On the Sonoita River, about twelve miles west of Fort Buchanan, in the early sixties, lived an Irishman named John Ward with Jesus Martinez, a Mexican woman, and her son-later known as Mickey Free, whom Ward had adopted. The boy was in the meadow watching Ward’s cattle one day in October, 1860, when a band of Apaches raided the ranch and stole both the boy and the stock. Following the trail of the Indians as far as the San Pedro River, Ward became convinced that the raiders were Chiricahuas belonging to Cochise’s band; so he rode to Fort Buchanan and reported his loss to the commanding officer, Colonel Pitcairn Morrison, Seventh Infantry, with the request that the troops assist him in an effort to recover the boy and the cattle.
Many weeks elapsed before any action was taken by the military. But on January 28, 1861, Morrison ordered Second Lieutenant George N. Bascom, Seventh Infantry, a West Point graduate in the class of 1858, to proceed to Apache Pass and vicinity with fifty-four men to recover the stolen boy and stock. If, as was expected, the trail led to the encampment of Cochise near the Overland Mail Station in Apache Pass, Bascom was to enter Cochise’s camp and demand that the captive and the stolen animals be returned, using force if necessary to bring this about.
Bascom left Fort Buchanan, January 29, and arrived at Apache Pass, February 3.1 He marched eastward with his command, past the Overland Mail Station, halting there only long enough to supply his men with water and inform the station keeper that he was en route to the Rio Grande. He then moved on and went into camp about three quarters of a mile east of the station. Cochise had observed the passing of the soldiers, and the next day, February 4, he came down to the station to inquire why they were there. Some accounts state that Bascom had sent for him. He was told by the station keeper that the troops were on their way to the Rio Grande. With his wife and boy, a brother, and two nephews, he then proceeded down the canyon. Ward and an interpreter named Antonio were with Bascom; and Ward, recognizing Cochise as he approached said:
“There comes Cochise!”
At Bascom’s invitation, the chief and his companions entered the officer’s tent to partake of his hospitality. After Cochise had been seated, Bascom began talking with him through the interpreter. He explained the object of the expedition and demanded that Cochise deliver up the boy and the stolen stock. Cochise declared that he did not have the boy or the cattle, and that neither he nor any of his people had any knowledge of the depredation. He offered to make inquiry as to what band was guilty and, if possible, recover both the boy and the stock by purchase from those who held them, as was the custom among Indians. Cochise’s statement that he was not guilty of the offense was later proved to be true. The raid had been made by Pinal Apaches, not by the Chiricahuas.234
Meantime, Ward had slipped out to inform the soldiers that Cochise was within the tent. They at once surrounded the tent, and as soon as Bascom was informed of this fact, he told his guest that he and his people would be held as hostages until Ward’s boy was surrendered. Almost before the words were out of the interpreter’s mouth, Cochise had drawn his sheath knife, and with the spring of a tiger, had slashed the tent wall and leaped through into the midst of the soldiers, who were so astonished that they had not the wit to stop him, though they did recover sufficiently to send a fusillade of bullets after him. Another member of the party also tried to make his escape, but was knocked down and pinned to the earth with a bayonet. The rest remained quietly in the tent and were held as prisoners.
Once free and in his native canyons, Cochise collected a band of his followers and, coming out on the crest of the hill some distance above the station, called out to Culver the station keeper, Walsh the hostler, and Wallace a stage driver, none of whom as yet had any inkling of the scene of violence that had occurred at Bascom’s camp and all of whom had been on friendly terms with Cochise, that he wanted them to come out and talk with him. They walked over to where he was, unarmed, and in their shirt sleeves. The Indians instantly made a rush and seized all three of them. Culver and Walsh broke away, and ran for the station, followed by a shower of bullets. Culver fell at the door of the house with a bullet in his back. Meantime, without the knowledge either of the employees or Cochise, Bascom had marched back to the station and occupied it with his men; and now, as the soldiers within heard the firing and, much excited, looked out and saw Walsh’s head appearing over the outer wall as he sought safety within the inclosure, supposing him to be an Apache, fired at him and killed him. It was not until Bascom and some of the men ran to the door to aid the fallen Culver that the Indians knew Bascom had occupied the station. The evening that Wallace was captured a wagon train went into camp two miles west of the mail station. About dusk Cochise surprised the party, bound two or three of the men to the wheels, and burned the wagons, the goods, and his human victims. Two Americans who were traveling with the wagon train he carried away. On the same day, or the following, the regular mail stage from the west drove into the canyon just after dark and was fired upon by Apaches who had concealed themselves in the rocks on each side of the road. The driver, King Lyons, was disabled by a shot in the leg and almost at the same moment one of the lead mules fell dead. The men inside the coach leaped out and cut the mule loose; William Buckley, Superintendent for the mail line, mounting the driver’s seat whipped the remaining mules onward through a hail of bullets down the steep incline that led to the bridge across the ravine. Cochise had ordered that a part of the bridge be cut away and had supposed that his victims would be stopped there subject to his will. But, leaping the broken portion, the mules dragged the coach safely across, and on up the hill to the station. No sooner had the stage come to a halt that one of the wheel mules fell dead. Had this happened five minutes earlier, the entire company would have been at the mercy of the Apaches.
