# McClure's Magazine/Volume 26/Number 3/Arizona Nights

Extracted from McClure's magazine, Vol26 1906 Jan, pp. 292–296
"'A SLATHER OF ROCKS AND STONES COME OUT OF THE MOUTH AND BEGAN TO DUMP DOWN PROMISCUOUS ON THE SCENERY'"
ARIZONA NIGHTS
By
Stewart Edward White Author of “The Blazed Trail,” “The Rawhide,” “The Forest,” etc.
I
UNCLE JIM'S YARN: THE INDIAN STORY
Illustrated by Charles M. Russell
THE ring around the sun had thickened all day long, and the turquoise blue of the Arizona sky had filmed. Storms in the ivy countries are infrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm. We had ridden since sun-up over broad mesas, down and out of deep cañons, along the base of the mountains in the wildest parts of the territory. The cattle were winding leisurely toward the high country; the jack rabbits had disappeared; the quail lacked; we did not see a single antelope in the open.
"It's a case of hole up," the Cattleman ventured his opinion. "I have a ranch over in the Double R. Charley and Windy Bill hold it down. We'll tackle it. What do you think?"
The four cow-boys agreed. We dropped into a low, broad watercourse, ascended it to big cottonwoods and flowing water, followed it into box cañons between rim-rock carved fantastically and painted like a Moorish façade, until at last in a widening below a rounded hill, we came upon an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a round corral. This was the Double R.
Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits. We turned our horses out, spread our beds on the floor, filled our pipes, and squatted on our heels. Various dogs of various breeds investigated us. It was very pleasant, and we did not mind the ring around the sun.
"Somebody else coming," announced the Cattleman finally.
"Uncle Jim," said Charley after a glance.
A hawk-faced old man, with a long, white beard and long, white hair rode out from the cottonwoods. He had on a battered, broad hat abnormally high of crown, carried across his saddle a heavy "eight square" rifle, and was followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds.
The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight of our group, launched himself with lightning rapidity at the biggest of the ranch dogs, promptly nailed that canine by the back of the neck, shook him violently a score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the next. During the ensuing few moments that hound was the busiest thing in the West. He satisfactorily whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up a tree, upset the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits, stampeded the horses and raised a cloud of dust adequate to represent the smoke of battle. We others were too paralyzed to move. Uncle Jim sat placidly on his white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, smoking.
In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally because there was no more trouble to make. The hound returned leisurely, licking from his chops the hair of his victims. Uncle Jim shook his head.
"Trailer," said he sadly, "is a little severe."
We agreed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle Jim with a fresh batch of soda biscuits.
The old man was one of the typical "long hairs." He had come to the Galiuro Mountains in sixty-nine, and since sixty-nine he had remained in the Galiuro Mountains spite of man or the devil. At present he possessed some hundreds of cattle which he was reputed to water, in a dry season, from an ordinary dish-pan. In times past he had prospected. That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to slumber, he held forth on big game hunting and dogs, quartz claims and Apaches.
"Did you ever have any very close calls?" I asked.
He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with some awful tobacco, and told the following experience.
In the time of Geronimo I was living just about where I do now; and that was just about in line with the raiding. You see, Geronimo, and Ju, and old Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp Apache, raid south to the line, slip over into Mexico when the soldiers got too promiscuous, and raid there until they got ready to come back. Then there was always a big medicine talk. Says Geronimo:
"I am tired of the war-path. I will come back from Mexico with all my warriors, if you will escort me with soldiers and protect my people."
"All right," says the General, being only too glad to get him back at all.
So, then, in ten minutes there would n't be a buck in camp, but next morning they shows up again, each with about fifty head of horses.
"Where'd you get those horses?" asks the General suspicious.
"Had 'em pastured in the hills," answers Geronimo.
"I can't take all those horses with me; I believe they 're stolen!" says the General.
"My people cannot go without their horses," says Geronimo.
So, across the line they goes, and back to the reservation. In about a week there's fifty-two frantic Greasers wanting to know where's their horses? The army is nothing but an importer of stolen stock, and knows it, and can't help it.
