[Illustration: JOHN H. CADY, 68 YEARS, SOLDIER OF FORTUNE, ON THESONOITA, DECEMBER, 1914]

 ARIZONA'S YESTERDAY

 BEING

 THE NARRATIVE OF

 JOHN H. CADY

 PIONEER

 Rewritten and Revised by

 BASIL DILLON WOON

 1915

 Copyright, 1916, By John H. Cady. 

 TO

 THE PIONEERS WHO ARE LIVING

 AND TO

 THE MEMORIES OF THOSE WHO ARE DEAD

 _this book_, in affectionate tribute to the gallant courage, rugged independence and wonderful endurance of those adventurous souls who formed the vanguard of civilization in the early history of the Territory of Arizona and the remainder of the Great West, _is dedicated_. 

 JOHN H. CADY BASIL D. WOON

 Patagonia, Arizona, Nineteen-Fifteen. 

PREFACE

When I first broached the matter of writing his autobiography to John H. Cady, two things had struck me particularly. One was that of all theliterature about Arizona there was little that attempted to give astraight, chronological and _intimate_ description of events thatoccurred during the early life of the Territory, and, second, that ofall the men I knew, Cady was best fitted, by reason of his extraordinaryexperiences, remarkable memory for names and dates, and seniority inpioneership, to supply the work that I felt lacking. 

Some years ago, when I first came West, I happened to be sitting on theobservation platform of a train bound for the orange groves of SouthernCalifornia. A lady with whom I had held some slight conversation on thejourney turned to me after we had left Tucson and had started on thelong and somewhat dreary journey across the desert that stretches fromthe "Old Pueblo" to "San Berdoo, " and said:

"Do you know, I actually used to believe all those stories about the'wildness of the West. ' I see how badly I was mistaken. "

She had taken a half-hour stroll about Tucson while the train changedcrews and had been impressed by the--to the casual observer--sleepinessof the ancient town. She told me that never again would she look on a"wild West" moving picture without wanting to laugh. She would notbelieve that there had ever been a "wild West"--at least, not inArizona. And yet it is history that the old Territory of Arizona in daysgone by was the "wildest and woolliest" of all the West, as any oldsettler will testify. 

There is no doubt that to the tourist the West is now a source ofconstant disappointment. The "movies" and certain literature haveeducated the Easterner to the belief that even now Indians go on thewar-path occasionally, that even now cowboys sometimes find an outletfor their exuberant spirits in the hair-raising sport of "shooting upthe town, " and that even now battles between the law-abiding cattlemenand the "rustlers" are more or less frequent. When these people comewest in their comfortable Pullmans and discover nothing more interestingin the shape of Indians than a few old squaws selling trinkets andblankets on station platforms, as at Yuma; when they visit one of thefamous old towns where in days gone by white men were wont to sleep withone eye and an ear open for marauding Indians, and find electric cars, modern office buildings, paved streets crowded with luxurious motors, and the inhabitants nonchalantly pursuing the even tenor of their waysgarbed in habiliments strongly suggestive of Forty-fourth street andBroadway; when they come West and note these signs of an advancing andall-conquering civilization, I say, they invariably are disappointed. One lady I met even thought "how delightful" it would be "if the Apacheswould only hold up the train!" It failed altogether to occur to herthat, in the days when wagon-trains _were_ held up by Apaches, few ofthose in them escaped to tell the gruesome tale. And yet this estimablelady, fresh from the drawing-rooms of Upper-Radcliffe-on-the-Hudson andthe ballroom of Rector's, thought how "delightful" this would be! Ah, fortunate indeed is it that the pluck and persistence of the pioneerscarved a way of peace for the pilgrims of today!

Considering the foregoing, such a book as this, presenting as it does inreadable form the Arizona West as it _really was_, is, in my opinion, most opportune and fills a real need. The people have had fictionstories from the capable pens of Stewart Edward White and his companionsin the realm of western literature, and have doubtless enjoyed theirrefreshing atmosphere and daring originality, but, despite this, fictionlocalized in the West and founded however-much on fact, does _not_supply all the needs of the Eastern reader, who demands the truth aboutthose old days, presented in a compact and _intimate_ form. I cannot toogreatly emphasize that word "intimate, " for it signifies to me thequality that has been most lacking in authoritative works on the Westerncountry. 

When I first met Captain Cady I found him the very personification ofwhat he ought not to have been, considering the fact that he is one ofthe oldest pioneers in Arizona. Instead of peacefully awaiting the closeof a long and active career in some old soldiers' home, I found himenergetically superintending the hotel he owns at Patagonia, Santa Cruzcounty--and with a badly burned hand, at that. There he was, with acharacteristic chef's top-dress on him (Cady is well known as afirst-class cook), standing behind the wood-fire range himself, permitting no one else to do the cooking, allowing no one else toshoulder the responsibilities that he, as a man decidedly in the autumnof life, should by all the rules of the "game" have long sincerelinquished. 

Where this grizzled old Indian fighter, near his three-score-and-ten, should have been white-haired, he was but gray; where he should havebeen inflicted with the kindred illnesses of advancing old age he simplyowned up, and sheepishly at that, to a burned hand. Where he should havebeen willing to lay down his share of civic responsibility and let the"young fellows" have a go at the game, he was as ever on thefiring-line, his name in the local paper a half-dozen times each week. Oh, no, it is wrong to say that John H. Cady _was_ a fighter--wrong inthe spirit of it, for, you see, he is very much of a fighter, now. Hehas lost not one whit of that aggressiveness and sterling courage thathe always has owned, the only difference being that, instead of fightingIndians and bad men, he is now fighting the forces of evil within hisown town and contesting, as well, the grim advances made by therelentless Reaper. 

In travels that have taken me over a good slice of Mother Earth, andthat have brought me into contact with all sorts and conditions of men, I have never met one whose friendship I would rather have than that ofJohn H. Cady. If I were asked to sum him up I would say that he is a_true_ man--a true father, a true and courageous fighter, and a trueAmerican. He is a man anybody would far sooner have with him thanagainst him in a controversy. If so far as world-standards go he has notachieved fame--I had rather call it "notoriety"--it is because of thefact that the present-day standards do not fit the men whom they ignore. With those other men who were the wet-nurses of the West in itsinfantile civilization, this hardy pioneer should be honored by thepresent generation and his name handed down to posterity as that of onewho fought the good fight of progress, and fought well, with weaponswhich if perhaps crude and clumsy--as the age was crude and clumsyjudged by Twentieth Century standards--were at least most remarkablyeffective. 