Buckley at once sent a messenger to William Oury at Tucson with an account of all that had happened at Apache Pass and the request that a courier be dispatched immediately to the troops at Fort Breckenridge on the San Pedro. Oury did as requested; and with a small party from Tucson set out as soon as possible for the scene of action. When he reached Ewell’s Station, fifteen miles west of Apache Pass, he learned that Lieutenant R. S. C. Lord and Lieutenant Isaiah N. Moore, in command respectively of Companies D and F, First Dragoons, had preceded him. These officers marched from Fort Breckenridge, February 10. Oury overtook them at the rock tank, two miles west of the Pass, and they all arrived at the station in the evening, more than a week after Cochise made his escape. About the same time that word was sent to Tucson, Bascom dispatched a courier to Fort Buchanan for medical aid. This daring soldier led his mule up the mountainside in the dark, and reaching Dragoon Springs in the early morning, secured a remount and completed his journey before the end of the second night. Assistant Surgeon B. J. D. Irwin, together with James Grayson, a former soldier, and fourteen infantrymen mounted on mules, set out in a snowstorm to relieve Bascom and care for the wounded men at the Mail Station. It required two days to make the march. While Irwin’s command was crossing the Sulphur Spring Valley, a party of Coyotero Apaches returning from a raid and driving a herd of cattle and horses before them were encountered and pursued in a running fight, during which thirty horses and forty cattle were recovered and three Indians captured. For gallantry in action on this occasion, Irwin was many years later awarded a medal of honor by Congress.
Meantime there was plenty going on at the Mail Station. On February 8 the soldiers and employees drove the stock to a spring some six hundred yards east of the corral to let them drink. Ever on the watch, Cochise had placed a number of his warriors in ambush in the canyon through which the animals had to be driven; and, as the men drove the stock before them on the return trip, the Indians fell upon the party, stampeding the stock, killing Mose Lyons, an employee of the station, and wounding two other men. The following day Cochise came out within hailing distance of the station, bringing Wallace along as interpreter, demanded the release of the prisoners held by Bascom and offered to free Wallace and the other two American prisoners he had taken. Bascom refused to make the exchange unless Ward’s boy was also turned over. Again Cochise declared that he did not have the boy and that he knew nothing about his capture. Baffled once more in his effort to secure the release of his relatives, Cochise disappeared, taking Wallace with him.
Finally, a day or two later, mounted and horribly decked out in war paint, Cochise and his followers again appeared on the rocky slope, leading Wallace whose hands were tied with a rope, one end of which was attached to the saddle of Cochise. Once more Wallace, who spoke the Apache language, made known Cochise’s demand for an exchange of prisoners. He said that he had already suffered greatly from cold, and torture at the hands of the Indians; and he pleaded with the Lieutenant to accept the proffered terms, as otherwise he and his companions would certainly be put to death. Sergeant Reuben F. Bernard, of Bascom’s command, added his entreaties to those of Wallace, and so persistent was he in his opposition to the action of his superior that he was placed in arrest. All efforts on the part of Cochise to secure the release of his friends having now failed, he dragged Wallace to death behind his galloping horse, and, as later appeared, also put the other two Americans to a cruel death. When the command reached Fort Buchanan on February 23, Bernard was tried by the Commanding Officer for insubordination, but was released. Writing eight years later, Bernard, who had shown himself one of the bravest and most efficient Apache fighters in the Army and had risen steadily through the various grades to the rank of LieutenantColonel, said he “knew personally of thirteen white men whom Cochise had burned alive, five of whom he tortured to death by cutting small pieces out of their feet, and fifteen whom he dragged to death after tying their hands and putting lariats around their necks.” In conclusion he wrote: “This Indian was at peace until betrayed and wounded by white men. He now, when spoken to about peace, points to his scars and says, ‘I was at peace with the whites until they tried to kill me for what other Indians did; I now live and die at war with them.'”5
