If an American who was not acquainted with the country might be seized by some supernal power and suddenly placed in Southwestern Arizona, he would never suspect that he was within the boundaries of the United States. Its soil, its vegetation, its sierra outlines, its dry, phantasmagoric atmosphere, its animal life, and its inhabitants, are all strange. Towards the Gulf of California the country for many miles is dry, barren, and desert, with no plant life but the cactuses, and even these seem depressed and hopeless, except when an angel’s visit of rain brightens them. A little farther back come ranges of Granite Mountains, still more desert than the plains, for on their sides no vegetation appears, nor any soil to support vegetation. White and glistening, they rear their crests like the skeletons of mountains whose flesh had dropped away. Still farther back more vegetation shows, but it is strange to the average American. There is a broken carpet of grass in many places, brown and dead in appearance. Here and there is a mesquite, a palo verde, or a patch of sage. The Spanish bayonet thrusts out its sharp leaves. The century plant rears its lance like stem and floats its graceful flowers. The prickly pear spreads its flat, jointed limbs in the heated air. Most striking of all, the saguarra, or pitahaya (petahyah), the giant cereus of the naturalists, sometimes solitary and sometimes in small forests, raises its fluted column from thirty to sixty feet, and lifts its stovepipe arms above the other plants. Its color is green; the surface is smooth, and armed with clusters of thorns, as in the other cactuses. This plant is of great value to the natives. Its flowers form a bright colored circle around its top, and give place to a ring of fruit, each as large as a hen’s egg and much resembling a fig. From the juice of this they make a syrup of which they are very fond; the pulp is pressed in cakes for winter use. Within the dead trunks are found rod like threads of wood fibre, which, bound together, serve to reach the fruit. Water is scarce in this land. There can hardly be said to be any streams except the Colorado and the Gila, and the latter is dry at times in some parts. Their valleys, with fringes of willow, cottonwood, and mesquite, form a pleasant contrast to the tablelands. The chief reliance of the natives for water is on the natural tanks, which occur at well known places in the rocks, or in beds of clay. There are also a few springs, which form pools ordinarily, but in very dry seasons these fail, and the Indians are forced to dig to the underlying rock, and gather the water drop by drop. Since the whites have made a thoroughfare of the country they have sunk wells at many points.
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This region was inhabited by two classes of natives. South of the Gila were the Pimas, Maricopas, and Papagos. They are all of good disposition and have long been friendly to their Mexican neighbors, whose settlements join them on the southeast. The Pimas and Maricopas live in the Gila valley, occupying a strip of country about twenty miles long and four miles wide. These two tribes are on terms of the closest friendship and intercourse, but speak different languages and maintain entire independence in government and religion. They live in villages and support themselves by agriculture. Their fields, which are watered by irrigating ditches from the Gila, produce good crops of wheat, corn, melons, pumpkins, and cotton. The cotton they weave into excellent blankets, an art which they had when the Spaniards invaded their country. While of a quiet nature, these people are brave warriors, and have beaten the Apaches so often that those scourges of the desert retain a salutary dread of them. In the tribes of both nations there are legends of their wars, in which the Pimas and their allies obtained all the victories and celebrated them right royally. On one occasion, it is said, the Pimas spread flour on the ground for three miles, as a carpet for their victorious chief. The Papagos live to the south of these, and are, in fact, merely converted Pimas, their name being an adaption of baponia the Pima word for baptized.
They say they originally lived still farther south, but were driven back by the Spaniards into their desert home, commonly called Papagueria or Papagoria. They are on friendly terms with the Mexicans, and have long assisted them in fighting their common enemies, the Apaches. Their principal settlement is at San Xavier del Bac, an old mission, established by the Jesuits in 1668. The stately old cathedral there was preserved by them after the Jesuit power passed away in Mexico, and it remains today, a splendid monument of Saracenic architecture, that would be an ornament to any city in the country.