The subject of this autobiography has traveled to many out of the wayplaces and accomplished many remarkable things, but the most astonishingthing about him is the casual and unaffected way in which he, inretrospect, views his extraordinarily active life. He talks to me asunconcernedly of tramping hundreds of miles across a barren desertpeopled with hostile Indians as though it were merely a street-car tripup the thoroughfares of one of Arizona's progressive cities. He talks ofdesperate rides through a wild and dangerous country, of little scraps, as he terms them, with bands of murderous Apaches, of meteoric risesfrom hired hand to ranch foreman, of adventurous expeditions into therealm of trade when everything was a risk in a land of uncertainty, ofjourneys through a foreign and wild country "dead broke"--of these andmany similar things, as though they were commonplace incidents scarcelyworthy of mention. 

Yet the story of Cady's life is, I venture to state, one of the mostgripping and interesting ever told, both from an historical and from ahuman point of view. It illustrates vividly the varied fortunesencountered by an adventurous pioneer of the old days in Arizona andcontains, besides, historical facts not before recorded that cannot helpmaking the work of unfailing interest to all who know, or wish to know, the State. 

For you, then, reader, who love or wish to know the State of Arizona, with its painted deserts, its glorious skies, its wonderful mountains, its magical horizons, its illimitable distances, its romantic past andits magnificent possibilities, this little book has been written. 

 BASIL DILLON WOON. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE

 THE BOY SOLDIER 13

 FOLLOWING THE ARGONAUTS 17

 ROUGH AND TUMBLE ON LAND AND SEA 37

 THROUGH MEXICO AND BACK TO ARIZONA 50

 STAGE DRIVER'S LUCK 61

 A FRONTIER BUSINESS MAN 71

 VENTURES AND ADVENTURES 80

 INDIAN WARFARE 92

 DEPUTY SHERIFF, CATTLEMAN AND FARMER 102

 IN AGE THE CRICKET CHIRPS AND BRINGS-- 115

ILLUSTRATIONS

 JOHN H. CADY Frontispiece

 OLD BARRACKS IN TUCSON 20

 RUINS OF FORT BUCHANAN 28

 CADY'S HOUSE ON THE SONOITA 44

 RUINS OF FORT CRITTENDEN 60

 THE OLD WARD HOMESTEAD 76

 SHEEP CAMP ON THE SONOITA 92

 CADY AND HIS FAMILY 108

ARIZONA'S YESTERDAY

THE BOY SOLDIER

 "_For the right that needs assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that they could do. _"

Fourteen years before that broad, bloody line began to be drawn betweenthe North and the South of the "United States of America, " before therecame the terrific clash of steel and muscle in front of which the entireworld retreated to a distance, horrified, amazed, fascinated andconfounded; before there came the dreadful day when families wereestranged and birthrights surrendered, loves sacrificed and the blightof the bullet placed on hundreds of thousands of sturdy hearts--fourteenyears before this, on the banks of the mighty Ohio at Cincinnati, I wasborn, on September 15, 1846. My parents were John N. Cady, ofCincinnati, and Maria Clingman Cady, who was of German descent, and ofwhom I remember little owing to the fact that she died when I reached mythird birthday. 

Ah, Cincinnati! To me you shall always be my City of Destiny, for it waswithin your boundaries that I, boy and man, met my several fates. Onesent me through the turmoil and suffering of the Civil War; another sentme westward mounted on the wings of youthful hope and ambition. For thatalone I am ever in the debt of Ohio's fairest city, which I hope to seeagain some day before there sounds for me the Taps. . . . But I do notknow. The tide of life is more than past its ebb for me and I should bethinking more of a quiet rest on the hillside, my face turned to theturquoise blue of Arizona's matchless infinity, than to the treadingagain of noisy city streets in the country of my birth. 

But this is to be a story of Arizona, and I must hasten through theevents that occurred prior to my leaving for the West. When I hadreached three years of age my father married again--a milliner--andmoved to Philadelphia. My grandmother, who had raised me practicallyfrom birth, removed with me to Maysville in Kentucky, where I was sentto school. Some of my pleasantest memories now are of that period in theold-fashioned Kentucky river town. 

Just after my ninth birthday my father came back to Maysville, claimedme, took me to Philadelphia with him and afterwards turned me over toone William Turner, his wife's brother, who was the owner of a farm onthe eastern shore of Maryland. I stayed at the Turner farm until theoutbreak of the Civil War in the fall of '61, when my father, who wasthen working for Devlin & Son, clothiers, with headquarters at Broadwayand Warren streets, New York City, enlisted in Duryea's Zouaves asorderly sergeant in Company K. The Zouaves wintered at Federal Hill, Baltimore, and I joined my father and the regiment there. In the springwe moved to Washington, joining there the great Army of the Potomac, with which we stayed during that army's succession of magnificentbattles, until after the Fredericksburg fight in '63. 

In Washington we were quartered at Arlington Heights and I remember thatI used to make pocket money by buying papers at the Washington railwaydepot and selling them on the Heights. The papers were, of course, fullof nothing but war news, some of them owing their initial publication tothe war, so great was the public's natural desire for news of thetitanic struggle that was engulfing the continent. Then, as now, therewere many conflicting statements as to the movements of troops, and soforth, but the war correspondents had full rein to write as theypleased, and the efforts of some of them stand out in my memory today asmarvels of word-painting and penned rhetoric. 

When Grant took command of the Army of the Potomac I left the army, three or four days before reinforcements for General Sherman, who wasthen making preparations for his famous "march to the sea, " left forKentucky. At Aguire Creek, near Washington, I purchased a cargo ofapples for $900--my first of two exceedingly profitable ventures in theapple-selling industry--and, after selling them at a handsome profit, followed Sherman's reinforcements as far as Cincinnati. I did not atthis time stay long in the city of my birth, going in a few days to CampNelson, Ky. , where I obtained work driving artillery horses to Atlantaand bringing back to Chattanooga condemned army stock. Even at thattime--1864--the proud old city of Atlanta felt the shadow of itsimpending doom, but few believed Sherman would go to the lengths he did. 

After the close of the war in 1865 I enlisted in Cincinnati, on October12, in the California Rocky Mountain service. Before this, however, Ihad shipped in the Ram Vindicator of the Mississippi Squadron and afterbeing transferred to the gunboat Syren had helped move the navy yardfrom Mound City, Ill. , to Jefferson Barracks, St. Louis, Mo. , where itstill is. 

I was drafted in the First United States Cavalry and sent to CarlisleBarracks in Pennsylvania, from which place I traveled to New Orleans, where I joined my regiment. I was allotted to Company C and remember myofficers to have been Captain Dean, First Lieutenant Vail and SecondLieutenant Winters. Soon after my arrival in New Orleans we commencedour journey to California, then the golden country of every man's dreamsand the Mecca of every man's ambition. 

FOLLOWING THE ARGONAUTS

 _So it's Westward Ho! for the land of worth, Where the "is, " not "was" is vital; Where brawn for praise must win the earth, Nor risk its new-born title. Where to damn a man is to say he ran, And heedless seeds are sown, Where the thrill of strife is the spice of life, And the creed is "GUARD YOUR OWN!"_ --WOON. 