And now comes the sequel of the horrible blunder made by Bascom. Irwin, Lord, Moore, and Oury, with the infantry from Fort Buchanan, the dragoons from Fort Breckenridge, and the civilians from Tucson seem all to have united at the Mail Station by February 15. After Cochise and his band dashed off dragging Wallace to his death, nothing more had been seen or heard of them. Well aware that a large force had now been brought together to punish them, the Indians had scattered and gone into hiding. The morning after the arrival of Oury and the dragoons, the soldiers were early in the saddle and off to search for Cochise among the Chiricahua Mountains. Cochise’s village was found after a scout of two days and was destroyed; but the Indians easily eluded their pursuers. On the return march, when the troops were nearing the Mail Station, they rode into a small valley on the western side of the Chiricahuas where three bodies were found perforated with lance wounds. One of these bodies Oury was able to identify as that of Wallace. At the foot of a mound studded with oak trees, the three Americans were interred. The little valley led down toward the stage road. As the detachment proceeded toward the station a discussion arose among the men, which was soon taken up by the officers, as to the propriety of taking all of Bascom’s hostages and hanging them to the trees that shaded Wallace’s grave. Almost immediately it was decided that this should be done. Accordingly, Lieutenant Moore went to Bascom and informed him of this determination.
” ‘No,’ said Bascom, ‘I am in control of the Indians, and I should incur censure if I disposed of them in that way.’
“‘ Moore replied, ‘I am the ranking officer, and I will assume all responsibility.’ ”
Irwin’s version of the matter is as follows: “It was then and there decided to execute an equal number of the Indian warriors confined at the Mail Station. It was I who suggested their summary execution, man for man. On Bascom expressing reluctance to resort to the extreme measure proposed, I urged my right to dispose of the lives of the three prisoners captured by me, after which he then acceded to the retaliatory proposition and agreed that these prisoners and three of the hostages taken by him should be brought there and executed.”6
So, early the next morning, February 19, the six Indians were marched out to the mound that sloped down toward the grave of Wallace and his companions, and were hanged upon the largest oak tree. (The author has identified the spot and visited it more than once.) The two remaining prisoners, a boy and a woman, were placed in a wagon, taken to Fort Buchanan, and there released.
When Cochise learned the fate of his three relatives, his fury knew no bounds. He swore he would exterminate or drive out the entire white population of Arizona. From his impregnable strongholds he dispatched far and wide small bands of his picked warriors to plunder wagon trains, stampede cattle and horses, and murder unprotected settlers. They would rarely attack in the open. Concealed in some lofty lookout, the scouts would scan the valleys and mesas for small parties of careless travelers or unguarded wagon trains, and then, at a favorable ford or pass would ambush them–stay, burn, and loot, with little loss on their part. Or they would creep up to some isolated ranch–kill the men, plunder the house, destroy the crops, drive the cattle and horses before them into their mountain fastnesses, and carry the women and children into captivity. Pursuit was vain, since the Indians knew every trail, canyon, and cave for a hundred miles in every direction, could travel on foot fifty or even seventy-five miles a day over the roughest mountains and mesas, had a secret code of smoke signals by which they could communicate across wide reaches of country, could conceal themselves behind rocks, cactus, and tufts of bear grass, and pick off at will either soldier or settler who dared to risk himself in their retreats–vain, because in courage, energy, and intelligence Cochise was incomparable as a leader and a strategist.
The result was that by the summer of 1861 terror reigned supreme. Ranches, mines and small settlements were desolated and abandoned. Even the military was intimidated; and nowhere was there safety except in Tucson and two or three fortified mines and ranch houses where the embattled pioneers, armed to the teeth, would outface and outfight even Apaches. Raphael Pumpelly, metallurgist for the Santa Rita Mining Company, gives a vivid account of his own experiences during the spring of 1861, and also of the havoc wrought among his neighbors. For weeks at the Santa Rita Mine east of Tubac, Pumpelly had been in hourly danger of death. Two of his Mexican teamsters had been ambushed and slain, and his friend, Grosvenor, the superintendent of the Company, had met a like fate a few hours later. Pumpelly himself escaped only by chance.