In customs the Cocopahs resembled these tribes. They were a small band, numbering some three hundred warriors, who lived along the Colorado, next above the Gulf of California. They are agricultural, and raise excellent crops in the valley of the Colorado, which overflows nearly every year, usually in July. Their pumpkins and melons are especially large and fine. The previously mentioned tribes are quite decently clothed, but the Cocopahs make no pretensions to dress. Their men wear a light breechcloth, and the women two little aprons of bark, one before and one behind. The Cocopahs and Maricopas were both originally parts of the Yuma nation, but seceded from it. The secession of the Cocopahs was not opposed; that of the Maricopas was, and a bitter war followed, in which the Yumas were aided by the Cocopahs. The Maricopas fled to the Pimas, who agreed to let them settle in their country, if they would adopt an agricultural life, and make no war except in defense, or to revenge aggressions. To this the Maricopas agreed, and have since kept their agreement. All these tribes were enemies of the Colorado River tribes above the Gila, and of the Apaches, and all remained so except the Cocopahs, who, in 1854, made a treaty of peace with the tribe next above them, known as the Yumas. The Cocopahs also differed from the others in the loose virtue of their women. They, like the Yumas, were well made and handsome, but the comeliness of their women served only to attract the passion of their white neighbors, and bring upon themselves the diseases that have well nigh destroyed them. They spend half their time in the Colorado, swimming, or sitting immersed near the banks, their heads plastered over with fresh mud.
The nation of the Yumas (Sons of the River), according to their statement, includes five tribes: the Cuchans, the Mahaos, the Mohaves, the Hah-wal-coes or Hualapais, and the Yampais or Yavipais. The Cuchans, who are commonly known as the Yumas, lived next above the Cocopahs, to whom they were very similar in habits. In 1850 they numbered about four hundred and fifty warriors. Above them on the Colorado were the Chem-e-hue-ves (Chim-me-wah-wahs, Kem-ah-wi-vis) a branch of the Pi-Utes, who are found in large numbers west of the Colorado in California. Above the Chem-e-hue-ves, and north of Bill Williams Fork, were the Mohaves. Their name is from two Yuma words: hamook three, and habi, mountains, referring to the third mountain range, at which their territory begins. The name is written Hamockhaves, Yamockhaves, Yamajabs, Tamatabs, Jamajabs, Amochaves, and Mojaves. They are a large tribe, closely related to the Yumas, and very friendly with them. These two tribes intermarry, and both are related, by numerous marriages, with the Coahuillas of the Colorado desert, and the Diegenos (Indians of San Diego) of Southern California, with whom they are on terms of intimate friendship. The habits of the Mohaves are generally similar to those of the lower tribes, but they make much better houses, and appear rather more intelligent. Above the Mohaves, occupying the country in the great bend of the Colorado to the south, were the Yampais. The Tonto Apaches lived east of these, in the neighborhood of Bill Williams Mountain. The Yampais and Tontos have been called the same by some authorities, and both are generally considered mongrels – connecting links between the Apaches and the river tribes. The Tontos were not of the bold, roaming disposition that characterized the other Apaches. They are small, not well formed, and in their manner of life degraded. All of the tribes mentioned were foot soldiers when they came under our rule. They had some horses and mules, but not many, and they were prone to use them for food in times of scarcity. The lance was a weapon little used by them. Their arms were bows, arrows, and clubs. The last named is a weapon seldom used by other Indians, but those of the Colorado River were never without it. It is simply a stick cut from a kind of live oak that grows in the mountains – one of the few species of American woods that will sink in water after it has been seasoned.
It is to this section of Arizona that we must next transfer our selves, but in 1850-51 there was no Arizona. The country south of the Gila belonged to Mexico until the Gadsden Purchase of December 30, 1853, and that north of the Gila was a part of the Territory of New Mexico. The land south of the Gila, after its purchase, was sometimes called the Gadsden Purchase and sometimes Arizuna. The Territory of Arizona was set off from New Mexico in 1863, and the northwest corner of the tract, then included in its bounds, was afterwards ceded to Nevada. In 185051 the region was still in the condition in which it had been for the past century. The tribes north of the Gila were in what appears to have been their aboriginal condition. They had not acquired guns, nor had they contracted the vices and diseases of civilization. They had not even become expert horsemen and learned the use of the lance, as had their relatives a little farther east, from contact with the cavaliers of Spain. They still reveled in the independence and filth of absolute savagery. The country was almost wholly unknown. Kearny and Cooke had gone across it on their marches to California, and mail carriers had made their way through by the same routes or by the northern road, which circled two hundred miles above its starting point, through Southern Utah. At this time Captain Sitgreaves was on his exploring expedition down the Colorado, and Bartlett, with the Mexican Boundary Commission, was locating the eastern portion of the line. The few emigrants who pushed through to California by the southern road had to rely chiefly on the Mexicans and friendly Indians for information, assistance, and protection. There was a small force stationed on the Colorado, at the mouth of the Gila, called Camp Yuma. Fort Yuma was afterwards established in the same locality.