When the fast mail steamer which had carried us from the Isthmus ofPanama (we had journeyed to the Isthmus from New Orleans in the littletransport McClellan), steamed through the Golden Gate and anchored offthe Presidio I looked with great eagerness and curiosity on thewonderful city known in those days as "the toughest hole on earth, " ofwhich I had read and heard so much and which I had so longed to see. Isaw a city rising on terraces from the smooth waters of a glorious baywhose wavelets were tempered by a sunshine that was as brilliant as itwas ineffective against the keen sea-breeze of winter. The fog that hadobscured our sight outside the Golden Gate was now gone--vanished likethe mist-wraiths of the long-ago philosophers, and the glorious city ofSan Francisco was revealed to view. 

I say "glorious, " but the term must be understood to apply only to thecity's surroundings, which were in truth magnificent. She looked likesome imperial goddess, her forehead encircled by the faint band of mistthat still lingered caressingly to the mountain tops, her countenanceglistening with the dew on the green hill-slopes, her garments quaintlyfashioned for her by the civilization that had brought her into being, her slippers the lustrous waters of the Bay itself. Later I came to knowthat she, too, was a goddess of moods, and dangerous moods; a coquetteto some, a love to others, and to many a heartless vampire that suckedfrom them their hard-wrung dust, scattered their gold to the four windsof avarice that ever circled enticingly about the vortex of shallow joysthat the City harbored, and, after intoxicating them with her beauty andher wine, flung them aside to make ready for the next comer. Too wellhad San Francisco merited the title I give it in the opening lines ofthis chapter. Some say that the earthquake and the fire came likevitriol cast on the features of a beautiful woman for the prostitutionof her charms; but I, who lost little to her lures, am not one to judge. 

My memories of San Francisco are at any rate a trifle hazy now, for itis many, many years since I last saw the sun set over the Marin hills. An era has passed since the glamour of the Coast of High Barbareeclaimed my youthful attention. But I remember a city as evil within asit was lovely without, a city where were gathered the very dregs ofhumanity from the four corners of the earth. What Port Said is now, SanFrancisco was then, only worse. For every crime that is committed in thedark alleys of the Suez port or the equally murky callejons of thepestholes of Mexico, four were committed in the beautiful Californiantown when I first went there. Women as well as men carried "hardware"strapped outside, and scarcely one who had not at some time found thisprecaution useful. The city abounded with footpads and ruffians of everynationality and description, whose prices for cutting a throat or"rolling a stiff" depended on the cupidity of the moment or on thequantity of liquor their capacious stomachs held. Scores of killingsoccurred and excited little comment. 

Thousands of men were daily passing in and out of the city, drawn by thelure of the Sierra gold-fields; some of these came back with the joy ofdreams come true and full pokes hung around their necks, some came withthe misery of utter failure in their hearts, and some--alas, they weremany, returned not at all. 

The Barbary Coast was fast gaining for itself an unenviable reputationthroughout the world. Every time one walked on Pacific street with anymoney in pocket he took his life in his hand. _"Guard Your Own!"_was the accepted creed of the time and woe to him who could not do so. Gold was thrown about like water. The dancing girls made fabulous sumsas commissions on drinks their consorts could be persuaded to buy. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were spent nightly in the great templesdevoted to gambling, and there men risked on the luck of a moment or theturn of a painted wheel fortunes wrung from the soil by months andsometimes years of terrific work in the diggings. The most famousgamblers of the West at that time made their headquarters in SanFrancisco, and they came from all countries. England contributed not afew of these gentlemen traders in the caprices of fortune, France herquota, Germany very few and China many; but these last possessed thedives, the lowest kind of gambling places, where men went only when theywere desperate and did not care. 

We were not at this time, however, to be given an opportunity to see asmuch of San Francisco as most of us would have liked. After a short stayat the Presidio we were sent to Wilmington, then a small port in thesouthern part of the State but now incorporated in the great city of LosAngeles. Here we drew our horses for the long trek across the desert toour future home in the Territory of Arizona. There was no railroad atthat time in California, the line not even having been surveyed as faras San Jose, which was already a city but, instead of being, as now, themarket-place for a dozen fertile and beautiful valleys, she was thenmerely an outfitting point for parties of travelers, prospectors, cattlemen and the like, and was also a station and terminus forvarious stage lines. 

[Illustration: OLD BARRACKS (1912) ON NORTH SIDE OF ALAMEDA STREET, NEARMAIN, WHERE Co. C, 1st U. S. CAVALRY, CAMPED IN 1866 ON ITS ARRIVAL INTUCSON]

Through San Jose, too, came those of the gold-seekers, bound for thehigh Sierras on the border of the desert, who had not taken theSacramento River route and had decided to brave instead the dangers ofthe trail through the fertile San Joaquin, up to the Feather River andthus into the diggings about Virginia City. Gold had been found by thattime in Nevada and hundreds of intrepid men were facing the awful Mojaveand Nevada deserts, blazing hot in day-time and icy cold at night, toseek the new Eldorados. Since this is a book about pioneers, and since Iam one of them, it is fitting to stay awhile and consider whatcivilization owes to these daring souls who formed the vanguard of herarmy. Cecil Rhodes opened an Empire by mobilizing a black race; Jim Hillopened another when he struck westward with steel rails. But thepioneers of the early gold rushes created an empire of immense richeswith no other aid than their own gnarled hands and sturdy hearts. Theyopened up a country as vast as it was rich, and wrested from the verybosom of Mother Earth treasures that had been in her jealous keeping forages before the era of Man. They braved sudden death, death from thirstand starvation, death from prowling savages, death from the wildcreatures, --all that the works of man might flourish where they had notfeared to tread. It is the irony of fate that these old pioneers, manyof whom hated civilization and were fleeing from her guiles, should havebeen the advance-guard of the very Power they sought to avoid. 

The vast empire of Western America is strewn with the bones of thesemen. Some of them lie in kindly resting places, the grass over theirgraves kept green by loving friends; some lie uncared for in potters'fields or in the cemeteries of homes for the aged, and some--a vasthorde--still lie bleached and grim, the hot sand drifted over them bythe desert winds. 

But, wherever they lie, all honor to the pioneer! There should be a dayset apart on which every American should revere the memory of those menof long ago who hewed the way for the soft paths that fall to thegeneration of today. 

What San Bernardino is now to the west-bound traveler, Wilmington wasthen--the end of the desert. From Wilmington eastward stretched onetremendous ocean of sand, interspersed here and there by majesticmountains in the fastnesses of which little fertile valleys with clearmountain streams were to be discovered later by the pioneerhomesteaders. Where now are miles upon miles of yellow-fruited orangeand lemon groves, betraying the care and knowledge of a later generationof scientific farmers, were then only dreary, barren wastes, with onlythe mountains and clumps of sagebrush, soapweed, cacti, creosote bushesand mesquite to break the everlasting monotony of the prospect. 