A few days later, on his return from a trip to Fort Buchanan, whither he had gone to seek military aid, he was pursued and attacked by Indians. Riding to the hacienda of an American named Elliot Titus, Pumpelly found him and two of his men dead and mutilated. A watch belonging to one of the victims was still ticking, so recent had been the murderous assault. A few minutes later, riding like the wind with his single companion to escape the pursuing savages, he met a company of settlers burying a man who had been to the Fort to give notice of the slaughter of a neighboring family in the Sonoita Valley.
Pumpelly and Poston had made their plans to get out of the country as soon as they could. But on the night previous to the day they had set for their departure a Mexican herdsman galloped into Tubac with the news that he and a ranchman, named Bill Rhodes, had been chased by a large band of Apaches, most of them mounted, and that Rhodes had no doubt been killed. The next morning Poston and Pumpelly rode northward to see what had been the fate of Rhodes and two other Americans and a Papago Indian at the Canoa Inn on the road to Tucson. To their astonishment, they soon met Rhodes, his arm in a sling, but with spirit undaunted. When the Apaches were almost upon him, he had turned aside into a dense thicket, and there, buried in a dried up mudhole, he had single-handed stood off the whole band of Apaches, killing six or eight of them as, in single file, they attempted to thread the narrow passage to his lair. At the Canoa Inn, the bodies of the two white men and the Papago were found in terribly mutilated condition and pierced by scores of lance wounds. While some of the party kept watch, the others buried the three victims. Knowing that Mr. Richmond Jones, a superintendent of the Sopori Mining property, had come by Canoa the previous day, search was now made for his body. It was found, pierced by bullet and lance wounds, and was taken to Tubac for burial.
By early summer, word had reached Arizona that war had broken out between the North and the South, and in June orders came to the commanding officers of Forts Buchanan and Breckenridge to abandon these posts because of the advance of the Confederate forces, and to destroy all stores and supplies that could not be removed. All Federal troops that had not already been withdrawn were ordered to proceed to the Rio Grande. There was, of course, great rejoicing among the Apaches; for, as they knew nothing about the death grapple in which the two sections of the nation were locked, they naturally assumed that the Americans were conquered and were withdrawing with terror. Very soon they were to learn how sadly they were in error; but the story of the Civil War period in the Southwest I leave for later treatment, as I desire to devote the rest of this chapter to an account of Cochise’s character and personal fortunes to the end; for I consider him the most powerful and tragic figure in Apache history.
At this place in my story I must introduce the potent and unique figure of Captain Thomas J. Jeffords, who, in the long run, was to prove the beneficent resolving force in this bloodiest of Apache tragedies. Jeffords first came to Arizona in the summer of 1862, when he was thirty years old. He came as a Government scout, bearing dispatches from General E. R. S. Canby at Mesilla, New Mexico, to General James H. Carleton, in Tucson. He then returned as guide to the advance companies of the California Column on their march to Fort Thorn on the Rio Grande. He was a tall, erect, athletic man, more than six feet in height. Because he had rather long reddish hair and whiskers, he was known among the Indians by a name signifying “Sandy Whiskers.” In the mid-sixties he was Government Superintendent of mails between Fort Bowie and Tucson; and for a time he drove a stage over the Butterfield route. While thus engaged, he was wounded by arrows shot from ambush by Apaches and to his death he carried the scars of these arrows on his body. He said that, to his knowledge, during the period of sixteen months that he was in charge of the mails between Fort Bowie and Tucson, fourteen of his men were killed by Apaches. At last, disgusted because the Government was unable to protect his carriers, he resigned his post, and went back to prospecting in the mountains. But he made up his mind that he would first have a face to face talk with Cochise in order that for the future he might work on friendly terms with him. Having been so long among the Apaches as scout, trader, stage driver, and superintendent of mails, he had picked up some knowledge of their language, and had, of course, grown wise to all their ways. He found a friendly Apache who knew where Cochise was making his temporary camp and had him go with him part of the way and then send up a smoke signal indicating the approach of a solitary messenger on a peaceful mission. Then Jeffords rode into the encampment of Cochise, armed and alone. It had been seven years since any white man had come within the reach of Cochise’s arm and escaped alive. The first thing Jeffords said was:
“I want to leave my arms with you or with one of your wives to be returned to me in a couple of days, after I have had a personal talk with you.”