In the year 1849 a project was originated in the western part of Illinois fur a settlement in the neighborhood of the mouth of the Gila River. Among those who determined to join this party was Royse Oatman, a man forty years of age, who had lived in the West since childhood. For a long time he was a successful merchant at La Harpe, Illinois, but, like many others, was brought to ruin by holding a largo amount of wild-cat-bank paper when the collapse of 1842 came. After his failure he went to Pennsylvania, expecting to settle among relatives who lived in the Cumberland Valley, but the East had lost its charms for him, and he returned to Illinois. Hero he began farming, near Fulton, but, in the course of his work, 80 injured himself by over lifting that his health failed. In consequence of the seeming hopelessness of recovering, or even being relieved from suffering, in a northern region, owing to his extreme sensitiveness to cold and damp, he joined the projected colony, hoping to find the climate a balm for his ailment. He was accompanied by his family, consisting of a wife and seven children. The colony, numbering some eighty souls, rendezvoused at Independence, Missouri, and on August 10, 1850, started on their long overland journey. One week’s travel revealed the fact that the members were uncongenial, owing to differences of religious opinions. A part threatened to turn back, but the differences were smoothed over by the commendable diplomacy of some of the better balanced heads. By the time the colony reached the junction of the north and south roads, at Santa Fe pass, the quarrels had become so acrimonious that the company divided. The larger party took the northern road. The smaller, consisting of twenty persons, with eight wagons, moved on to the Rio Grande and took Colonel Cooke’s route to the south.
Slowly the little train crawled along, over mountain and plain, through cañons and across valleys, down into Mexico, across to the sources of the Santa Cruz, up through the old Spanish towns of Santa Cruz and Tubac, and, as the year closed, filed into Tucson, the city that disputes with Santa Fe the honor of being the first permanent white settlement within the borders of the United States. There they halted for a month. The Mexicans received them kindly and begged them to remain, as had also the inhabitants of the lower towns. The repute of American arms was so great, and the conflict of the Mexicans with the Apaches was so continuous, that American settlers were desirable. Part of the train concluded to stop for a year, at least, and rest. The Oatman, Wilder, and Kelly families decided to go on. Their cattle were in poor condition, and there was no opportunity to improve them much at Tucson. The Apaches had destroyed all the crops, and supplies were scarce at any price. The three families moved on into the “ninety mile desert,” the stretch of dry, hard, gravelly land, with its scant growth of mesquite and cactus, that separates Tucson from the Pima villages. Dreary and tiresome as it is now, it was far more so then, for there were then no wells in it, and the traveler had no chance to obtain water, except that during some seasons there were pools at the Picacho, a peak midway of the desert. In this desolate region the Coyotero Apaches began to threaten them, and each night they had to place a guard, who frequently wakened the others to resist attacks. On the 16th of February, discouraged, destitute, and almost worn out, they reached the lands of the Pima. To add to the gloominess of their prospects their provisions were now so reduced that it appeared impossible for them to hold out through the one hundred and ninety miles yet to be traversed before reaching Camp Yuma.
They remained at the Pima and Maricopa villages until March 11, and then the Oatmans started on alone. The motives that actuated the party to this division have never been satisfactorily explained. It is stated by Lorenzo Oatman that Wilder and Kelly determined to remain, and risk obtaining support by trade with the Indians, while his father believed that starvation, or death at the hands of the Indians, would result from tarrying. On the other hand, it has been said that there was no good reason for the Oatmans going on alone, and it is certain that Wilder and Kelly started after them about ten days later. While in a state of indecision as to their course, Dr. Le Conte, the scientist, accompanied by a Mexican guide, arrived at the villages. He reported that he had passed throngh the country between there and Camp Yuma twice, within the past few months, and that he had seen no signs of Indians anywhere. This information decided Oatman to go on. The road continues down the river to the Maricopa Wells, and then leaves it. The river bends to the north, and after a long detour of one hundred and twenty miles, around two ranges of granite hills, comes back to the same general course about fifty miles to the west. The road cuts across the country between these two points, which is known as the Desert of the Gila Bend. For seven days the Oatmans plodded along across this and down the Gila beyond. Their cattle, which were now reduced to one yoke of oxen and two yokes of cows, were almost exhausted. The roads had been made very bad by a recent rain. When they came to one of the numerous hills on the road, they were obliged to unload the two wagons and carry the goods, piece by piece, to the top. The cattle were frequently unable to pull up even the empty wagons without assistance.