Farming then, indeed, was almost as little thought of as irrigation, formen's minds were fixed on the star of whitest brilliancy--_Gold_. Meneven made fortunes in the diggings and returned East and bought farms, never realizing that what might be pushed above the soil of Californiawas destined to prove of far greater consequence than anything men wouldever find hidden beneath. 

The march to Arizona was both difficult and dangerous, and was to beattempted safely only by large parties. Water was scarce and wells fewand far between, and there were several stretches as, for instance, thatbetween what are now known as the Imperial Mountains and Yuma, of morethan sixty miles with no water at all. The well at Dos Palmas was notdug until a later date. Across these stretches the traveler had todepend on what water he could manage to pack in a canteen strung aroundhis waist or on his horse or mule. On the march were often to be seen, as they are still, those wonderful desert mirages of which so much hasbeen written by explorers and scientists. Sometimes these took the formof lakes, fringed with palms, which tantalized and ever kept mockinglyat a distance. Many the desert traveler who has been cruelly deceived bythese mirages!

Yuma, of which I have just spoken, is famed for many reasons. For onething, the story that United States army officers "raised thetemperature of the place thirty degrees" to be relieved from duty there, has been laughed at wherever Americans have been wont to congregate. Andthat old story told by Sherman, of the soldier who died at Yuma afterliving a particularly vicious existence here below, and who soonafterwards telegraphed from Hades for his blankets, has also done muchto heighten the reputation of the little city, which sometimes still hasapplied to it the distinction of being the hottest place in the UnitedStates. This, however, is scarcely correct, as many places in theSouthwest--Needles in California, and the Imperial Valley areexamples--have often demonstrated higher temperatures than have everbeen known at Yuma. A summer at the little Colorado River town is quitehot enough, however, to please the most tropical savage. It may beremarked here, in justice to the rest of the State, that the temperatureof Yuma is not typical of Arizona as a whole. In the region I now livein--the Sonoita Valley in the southeastern part of the State, and inportions around Prescott, the summer temperatures are markedly cool andtemperate. 

Yuma, however, is not famed for its temperature alone; in fact, thatfeature of its claim to notice is least to be considered. The realnoteworthy fact about Yuma from a historical point of view is that, asArizona City, it was one of the earliest-settled points in the Territoryand was at first easily the most important. The route of the majorportion of the Forty-Niners took them across the Colorado River whereFort Yuma was situated on the California side; and the trend ofexploration, business and commerce a few years later flowed westward toYuma over the picturesque plains of the Gadsden Purchase. The famousCalifornia Column ferried itself across the Colorado at Yuma, and lateron the Overland Mail came through the settlement. It is now a divisionpoint on the Southern Pacific Railway, just across the line fromCalifornia, and has a population of three or four thousand. 

At the time I first saw the place there was only Fort Yuma, on theCalifornia side of the river, and a small settlement on the Arizona sidecalled Arizona City. It had formerly been called Colorado City, but thename was changed when the town was permanently settled. There were twoferries in operation at Yuma when our company arrived there, one of themrun by the peaceable Yuma Indians and the other by a company headed byDon Diego Jaeger and Hartshorne. Fort Yuma had been established in 1851by Major Heintzelman, U. S. A. , but owing to scurvy (see De Long's historyof Arizona) and the great difficulty in getting supplies, the ColoradoRiver being then uncharted for traffic, it was abandoned and notpermanently re-established until a year later, when Major Heintzelmanreturned from San Diego. The townsite of Colorado City was laid out in1854, but floods wiped out the town with the result that a permanentsettlement, called Arizona City, was not established until about 1862, four years before I reached there. 

The first steamboat to reach Yuma with supplies was the Uncle Sam, whicharrived in 1852. Of all this I can tell, of course, only by hearsay, butthere is no doubt that the successful voyage of the Uncle Sam to Yumaestablished the importance of that place and gave it pre-eminence overany other shipping point into the territories for a long time. 

Until the coming of the railroad, supplies for Arizona were shipped fromSan Francisco to the mouth of the Colorado and ferried from there up theriver to Yuma, being there transferred to long wagon trains whichtraveled across the plains to Tucson, which was then the distributingpoint for the whole Territory. 

Tucson was, of course, the chief city. I say "city" only in courtesy, for it was such in importance only, its size being smaller than anordinary eastern village. Prescott, which was the first TerritorialCapital; Tubac, considered by many the oldest settled town in Arizona, near which the famous mines worked by Sylvester Mowry were located;Ehrenberg, an important stage point; Sacaton, in the Pima and MaricopaIndian country, and other small settlements such as Apache Pass, whichwas a fort, were already in existence. The Gadsden Purchase having beenof very recent date, most of the population was Indian, after which camethe Mexicans and Spaniards and then the Americans, who arrogantlytermed themselves the Whites, although the Spaniards possessed fully aswhite a complexion as the average pioneer from the eastern states. Untilrecently the Indian dominated the white man in Arizona in point ofnumbers, but fortunately only one Indian race--the Apache--showedunrelenting hostility to the white man and his works. Had all theArizona Indians been as hostile as were the Apaches, the probabilitiesare that the settlement of Arizona by the whites would have been of farmore recent date, for in instance after instance the Americans inArizona were obliged to rely on the help of the peaceful Indians tocombat the rapacious Apaches. 

Yuma is the place where the infamous "Doc" Glanton and his gangoperated. This was long before my time, and as the province of this bookis merely to tell the story of life in the Territory as I saw it, it hasno place within these pages. It may, however, be mentioned that Glantonwas the leader of a notorious gang of freebooters who established aferry across the Colorado at Yuma and used it as a hold-up scheme totrap unwary emigrants. The Yuma Indians also operated a ferry, for whichthey had hired as pilot a white man, whom some asserted to have been adeserter from the United States army. One day Glanton and his gang, angered at the successful rivalry of the Indians, fell on them and slewthe pilot. The Glanton gang was subsequently wiped out by the Indians inretaliation. 

When the Gila City gold rush set in Yuma was the point to which theadventurers came to reach the new city. I have heard that as many asthree thousand gold seekers congregated at this find, but nothing is nowto be seen of the former town but a few old deserted shacks and someIndian wickiups. Gold is still occasionally found in small quantitiesalong the Gila River near this point, but the immense placer depositshave long since disappeared, although experts have been quoted as sayingthat the company brave enough to explore the fastnesses of the mountainsback of the Gila at this point will probably be rewarded by finding richgold mines. 