” Cochise seemed to be surprised, but finally consented to my proposition, took possession of my arms, and I spent two or three days with him, discussing affairs, and sizing him up. I found him to be a man of great natural ability, a splendid specimen of physical manhood, standing about six feet two, with an eye like an eagle. This was the commencement of my friendship with Cochise, and although I was frequently compelled to guide troops against him and his band, it never interfered with our friendship. He respected me, and I respected him. He was a man who scorned a liar, was always truthful in all things. His religion was truth and loyalty. My name with Cochise was Chickasaw, or Brother. The following will illustrate a point in Cochise’s character: He said to me once, ‘Chickasaw, a man should never lie.’ I replied: ‘No, he should not, but a great many do.’ He said: ‘That is true, but they need not do it; if a man asks you or I a question we do not wish to answer, we could simply say, I don’t want to talk about that.'”7
To return to Jeffords’ visit to Cochise: After he had been relieved of his arms, he calmly approached the wickiup of Cochise, and sitting down near him remained in silence for a considerable time, as was the Indian manner. Then he told Cochise that, as he trusted him, and believed that he was one who liked straight-speaking, he had come to see if some agreement could not be entered into so that he might pursue his work unmolested. Cochise, in his turn, sat for a good while in silence. Jeffords could not tell whether the outcome would be friendship or death on the spot. It was plain that Cochise, too, was in a quandary. However, having talked over the situation at some length, Jeffords’ candor and courage won the day. He remained in camp with Cochise as long as he desired; and having come to a full and amicable understanding with his former enemy, when he was ready to go, his arms were brought to him and an escort was sent with him down toward the valley. Murder and ravage went on as usual, but he was never again disturbed by any member of Cochise’s band.
By the end of 1871 President Grant’s “Peace Policy” toward the hostile Indians was proving successful, throughout most of the tribes. However, the Apaches were still giving much trouble; and Cochise and his Chiricahuas, in particular, were a constant menace and source of anxiety. So far, no peace commissioner or other representative of the Government had been able to locate Cochise or get into communication with him. His scouts were on the lookout for a hundred miles in every direction, and by their smoke signals and swift runners they kept the great chief posted as he lay concealed in his favorite strongholds high in the inaccessible mountains. At last, the President requested the brave and discreet General O. O. Howard to go a second time as special commissioner to settle a number of distracting problems among the Indians of the Southwest. The chief object of his mission was to seek out Cochise and enter into terms of peace with him.
After striving fruitlessly for weeks to make some contact with Cochise, at a garrison in New Mexico, Howard had the good fortune to fall in with Jeffords who was then serving as guide to a troop of cavalry in their pursuit of a band of raiding Apaches. General Howard gives this account of his first meeting with Jeffords:
“The first tent I entered, a tall, spare man, with reddish hair and whiskers of considerable length, rose to meet me. He was pleasant and affable, and I was in the outset prepossessed in his favor. Giving my name, I asked:
“‘Is this Mr. Jeffords?’ “‘Yes, sir, that is my name.’
“‘Can you take me to the camp of the Indian Cochise?’
“He looked steadily and inquiringly into my eyes and asked: ‘Will you go there with me, General, without soldiers?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘if necessary.’ “‘Then I will take you to him.'”
Something in his face and manner convinced Howard that he would do as he said, so he put himself completely into Jeffords’ hands. First, Jeffords set out to secure as guides and intermediaries two young Apache chiefs in that part of New Mexico. One was a nephew of Cochise–Chie, by name–and the other, Ponce, was the son of Mangas Coloradas, who had been put to death by Union soldiers, as will be related in the next chapter. Both of these young warriors were dear to the heart of Cochise; so Howard’s quest was half accomplished when they consented to go with him.
The party, consisting of six white men and the two Apaches, started westward toward Fort Bayard. The time was late September. Jeffords had promised Howard that he would locate Cochise within a week. Four days had passed when they came to the foothills of the Stein’s Peak Mountains. Chie sent up a peace signal, and then hurried ahead nearly a quarter of a mile. He stopped at a spring and imitated the bark of a coyote. A reply came back from the mountain. He ran up the steep slope and soon came back with another Indian who proved to be one of Cochise’s scouts. He told Howard that he had looked into his last night’s camp forty miles back. After having something to eat with them, he went back to his lookout, but in a short time returned on horseback, with his wife and child. Before dark, sixty Indians, men, women, and children, had gathered about the camp. Their horses and mules were left to graze with those of Howard’s party, and the conversation was most friendly. Howard was told that he would have to cut down his escort, so he sent three white men over to Fort Bowie, there to await news from him.