On the seventh day, Dr. Le Conte overtook and passed them. He was touched by their sad condition, and promised to send assistance to them as soon as he reached Camp Yuma, then about one hundred and thirty miles distant. He pushed on rapidly, and that night camped thirty miles ahead of them. At daybreak, while preparing for the day’s ride, Le Conte was surprised to see twelve Indians stalk into his camp. He and the guide seized their weapons and stood on their guard. The Indians professed friendship, and tried to divert their attention in order to gain an advantage. After some time their visitors went on their way, and soon after the two men discovered that their animals, which had been left in the valley below, had been driven off, probably during the visit of the Indians. The doctor ordered his guide to go on to Camp Yuma for horses, while he remained and guarded the packs, but the guide had not gone long before the doctor remembered the Oatmans and his promise. He placed a card conspicuously on a tree near the road, informing them of his misfortune at the hands of the Apaches, and promising to proceed at once to the fort for help. The Oatmans never reached this point.
On the evening of the 18th they came to the Gila, at the head of what is now called Outman’s Flat, one hundred and eighteen miles east of Fort Yuma. They attempted to cross, but the stream was swollen and rapid. After a hard struggle they succeeded in reaching a little sand island that still raised its crest above the waters. Darkness had fallen. The animals were mired. They determined to camp for the night on the island. The surroundings were depressing. The night was cold, and the wind blew in fitful blasts, at times driving the waters of the river almost over the island. The hour was late before a fire was started and the little allowance of food to which they were reduced was doled out. None of them could sleep. The parents sat apart and conversed in low tones. The children grouped around the little fire and considered the situation in their childish way. The rush of the river and the moan of the wind, as it whirled through the gullies and swept over the distant hills, turned their thoughts to the dangers that might be lurking in the wilds about them. They talked of the Indians, although they had seen none and no indications of any since they started. Each had his crude idea of the course he would pursue, and Olive, the second girl, a child of twelve year’s, said that she, at least, would not be taken by those miserable brutes. “I will fight as long as I can, and if I see that I am about to be taken I will kill myself,” she said, defiantly. The dreary night passed away. With the first rays of the morning they made ready to leave their dismal camp. They gained the opposite bank and made preparations to ascend the hill of the mesa, which is elevated about two hundred feet above the flat. The ascent is over a hill formation, caused by the wash of water that is common all through the West. The upper strata, to a thickness of twenty feet, are harder than those beneath. As the ground has washed from below, the upper part has broken and fallen, making a perpendicular wall, from the base of which the detritus forms a sloping descent to the plain below. The mesa is covered with a growth of saguarras, which appear from below to stand as sentinels along its border.
Up this hill the Oatmans were obliged to carry all their goods, the teams being unable to pull the empty wagons without assistance. The day was spent thus and in resting, with the intention of moving on at night. The full moon afforded ample light, and they hoped to make the journey easier for their cattle by resting in the heat of the day. One of the wagons was taken up the hill and drawn about a mile beyond, to the summit of a swell in the mesa, beyond which one yoke of the cattle could pull it. As the sun set Oatman turned back for the other wagon, which, with the unloaded goods, remained at the top of the hill. Here the family gathered to eat a few morsels of dry bread and a cup of bean soup before starting. The depression of the night before had scarcely abated. Oatman, especially, was weighed down by gloomy apprehensions. For an hour on the preceding night he had wept bitterly, and during the afternoon he had sunk down by the wagon and groaned out: “Mother, mother, in the name of God, I know that something dreadful is about to happen !” His manhood appeared to have failed him completely. As they packed the wagons, he moved about listlessly, buried in his gloomy thoughts. Lorenzo, who was assisting his father, glanced down the road through the flat, and, to his horror, saw a number of Indians leisurely approaching them. He spoke to his father, who turned hastily. As his eyes fell on the Indians the climax of his terror was reached. His face flushed deeply, and then paled to a ghastly hue. His form stiffened, and the muscles of his mouth twitched convulsively. Several minutes passed before he regained any command of himself. Even then his every movement betrayed his fear’s. Doubtless it was the result of his presentiment, for he had been known before as a man of coolness and courage. He had also often met and dealt with Indians, and was deeply impressed with the belief that if treated kindly and firmly they would seldom do any injury. Although this theory has often been successfully tested, it must be remembered that the firmness is more important than the kindness. An Indian despises a man who fears him, and will often mistreat such a one, when he would not annoy a man that put on a bold front.