I will not dwell on the hardships of that desert march from Yuma toTucson, for which the rigors of the Civil War had fortunately preparedmost of us, further than to say that it was many long, weary days beforewe finally came in sight of the "Old Pueblo. " In Tucson I became, soonafter our arrival, twenty years old. I was a fairly hardy youngster, too. We camped in Tucson on a piece of ground in the center of the townand soon after our arrival were set to work making a clean, orderlycamp-park out of the wilderness of creosote bushes and mesquite. Iremember that for some offence against the powers of the day I was then"serving time" for a short while and, among other things, I cut shrub onthe site of Tucson's Military Plaza, with an inelegant piece of ironchain dangling uncomfortably from my left leg. Oh, I wasn't a saintin those days any more than I am a particularly bright candidate forwings and a harp now! I gave my superior officers fully as much troubleas the rest of 'em!

[Illustration: RUINS OF OLD FORT BUCHANAN, DECEMBER 7, 1914]

Tucson's Military Plaza, it may be mentioned here, was, as stated, cleared by Company C, First United States Cavalry, and that body oftroops was the only lot of soldiery that ever camped on that spot, whichis now historic. In after years it was known as Camp Lowell, and thatname is still applied to a fort some seven miles east of Tucson. 

Captain Dean had not come with us to Arizona, having been taken ill inCalifornia and invalided home. Lieutenant Vail, or, as he was entitledto be called, Brevet-Major Vail, commanded Company C in his absence, andhe had under him as fearless a set of men as could have been foundanywhere in the country in those days. Vail himself was the highest typeof officer--stern and unbending where discipline was concerned, andeminently courageous. Second Lieutenant Winters was a man of the samestamp, and both men became well known in the Territory within a fewmonths after their arrival because of their numerous and successfulforays against marauding Indians. Vail is alive yet, or was a short timeago. 

After some weeks in Tucson, which was then a typical western townpeopled by miners, assayers, surveyors, tradespeople, a stray banker ortwo and, last but not least by any means, gamblers, we were moved toold Camp Grant, which was situated several hundred yards downstream fromthe point where the Aravaipa Creek runs into the San Pedro. 

Among others whom I remember as living in Tucson or near neighborhood in1866 were:

 Henry Glassman, Tom Yerkes, Lord & Williams, Pete Kitchen, ---- Tongue, The Kelsey boys, Sandy McClatchy, Green Rusk, Frank Hodge, Alex. Levin, Bob Crandall, ---- Wheat, Smith Turner, "Old" Pike. 

Glassman lived most of the time at Tubac. Yerkes owned the SettlersStore in Tubac. Lord and Williams owned the chief store in Tucson andwere agents for the United States Mail. Pete Kitchen was at PotreroRanch; but Pete, who was more feared by the Indians than any white manin the Territory, deserves a whole chapter to himself. Tongue was astorekeeper. Green Rusk owned a popular dance house. Hodge and Levin hada saloon. Wheat owned a saloon and afterwards a ranch near Florence. Theremainder were mostly gamblers, good fellows, every one of them. "OldPike" especially was a character whose memory is now fondly cherished byevery pioneer who knew him. He could win or lose with the same perpetualjoviality, but he generally won. The principal gambling game in thosedays was Mexican monte, played with forty cards. Poker was also played agreat deal. Keno, faro and roulette were not introduced until later, and the same may be said of pangingi, the Scandinavian game. 

There were several tribes of Apaches wintering at Camp Grant the winterwe went there, if I remember correctly, among them being the Tontos andAravaipas. All of them, however, were under the authority of onechief--Old Eskiminzin, one of the most blood-thirsty and vindictive ofall the old Apache leaders. The Government fed these Apaches well duringthe winter in return for pledges they made to keep the peace. This wasdue to the altruism of some mistaken gentlemen in the councils ofauthority in the East, who knew nothing of conditions in the Territoryand who wrongly believed that the word of an Apache Indian would holdgood. We, who knew the Indian, understood differently, but we wereobliged to obey orders, even though these were responsible in part forthe many Indian tragedies that followed. 

The Apache was a curious character. By nature a nomad, by temperament afighter, and from birth a hater of the white man, he saw nothing good inthe ways of civilization except that which fed him, and he took thatonly as a means to an end. Often an Indian chief would solemnly swear tokeep the peace with his "white brethren" for a period of months, and thenext day go forth on a marauding expedition and kill as many of hisbeloved "brethren" as he could lay his hands on. Every dead white manwas a feather in some Apache's headdress, for so they regarded it. 

One day Chief Eskiminzin appeared with a protest from the tribes againstthe quality of the rations they were receiving. It was early spring andthe protest, as we well knew, was merely his way of saying that theIndians were no longer dependent on what the government offered butcould now hunt their own meat. Our commanding officer endeavored toplacate the old chief, who went back for a conference with his men. Thenhe re-appeared, threw down his rations, the others doing the same, andin a few minutes the entire encampment of Apaches was in the saddle. 

Some little time after they had gone Lieutenant Vail, suspectingtrouble, sent a man down the trail to investigate. A few miles away wasa ranch owned by a man named Israels. The scout found the ranchdevastated, with Israels, his wife and family brutally slain and all thestock driven off. He reported to Vail, who headed an expedition ofretaliation--the first I ever set forth on. We trailed the Indiansseveral days, finally coming up with them and in a pitched battlekilling many of them. 

This was just a sample of the many similar incidents that occurred fromtime to time throughout the Territory. Invariably the Military attemptedto find the raiders, and sometimes they were successful. But it seemedimpossible to teach the Apaches their lesson, and even now there aresometimes simmerings of discontent among the surviving Apaches on theirreservation. They find it difficult to believe that their day and theday of the remainder of the savage Indian race is gone forever. 

It was during this stay at Fort Grant that Company C was ordered toescort the first Southern Pacific survey from Apache Pass, which was agovernment fort, to Sacaton, in the Pima Indian country. The routeabounded with hostile Apaches and was considered extremely dangerous. Ihave mentioned this as the "first Southern Pacific survey, " but thisdoes not mean that there were not before that other surveys of a similarcharacter, looking to the establishment of a transcontinental railroadroute through the Territory. As early as 1851 a survey was made acrossNorthern Arizona by Captain L. Sitgreaves, approximating nearly thepresent route of the Santa Fe Railway. A year or two later Lieutenant A. W. Whipple made a survey along the line of the 35th degree parallel. Still later Lieutenant J. G. Parke surveyed a line nearly on that of theSouthern Pacific survey. At that time, just before the Gadsden treaty, the territory surveyed was in the republic of Mexico. These surveys wereall made by order of the then Secretary of War, Jefferson Davis, whoaroused a storm of protest in the East against his "misguided attentionto the desolate West. " But few statesmen and fewer of the outside publicin that day possessed the prophetic vision to perceive the futuregreatness of what were termed the "arid wastes" of Arizona andCalifornia. This was shown by the perfect hail of protest that swept tothe White House when the terms of the Gadsden Treaty, drawn up by a manwho as minister to a great minor republic had had ample opportunities tostudy at his leisure the nature of the country and the people with whomhe dealt, became known. 