The next morning the company, now reduced to five, continued their journey over the Stein’s Peak Range and across the San Simon Valley. The September day was scorching hot and the route was waterless. But at twilight they reached a fine spring in the Chiricahua Mountains and made camp there. The following day they passed over the mountains and across the broad Sulphur Spring Valley to the spring that gives the valley its name. After eating and drinking, and resting a short time, they continued the march to the lower slope of the Dragoon Mountains, where they made a dry camp, though grass was found for the animals. Rising early the next morning, they pushed on until they came to a spring where they breakfasted and watered their animals.
The guides now informed Howard that they were nearing the camping place of Cochise. After resting for a couple of hours, they entered the Middle Pass of the Dragoons and wound their way through the mountains for fifteen miles to a point on the west side of the Dragoons. Again the Indians sent up smoke signals–this time to give notice of the number in the party and the purpose for which it came. Under an oak tree, on the bank of a dear stream, the mounts were unsaddled, and all but Chie gave themselves to food and repose. He, however, hurried off over the sharp rocks and steep hills to the fortress where Cochise was thought to be, though so far no sign of his whereabouts had been given. At night two Indian boys, both on one horse, came. They ate and drank but did not deign to make known their mission. At last, though, they delivered a message from Chie, and then led the way through a narrow canyon for seven miles, and brought them into a natural fortification of great extent and grandeur.
“There were canyons to enter by and canyons to leave by, but surrounded by a wall, varying in height from one hundred to two hundred feet. This wall incloses about thirty acres of swamp near the center, and many good natural springs and a fine stream of water. We encamped under a tree, and soon were surrounded by numbers of the wild Indians.”8 But no Cochise!
Next morning after breakfast a strange cry was heard at some distance, and therewith Ponce cried in excitement:
“He is coming!”
At once preparations were made for his entrance. The circle was extended and a blanket was placed on the ground for him to sit on. There was silence and solemnity throughout the assemblage as they waited. “In a few minutes there came riding rapidly down a ravine a single Indian, who looked very fierce as he approached, carrying a long lance in his hand. He was short, and thick-set and painted in that ugly way where vermillion is combined with black paint. As soon as he reached us he dismounted and flew to Captain Jeffords, standing near by, and embraced him very warmly. Jeffords said, very quietly, ‘This is his brother,’ neither Captain Jeffords nor any of the Indians ever speaking the name of Cochise. . . .
“A mounted party following came in sight. This consisted of a fine-looking Indian, accompanied by a young man and two Indian women. I hoped it was Cochise. He dismounted and saluted Captain Jeffords like an old friend. He then turned to me, and I was introduced in this phrase:
“‘General, this is he, this is the man!
“As I took his hand I remembered my impression. A man fully six feet in height, well proportioned, large, dark eyes, face slightly painted with vermillion, unmistakably an Indian; hair straight and black, with a few silver threads, touching the coat collar behind. He gave me a grasp of the hand, and said very pleasantly:
“His face was really pleasant to look upon, making me say to myself, ‘How strange it is that such a man can be the robber and murderer so much complained of.’ In my frequent interviews afterward I perceived that when conversing upon all ordinary matters he was exceedingly pleasant, exhibiting a childlike simplicity; but in touching upon the wrongs of the Apaches, in public council, or on horseback, in fact, when he considers himself to be specially on duty as the Chiricahua Chief, he is altogether another man. We walked together, and sat down side by side on the blanket seat beneath a fine spreading oak, which sheltered us from the scorching sun.”9
Cochise now questioned Chie and Ponce as to how and why they came and as to their knowledge of Howard and his designs. After about ten minutes of such probing, he very pleasantly turned to the General and asked him through an interpreter the purpose of his visit.
Wood, Charles Morgan. Extracts from Records, in the War Department. November, 1856, to February, 1861. ↩
DeLong, S. R. The History of Arizona, p. 29. 1905 ↩
Farish, T. E. History of Arizona, Vol. II, p. 31. 1915. ↩
Connell Charles T. “The Apache Past and Present,” Chap. 15. In Tucson, Citizen, May 29, 1921. ↩
Russell Don. One Hundred and Three Fights and Scrimmages. United States Cavalry Association, Washington, 1936. ↩
Irwin, B. J. D. “The Apache Pass Fight.” In The Military Surgeon, October, 1933. Washington, D.C. ↩
Farish, Thomas Edwin. History of Arizona, Vol. II, p. 229. Phoenix, 1915. ↩
Howard O. O. “Account of His Mission to the Apaches and Navajos.” In Washington Daily Morning Chronicle, November 10, 1872. ↩
Howard O. O. “Account of His Mission to the Apaches and Navajos.” In Washington Daily Morning Chronicle, November 10, 1872. ↩