The Indians, nineteen in number, came up to them. They were naked, except their small breechclouts. Repulsive in features, filthy of person, and with disheveled hair, they formed a wild and barbarous group. Each carried a bow and arrows and a club. Oatman motioned them to sit down, and spoke to them in Spanish. Some of them understood that language, and replied to him with vehement protestations of friendship. They asked for tobacco and a pipe, to smoke in token of amity. Oatman prepared one, took a whiff, and passed it to them. They then asked for something to eat. Oatman told them that he had scarcely anything; that if he gave them food he would be robbing his children. By this time they had gauged the party with whom they were dealing, and knew that they would meet no serious resistance. They ignored his excuses, and increased the vehemence of their demands until their clamors became furious. Oatman took some bread from the wagon and gave it to them, telling them that he was bringing his family to starvation by doing so. They devoured it and demanded more, but he refused. They then gathered on one side and consulted in their own tongue, while the family hurried on with their packing. Mr. Oatman and Lorenzo were handing in the goods at the back of the wagon. Mrs. Oatman was inside arranging them. Olive and Lucy, her older sister, were on the side nearest the Indians, arranging some of the property. Mary Ann, a child of seven, sat on a stone in front, holding the halter of the foremost yoke. The remainder of the children were on the opposite side of the wagon. They were almost ready to start. A few minutes more, and they would leave their disagreeable visitors forever, they hoped.
The Indians came closer to them. They scanned the horizon and looked carefully up and down the road, as though in expectation of some one. Then, with wild yells, they leaped upon the hapless group before them. Of all weapons known to man, the club is most fitting to the brutal nature. It was the first weapon to which man laid his hand in the primordial dawn. It is the weapon of some of the higher apes today. The ragged hole left by the rifle ball, the gaping cut of the stiletto, and the broad gash of the lance or the saber are shocking to the sight, but they have nothing of the horror and repulsiveness of the crush of the war club, that distorts the features till they lose the semblance of humanity. This was the weapon of the Tontos, for such these Indians were, and they plied it with the ferocity of devils and the excitement of madmen. Oatman was beaten to the ground and his skull crushed by repeated blows, as he writhed and groaned in his torment. Lorenzo received a blow on the back of his head that brought him to his knees, and another that tumbled him over, dazed and helpless. Mrs. Oatman leaped from the wagon and clasped to her bosom her youngest child, a boy of two years. The savages dashed upon her with tiger bounds, pounding out the life of mother and child at once, while her screams for help startled the desert echoes and were mockingly thrown back from the bleak hills. Lucy had been seized by the hair at the first, and beaten until she was not only dead, but almost unrecognizable. The smallest girl, less than four years old, was despatched at one blow, Royse, her next older brother, was the last to fall of those that died. He had stood farthest away. He saw the others killed and stood nerveless, overcome with horror. As the savages came upon him he gave one piercing shriek, and a moment later was struggling in unconscious convulsion, under the stroke of the club. The other two children, Olive and Mary, were spared. This was the predetermined intention of the Indians, for Olive was drawn to one side by one of them, and Mary was seized by another, at the outset.
The work of plunder began. They tore the canvas cover from the wagon, broke open boxes, and rifled the clothing of the dead, taking what they wanted and strewing the rest over the ground. As they came to Lorenzo he showed some signs of life. They removed his hat and shoes. .Two of them seized him by the feet, dragged him to the edge of the bluff, and hurled him over. Down, twenty feet, to the slope, he fell. Down, over the ragged rocks, he rolled. During part of this time he had a dim consciousness of his surroundings, but no power of motion. He heard the shrieks of his brothers and sisters, and the despairing cry of his mother. He felt the Indians searching him, and knew that they were dragging him over the ground. Then came the weird feeling of a wandering consciousness. At one moment he seemed to move between great rows of pictures hung in the distant air. At another his senses were shocked by the din of unearthly and discordant noises. Again, he was lulled by strains of heavenly music that soothed him into ecstatic rest. At the same time he was conscious that he lay on the rocky slope, in the bright moonlight, with the blood flowing from his ears and nose. Then darkness came.