This Southern Pacific survey party was under the superintendence ofChief Engineer Iego--I believe that is the way he spelled his name--whowas recognized as one of the foremost men in his line in the country. The size of our party, which included thirty surveyors and surveyors'helpers in addition to the soldier escort, served to deter the Indians, and we had no trouble that I remember. It is perhaps worthy of note thatthe railroad, as it was afterwards built--it reached Tucson in 1880--didnot exactly follow the line of this survey, not touching at Sacaton. Itpassed a few miles south of that point, near the famous Casa Grande, where now is a considerable town. 

Railroad and all other surveying then was an exceedingly hazardous job, especially in Arizona, where so many Indian massacres had alreadyoccurred and were still to occur. In fact, any kind of a venture thatinvolved traveling, even for a short distance, whether it was a smallprospecting or emigrant's outfit or whether it was a long "train onhoofs, " laden with goods of the utmost value, had to be escorted by asquad of soldiers, and often by an entire company. Even thus protected, frequent and daring raids were made by the cruel and fearless savages, whose only dread seemed to be starvation and the on-coming of the whiteman, and who would go to any lengths to get food. 

Looking back in the light of present day reasoning, I am bound to saythat it would be wrong to blame the Apaches for something their savageand untutored natures could not help. Before the "paleface" came to theTerritory the Indian was lord of all he surveyed, from the peaks of themountains down to the distant line of the silvery horizon. He wasmonarch of the desert and could roam over his demesne withoutinterference save from hostile tribes; and into his very being there wasborn naturally a spirit of freedom which the white man with all hisweapons could never kill. He knew the best hunting grounds, he knewwhere grew excellent fodder for his horses, he knew where water ran theyear around, and in the rainy season he knew where the waterholes wereto be found. In his wild life there was only the religion of living, andthe divinity of Freedom. 

When the white man came he, too, found the fertile places, the runningwater and the hunting grounds, and he confiscated them in the name of ahigher civilization of which the savage knew nothing and desired to knowless. Could the Indian then be blamed for his overwhelming hatred of thewhite man? His was the inferior, the barbaric race, to be sure, butcould he be blamed for not believing so? His was a fight againstcivilization, true, and it was a losing fight as all such are bound tobe, but the Indian did not know what civilization was except that itmeant that he was to be robbed of his hunting grounds and stripped ofhis heritage of freedom. Therefore he fought tirelessly, savagely, demoniacally, the inroads of the white man into his territory. All thathe knew, all that he wished to understand, was that he had been free andhappy before the white man had come with his thunder-weapons, hisfire-water and his mad, mad passion for yellow gold. The Indian couldnot understand or admit that the White was the superior, all-conqueringrace, and, not understanding, he became hostile and a battling demon. 

 So intense was the hatred of the white man among the Apaches of the period of which I speak that it was their custom to cut off the noses of any one of their women caught in illegal intercourse with a white man. This done, she was driven from her tribe, declared an outcast from her people, and frequently starved to death. I can remember many instances of this exact kind. 

ROUGH AND TUMBLE ON LAND AND SEA

 "_'Twas youth, my friend, and joyfulness besides, That made me breast the treachery of Neptune's fickle tides. _"

When Spring came around in the year 1867 we were moved to Tubac, wherewe were joined by K Company of my regiment and C Company of theThirty-Second Infantry. Tubac, considered by some to be the oldest townin Arizona, before the consummation of the Gadsden Treaty was a militarypost at which the republic of Mexico regularly kept a small garrison. Itwas situated on the Santa Cruz River, which at this point generally hadconsiderable water in it. This was probably the reason for theestablishment of the town, for water has always been the controllingfactor in a settlement's progress in Arizona. The river is dry at Tubacnow, however, except in unusually rainy seasons, irrigation and cattlehaving robbed the stream of its former volume. 

At the time we were quartered there Tubac was a place of no smallimportance, and after Tucson and Prescott were discounted it wasprobably the largest settlement in the Territory. Patagonia has nowtaken the position formerly occupied by the old adobe town as center ofthe rich mining zone of Southern Arizona, and the glories of Tubac (ifthey can be given that name) are, like the glories of Tombstone, gone. Unlike those of Tombstone, however, they are probably gone forever. Tombstone may yet rise from the ashes of her splendid past to a futureas one of the important towns of the Southwest, if the stories of untoldriches near by her are to be believed. 

A little to the east of Tubac and separating that town from Patagonia isMount Wrightson, one of the highest mountains in Arizona. Nicknamed "OldBaldy" after its famous namesake in California, this mammoth pile ofrock and copper was in the old days a landmark for travelers, visiblesometimes for days ahead on the wagon trails. It presaged near arrivalin Tucson, for in a direct line Old Baldy is probably not further thanforty miles from the Old Pueblo. 

We camped at Tubac during the summer and part of the winter of 1867 andI remember that while we were there I cooked a reception banquet toColonel Richard C. McCormick, who was then and until 1869 Governor ofthe Territory of Arizona. I forget his business in Tubac, but it waseither an electioneering trip or one of inspection after his appointmentto the office of Governor in 1866. 

In the early part of 1868 we moved to Fort Buchanan, which before thewar had been a military post of considerable importance. It received itsname from the President before Lincoln and was garrisoned byConfederates during the Civil War. We re-built the fort and re-named itFort Crittenden, in honor of General Thomas L. Crittenden, a son of theHon. John J. Crittenden of Kentucky, who was then in command of themilitary district embracing that portion of the Territory south of theGila River. Crittenden was beautifully situated on the Sonoita, aboutten miles from where I now live and in the midst of some of the mostmarvelously beautiful scenery to be found on the American continent. Fort Crittenden is no longer occupied and has not been for some time;but a short distance toward Benson is Fort Huachuaca, where at present agarrison of the Ninth Cavalry is quartered. 

During part of 1868 I carried mail from where Calabasas is now--it wasthen Fort Mason--to Fort Crittenden, a proceeding emphatically not assimple as it may sound. My way lay over a mountainous part of what isnow Santa Cruz county, a district which at that time, on account of theexcellent fodder and water, abounded with hostile Indians. 

On one occasion that I well remember I had reached the waterhole overwhich is now the first railroad bridge north of Patagonia, about a halfmile from the present town, and had stopped there to water my horse. While the animal was drinking I struck a match to light my pipe--andinstantly I ducked. A bullet whistled over my head, near enough to giveme a strong premonition that a couple of inches closer would have meantmy end. I seized the bridle of my horse, leaped on his back, bent lowover the saddle and rode for it. I escaped, but it is positive in mymind today that if those Apaches had been better accustomed to the useof the white man's weapons I would not now be alive to tell the story. 