Well, as I says, I'm between Camp Apache and the Mexican line, so that every raiding party goes right on past me. The point is that I'm a thousand feet or so above the valley, and the renegades is in such a devil of a hurry about that time that they never stops to climb up and collect me. Often I've watched them trailing down the valley in a cloud of dust. Then, in a day or two, a squad of soldiers would come up and camp at my spring for a while. They used to send soldiers to guard every water-hole in the country so the renegades could n't get water. After a while, from not being bothered none, I got to thinking I was n't worth while with them.
Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the Ole Virginia mine then. We'd got down about sixty feet, all timbered, and was thinking of cross-cutting. One day Johnny went to town, and that same day I got in a hurry and left my gun at camp.
I worked all the morning down at the bottom of the shaft, and when I see by the sun it was getting along towards noon, I put in three good shots, tamped 'em down, lit the fuses, and started to climb out.
It ain't noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, and then have to climb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it burning behind you. I never did get used to it. You keep thinking, "now, suppose there's a flaw in that fuse, or something, and she goes off in six seconds instead of two minutes? where 'll you be then?" It would give you a good boost towards your home on high, anyway.
So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top without looking—and then I froze solid enough. There, about fifty feet away, climbing up the hill on mighty tired hosses, was a dozen of the ugliest Chiricahuas you ever don't want to meet, and in addition a Mexican renegade named Maria, who was worse than any of 'em. I see at once their hosses was tired out, and they had a notion of camping at my water-hole, not knowing nothing about the Ole Virginia mine.
For two bits I'd have let go all holts and dropped backwards, trusting to my thick head for easy lighting. Then I heard a little fizz and sputter from below. At that my hair riz right up so I could feel the breeze blow under my hat. For about six seconds I stood there like an imbecile, grinning amiably. Then one of the Chiricahuas made a sort of grunt, and I sabed that they'd seen the original exhibit your Uncle Jim was making of himself.
Then that fuse gave another sputter, and one of the Apaches said "un dah." That means "white man." It was harder to turn my head than if I'd had a stiff-neck; but I managed to do it, and I see that my ore dump wasn't more than ten foot away. I mighty near overjumped it; and the next I knew I was on one side of it and those Apaches, on the other. Probably I flew; leastways I don't seem to remember jumping.
That did n't seem to do me much good. The renegades were grinning and laughing to think how easy a thing they had; and I could n't rightly think up any arguments against that notion—at least from their standpoint. They were chattering away to each other in Mexican for the benefit of Maria. Oh, they had me all distributed, down to my suspender-buttons! And me squatting behind that ore dump about as formidable as a brush rabbit!
Then, all at once, one of my shots went off down in the shaft.
"Boom!" say she, plenty big; and a slather of rocks and stones come out of the mouth and began to dump down promiscuous on the scenery. I got one little one in the shoulder-blade, and found time to wish my ore dump had a roof. But those renegades caught it square in the thick of trouble. One got knocked out entirely for a minute, by a nice piece of country rock in the head.
"Otra vez!" yells I, which means 'again.'
"Boom!" goes the Ole Virginia prompt as an answer.
I put in my time dodging, but when I gets a chance to look, the Apaches has all got to cover, and is looking scared.
"Otra vez!" yells I again.
"Boom!" says the Ole Virginia.
This was the biggest shot of the lot, and she surely cut loose. I ought to have been half-way up the hill watching things from a safe distance, but I was n't. Lucky for me the shaft was a little on the drift, so she did n't quite shoot my way. But she distributed about a ton over those renegades. They sort of half got to their feet, uncertain.
"Otra vez!" yells I once more, as bold as if I could keep her shooting all day.
It was just a cold, raw blazer; and if it did n't go through I could see me as an Apache parlor ornament. But it did. Those Chiricahuas give one yell and skipped. It was surely a funny sight, after they got aboard their war ponies, to see them trying to dig out on horses too tired to trot.
I did n't stop to get all the laughs though. In fact, I give one jump off that ledge, and I lit a-running. A quarter-hoss could n't have beat me to that shack. There 1 grabbed old Meat-in-the-pot and made a climb for the tall country, aiming to wait around until dark, and then to pull out for Benson. Johnny Hooper wasn't expected till next day, which was lucky. From where I lay I could see the Apaches camped out beyond my draw, and I did n't doubt they'd visited the place. Along about sunset they all left their camp, and went into the draw, so there, I thinks, I sees a good chance to make a start before dark. I dropped down from the mesa, skirted the butte, and angled down across the country. After I'd gone a half mile from the cliffs, I ran across Johnny Hooper's fresh trail headed towards camp!