When he next gained consciousness the midday sun was beating upon his face. His head throbbed with a maddening pain. He tried to open his eyes, but could not. As his mind cleared, he rubbed away the clotted blood that locked his eyelids, and looked about him. His clothing was in shreds. He put his hand to his head, and felt his scalp torn from his skull and stiffened like parchment. Up the slope he saw the stains of blood that had marked his fall, and realized how he had reached his present place. His thoughts wandered back to the tragedy enacted on the mesa above. An uncontrollable impulse came upon him to look again on the faces of the kindred who lay there. It was so short a distance, and yet how great. Faint and dizzy, he crawled up the rocky slope. His strength failed – he fainted; his consciousness returned – he crept on; up – up – up, full fifty feet he struggled, and then, looking across a gully that broke the edge of the mesa, he saw the wagon lifting its bare ribs in the parched air. It brought the full horror of the place back to him. His desire to look on the features of the dead was gone. His only thought was to get away from the horrible spot. He crawled along the slope to the road, and down the road to the river, every muscle aching, every nerve strained, and his head pulsating with pain and delirium. The Gila, muddy and warm, how lie drank of it and bathed his bruised body! It brought relief. He slept. When he awoke it was night. With the aid of a stick that he found by the riverside, he gained his feet and began to walk. The road crosses the Gila twice at this bend, to avoid the bluff that juts out from the south side. Lorenzo avoided crossing by making his way over the bluff. He walked all through the night and the following morning. Near midday he reached a pool of warm, muddy water, of which he drank deeply, and fell asleep in the glowing sunshine. After a short sleep he awoke, partially delirious, and continued his journey. In the middle of the afternoon, as he was crossing a high, barren tableland, his strength suddenly vanished and he fell in a faint.
When he recovered, near evening, his ears were filled with a strange noise that seemed to be approaching him. Before he could rise to his feet he was surrounded by a pack of coyotes, growling, snarling, and licking their lank jaws in anticipation of the feast before them. Here was a new danger, for the coyote, though cowardly to an active enemy, is tierce and desperate as its congener the gray wolf to the helpless. Lorenzo started to his feet with a yell, the first utterance he had made since the massacre, striking one of them as he rose. At this they fell back a little and he started on his march again. They followed him. Twilight came, and darkness. They pressed upon him, surrounding him on all sides with a circle of glistening fangs and glaring eyeballs, but fear brought him a new strength. He gathered stones and threw at them till they fell back again. He hurried on, tormented by the horrible thought that he might faint and be devoured. For hours they dogged his footsteps, but at length they abandoned the pursuit, and by midnight he had the satisfaction of hearing their howls die away in the distant hills. Towards morning he had another season of troubled sleep, after which he started on once more. About noon, as he was passing through a dark canon, he came in sight of two Pima Indians. They hastily drew their bows at sight of this strange being, but when he raised his hand and spoke to them, they rode up to him. One of them was an Indian with whom the Oatmans had been acquainted in the village. Quickly as they saw who was before them they dismounted and embraced him, with expressions of pity and sympathy. They spread their blankets under a tree, for a couch, and brought him a gourd of water and a piece of their ash baked bread – all that they had. They rode on to the scene of the massacre, telling him to remain until they returned and they would convey him to their villages.
He slept till evening. On awakening he became fearful that the two Indians might prove treacherous. The awful tragedy of a few hours back made him distrust a dark face. He left the canon and continued his march through the night and to the middle of the morning. On the crest of a hill, overlooking a long, winding valley, he crept under a bush and slept for two or three hours. When he awoke he felt completely exhausted from hunger and pain. He had a desire to sleep longer, but fought it off. As he lay there, thinking over his hopeless situation, he looked down across 7 the valley, and saw objects moving on the road. He was sure they were Indians. For an hour, in the tortures of suspense, he watched the specks moving towards him, straining his aching eyes to their utmost, and at length, as they crossed a little hill, he saw that they were wagons. A great flood of gladness came over him, and he swooned away. When he recovered the wagons of the Wilders and Kellys were standing near him, and Robert Kelly was approaching him. In a few minutes he was surrounded by friends, and breaking his weary fast on a bowl of bread and milk. On hearing his story the two families turned back to the Pima villages, to stay until they should be reinforced by others travelling in the same direction. The two men, with a number of Pimas, went on to the scene of the murder, and covered the remains of the victims with stones to protect them from the wolves. Two weeks later six white men who were going to Camp Yuma arrived, and the two families journeyed on with them. Lorenzo, who had already recovered somewhat from his sufferings, was cared for at Yuma by Dr. Hewitt, the post surgeon, until his health was restored.
See Further: Olive and Mary Outman Driven North