I was a great gambler, even in those days. It was the fashion, then, togamble. Everybody except the priests and parsons gambled, and there wasa scarcity of priests and parsons in the sixties. Men would gamble theirdust, and when that was gone they would gamble their worldlypossessions, and when those had vanished they would gamble theirclothes, and if they lost their clothes there were instances where somemen even went so far as to gamble their wives! And every one of us, eachday, gambled his life, so you see the whole life in the Territory in theearly days was one continuous gamble. Nobody save gamblers came outthere, because nobody but gamblers would take the chance. 

As I have stated, I followed the natural trend. I had a name, even inthose days, of being one of the most spirited gamblers in the regiment, and that meant the countryside; and I confess it today without shame, although it is some time now since I raised an ante. I remember oneoccasion when my talents for games of chance turned out ratherpeculiarly. We had gone to Calabasas to get a load of wheat from a storeowned by a man named Richardson, who had been a Colonel in the volunteerservice. Richardson had as manager of the store a fellow named Long, who was well known for his passion for gambling. After we had given ourorder we sought about for some diversion to make the time pass, and Longcaught sight of the goatskin chaperejos I was wearing. He stared at themenviously for a minute and then proposed to buy them. 

"They're not for sale, " said I, "but if you like I'll play you for 'em. "

"Done!" said Long, and put up sixteen dollars against the chaps. 

Now, Long was a game sport, but that didn't make him lucky. I won hissixteen dollars and then he bet me some whiskey against the lot, andagain I won. By the time I had beat him five or six times, had won agood half of the store's contents, and was proposing to play him for hisshare in the store itself, he cried quits. We loaded our plunder on thewagon. Near Bloxton, or where Bloxton now is, four miles west ofPatagonia, we managed to upset the wagon, and half the whiskey and wheatnever was retrieved. We had the wherewithal to "fix things" with theofficers, however, and went unreproved, even making a tidy profitselling what stuff we had left to the soldiers. 

At that time the company maintained gardens on a part of what afterwardswas the Sanford Rancho, and at one time during 1868 I was gardeningthere with three others. The gardens were on a ranch owned by WilliamMorgan, a discharged sergeant of our company. Morgan had one Mexicanworking for him and there were four of us from the Fort stationed thereto cultivate the gardens and keep him company--more for the latterreason than the first, I believe. We took turn and turn about of onemonth at the Fort and one month at the gardens, which were aboutfourteen miles from the Fort. 

One of us was Private White, of Company K. He was a mighty fine youngfellow, and we all liked him. Early one morning the five of us wereeating breakfast in the cabin, an illustration of which is given, andWhite went outside for something. Soon afterward we heard severalreports, but, figuring that White had shot at some animal or other, wedid not even get up from our meal. Finally came another shot, and thenanother, and Morgan got up and peered from the door. He gave a cry. 

"Apaches!" he shouted. "They're all around! Poor White----"

It was nip-and-tuck then. For hours we kept up a steady fire at theIndians, who circled the house with blood-curdling whoops. We killed anumber of them before they finally took themselves off. Then we wentforth to look for White. We found our comrade lying on his back a shortdistance away, his eyes staring unseeingly to the sky. He was dead. Wecarried him to the house and discussed the situation. 

"They'll come back, " said Morgan, with conviction. 

"Then it's up to one of us to ride to the Fort, " I said. 

But Morgan shook his head. 

"There isn't a horse anywhere near, " he said. 

We had an old army mule working on the gardens and I bethought myself ofhim. 

"There's the mule, " I suggested. 

My companions were silent. That mule was the slowest creature inArizona, I firmly believed. It was as much as he could do to walk, letalone gallop. 

"Somebody's got to go, or we'll all be killed, " I said. "Let's drawlots. "

They agreed and we found five straws, one of them shorter than the rest. These we drew, and the short one fell to me. 

I look back on that desperate ride now with feelings akin to horror. Surrounded with murderous savages, with only a decrepit mule to ride andfourteen miles to go, it seemed impossible that I could get throughsafely. My companions said good-bye to me as though I were a scaffoldvictim about to be executed. But get through I did--how I do notknow--and the chillingly weird war-calls of the Indians howling at mefrom the hills as I rode return to my ears even now with extraordinaryvividness. 

And, as Morgan had prophesied, the Apaches did "come back. " It was amonth later, and I had been transferred back to the Fort, when a nephewof Colonel Dunkelberger and William J. Osborn of Tucson were ridingnear Morgan's ranch. Apaches ambushed them, slew the Colonel's nephew, whose name has slipped my memory, and wounded Osborn. The latter, whowas a person of considerable importance in the Territory, escaped toMorgan's ranch. An expedition of retaliation was immediately organizedat the Fort and the soldiers pursued the assassins into Mexico, finallycoming up with them and killing a number. I did not accompany the troopson this occasion, having been detailed to the Santa Rita range to bringin lumber to be used in building houses. 

I returned from the Santa Ritas in July and found an order had beenreceived at the Fort from the War Department that all men whose timeshad expired or were shortly to expire should be congregated in Tucsonand from there marched to California for their discharge. A few weekslater I went to the Old Pueblo and, together with several hundred othersfrom all parts of the Territory, was mustered out and started on thereturn march to Wilmington where we arrived about October 1. On thetwelfth of October I was discharged. 

After working as cook for a short time for a company that wasconstructing a railroad from Wilmington to Los Angeles, I moved to thelatter place and obtained employment in the Old Bella Union Hotel aschef. John King was the proprietor of the Bella Union. Until Christmaseve I stayed there, and then Sergeant John Curtis, of my company, whohad been working as a saddler for Banning, a capitalist inWilmington, came back to the kitchen and said:

[Illustration: CADY'S HOUSE ON THE SONOITA, NEAR BLOXTON, 1914. BUILT IN1868]

"John, old sport, let's go to 'Frisco. "

"I haven't, " I told him, "enough change to set 'em up across the street, let alone go to 'Frisco. "

For answer Curtis pulled out a wallet, drew therefrom a roll of billsthat amounted to about $1, 000, divided the pile into two halves, laidthem on the table and indicated them with his forefinger. 

"John, " he offered, "if you'll come with me you can put one of thosepiles in your pocket. What do you say?"