My heart jumped right up into my mouth at that. Here was poor old Johnny, a day too early, with a pack-mule of grub, walking innocent as a yearling, right into the hands of those hostiles. The trail looked pretty fresh, and Benson's a good long day with a pack animal, so I thought perhaps I might catch him before he runs into trouble. So I ran back on the trail as fast as I could make it. The sun was down by now, and it was getting dusk.
I did n't overtake him, and when I got to the top of the cañon I crawled along very cautious and took a look. Of course, I expected to see everything up in smoke, but I nearly got up and yelled when I see everything all right, and old Sukey, the pack-mule, and Johnny's hoss hitched up as peaceful as babies to the corral.
"That's all right!" thinks I, "they're back in their camp, and have n't discovered Johnny yet. I 'll snail him out of there."
So I ran down the hill and into the shack. Johnny sat in his chair—what there was of him. He must have got in about two hours before sundown, for they'd had lots of time to put in on him. That 's the reason they'd stayed so long up the draw. Poor old Johnny! I was glad it was night, and he was dead. Apaches are the worst Injins there is for tortures. They cut off the bottoms of old man Wilkins's feet, and stood him on an ant-hill——
In a minute or so, though, my wits gets to work.
"Why ain't the shack burned?" I asks myself, "and why is the hoss and the mule tied all so peaceful to the corral?"
It did n't take long for a man who knows Injins to answer those conundrums. The whole thing was a trap—for me—and I'd walked into it, chuckle-headed as a prairie-dog!
With that I makes a run outside—by now it was dark—and listens. Sure enough, I hears hosses. So I makes a rapid sneak back over the trail.
Everything seemed all right till I got up to the rim-rock. Then I heard more hosses—ahead of me. And when I looked back, I could see some Injuns already at the shack, and starting to build a fire outside.
In a tight fix, a man is pretty apt to get scared till all hope is gone. Then he is pretty apt to get cool and calm. That was my case. I couldn't go ahead—there was those hosses coming along the trail. I couldn't go back—there was those Injuns building the fire. So I skirmished around till I got a bright star right over the trail ahead, and I trained old Meat-in-the-pot to bear on that star, and I made up my mind that when the star was darkened I'd turn loose. So I lay there a while listening. By and by the star was blotted out, and I cut loose, and old Meat-in-the-pot missed fire—she never did it before nor since—I think that cartridge——
Well, I don't know where the Injins came from, but it seemed as if the hammer had hardly clicked before three or four of them had piled on me. I put up the best fight I could, for I was n't figuring to be caught alive, and this miss-fire deal had fooled me all along the line. They surely had a lively time. I expected every minute to feel a knife in my back, but en I did n't get it, then I knew they wanted to bring me in alive, and that made me fight harder. First and last we rolled and plunged all the way from the rim-rock down to the cañon-bed. Then one of the Injins sung out:
"Maria!"
And I thought of that renegade Mexican, and what I'd heard about him, and that made me fight harder yet.
But after we'd fought down to the cañon-bed, and had lost most of our skin, a half-dozen more fell on me, and in less than no time they had me tied. Then they picked me up and carried me over to where they'd built a big fire by the corral.
Uncle Jim stopped with an air of finality, and began lazily to refill his pipe. From the open, mud fireplace he picked a coal. Outside the rain, faithful to the prophecy of the wide-ringed sun, beat fitfully against the roof.
"That was the closest call I ever had," said he at last.
"But, Uncle Jim," we cried in a confused chorus, "how did you get away? What did the Indians do to you? Who rescued you?"
Uncle Jim chuckled.
"The first man I saw sitting at that fire," said he, "was Lieutenant Price of the United States Army, and by him was Tom Horn.
"'What's this?' he asks, and Horn talks to the Injins in Apache.
"'They say they 've caught Maria,' translates Horn back again.
"'Maria nothing!' says Lieutenant Price. 'This is Jim Fox. I know him.'
"So they turned me loose. It seems the troops had driven off the rengades an hour before."
"And the Indians who caught you, Uncle Jim? You said they were Indians."
"Were Tonto Basin Apaches," explained the old man—"government scouts under Tom Horn."
THE NEXT STORY IN THIS SERIES WILL BE "WINDY BILL'S YARN. THE EMIGRANT STORY."
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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