbines, it was more likely, as Vikka had said, that most of our shots would have proved ineffective, for there was enough sand enclosing each of the Apaches to screen their bodies.

"Vikka," said I abruptly, "suppose you became a prisoner of Geronimo, what would he do with you?"

A broad grin lit up the bronzed visage.

"Vikka will not be prisoner.

"You can't be sure of that; that chief is a fearful fighter and you take many chances; some day you may fall into his hands."

"Vikka never be prisoner," repeated my companion. Then I understood his meaning. Knowing the feeling of the leader of the Warm Spring Indians toward him, Vikka would simply take his own life when he saw all hope was gone.

That thing has been done many a time in the Southwest by white men, women and even by Indians themselves.