Inasmuch as I had had previously little opportunity to really exploreSan Francisco, the idea appealed to me and we shook hands on thebargain. Christmas morning, fine, cloudless and warm, found us seated onthe San Jose stage. San Jose then was nearly as large a place as Tucsonis now--about twenty odd thousand, if I remember rightly. The stageroute carried us through the mission country now so widely exploited bythe railroads. Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo and Monterey were alltowns on the way, Monterey being probably the largest. The country wasvery thinly occupied, chiefly by Spanish haciendas that had been in thecountry long before gold was discovered. The few and powerful owners ofthese estates controlled practically the entire beautiful State ofCalifornia prior to '49, and at the time I write of still retained agoodly portion of it. They grew rich and powerful, for their lands wereeither taken by right of conquest or by grants from the original Mexicangovernment, and they paid no wages to their peons. These Spaniards, withthe priests, however, are to be credited with whatever progresscivilization made in the early days of California. They built the firstpassable roads, they completed rough surveys and they first discoveredthe wonderful fertility of the California soils. The towns they builtwere built solidly, with an eye to the future ravages of earthquakes andof Time, which is something the modern builder often does not do. Thereare in many of their pueblos old houses built by the Spaniards in themiddle part of the eighteenth century which are still used and occupied. 

We arrived in San Francisco a few days after our departure from LosAngeles, and before long the city had done to us what she still does toso many--had broken us on her fickle wheel of fortune. It wasn't manydays before we found ourselves, our "good time" a thing of the past, "upagainst it. "

"John, " said Curtis, finally, "we're broke. We can't get no work. What'll we do?"

I thought a minute and then suggested the only alternative I could thinkof. "Let's get a blanket, " I offered. 

"Getting a blanket" was the phrase commonly in use when men meant to saythat they intended to enlist. Curtis met the idea with instant approval, if not with acclamation, and, suiting the action to the words, weobtained a hack and drove to the Presidio, where we underwent theexamination for artillerymen. Curtis passed easily and was accepted, butI, owing to a wound in my ankle received during the war, was refused. 

Curtis obtained the customary three days' leave before joining hiscompany and for that brief space we roamed about the city, finishing our"good time" with such money as Curtis had been able to raise by pawningand selling his belongings. After the three days were over we parted, Curtis to join his regiment; and since then I have neither seen norheard of him. If he still chances to be living, my best wishes go out tohim in his old age. 

For some time I hung around San Francisco trying to obtain employment, without any luck. I was not then as skillful a gambler as I became inafter years, and, in any case, I had no money with which to gamble. Itwas, I found, one thing to sit down to a monte deck at a tablesurrounded with people you knew, where your credit was good, and anotherto stake your money on a painted wheel in a great hall where nobodycared whether you won or lost. 

Trying to make my little stake last as long as possible, I roomed in acheap hotel--the old What Cheer rooming house, and ate but one "two-bit"meal a day. I was constantly on the lookout for work of some kind, buthad no luck until one day as I was passing up Kearney street I saw asign in one of the store windows calling for volunteers for theSloop-o'-War Jamestown. After reading the notice a couple of times Idecided to enlist, did so, was sent to Mare Island Navy Yard and fromthere boarded the Jamestown. 

It was on that vessel that I performed an action that I have not sinceregretted, however reprehensible it may seem in the light of present-dayethics. Smallpox broke out on board and I, fearful of contracting thedread disease, planned to desert. This would probably not have beenpossible today, when the quarantine regulations are so strict, but inthose days port authorities were seldom on the alert to prevent vesselswith diseases anchoring with other shipping, especially in Mexico, inthe waters of which country we were cruising. 

When we reached Mazatlan I went ashore in the ordinary course of myduties as ward-room steward to do some marketing and take the officers'laundry to be washed. Instead of bringing the marketing back to the shipI sent it, together with a note telling where the laundry would befound, and saying good-bye forever to my shipmates. The note written anddispatched, I quietly "vamoosed, " or, as I believe it is popularlytermed in the navy now, I "went over the hill. "

My primary excuse for this action was, of course, the outbreak ofsmallpox, which at that time and in fact until very recently, was asgreatly dreaded as bubonic plague is now, and probably more. Vaccination, whatever may be its value in the prevention of thedisease, had not been discovered in the sense that it is now understoodand was not known at all except in the centers of medical practice inthe East. 

Smallpox then was a mysterious disease, and certainly a plague. Wholepopulations had been wiped out by it, doctors had announced that therewas practically no cure for it and that its contraction meant almostcertain death, and I may thus be excused for my fear of the sickness. Iventure to state, moreover, that if all the men aboard the Jamestown hadhad the same opportunity that I was given to desert, they would havedone so in a body. 

My second excuse, reader, if one is necessary, is that in the days ofthe Jamestown and her sister ships, navy life was very different fromthe navy life of today, when I understand generous paymasters are evengiving the jackies ice-cream with their meals. You may be entirely surethat we got nothing of the kind. Our food was bad, our quarters wereworse, and the discipline was unbearably severe. 

THROUGH MEXICO AND BACK TO ARIZONA

 "_Know thou the spell of the desert land, Where Life and Love are free? Know thou the lure the sky and sand Hath for the man in me?_"

When I deserted from the sloop-o'-war Jamestown it was with the nouncertain knowledge that it was distinctly to my best advantage to clearout of the city of Mazatlan just as rapidly as I could, for the ships ofthe free and (presumably) enlightened Republic had not yet swervedaltogether from the customs of the King's Navee, one of which saidcustoms was to hang deserters at the yard-arm. Sometimes they shot them, but I do not remember that the gentlemen most concerned had any choicein the matter. At any rate, I know that it was with a distinct feelingof relief that I covered the last few yards that brought me out of thecity of Mazatlan and into the open country. In theory, of course, thecaptain of the sloop-o'-war Jamestown could not have sent a squad of menafter me with instructions to bring me back off foreign soil dead oralive, but in practice that is just what he would have done. Theory andpractice have a habit of differing, especially in the actions of anirate skipper who sees one of his best ward-room stewards vanishing fromhis jurisdiction. 

Life now opened before me with such a vista of possibilities that I feltmy breath taken away. Here was I, a youth twenty-two years old, huskyand sound physically, free in a foreign country which I felt an instantliking for, and no longer beholden to the Stars and Stripes for which Iwas quite ready to fight but not to serve in durance vile on aplague-ship. My spirit bounded at the thought of the liberty that wasmine, and I struck northward out of Mazatlan with a light step and alighter heart. At the edge of the city I paused awhile on a bluff togaze for the last time on the Bay, on the waters of which rode quietlyat anchor the vessel I had a few hours before quit so unceremoniously. There was no regret in my heart as I stood there and looked. I had noparticular love for Mexico, but then I had no particular love for thesea, either, and a good deal less for the ships that sailed the sea. SoI turned my back very definitely on that part of my life and set my facetoward the north, where, had I known it, I was to find my destinybeneath the cloudless turquoise skies of Arizona. 

When I left Mazatlan it was with the intention of walking as far as Icould before stopping, or until the weight of the small bundlecontaining my worldly possessions tired my shoulders. But it was not tobe so. Only two miles out of the city I came upon a ranch owned by twoAmericans, the sight of whom was very welcome to me just then. I had noidea that I should find any American ranchers in the near neighborhood, and considered myself in luck. I found that one of the American's nameswas Colonel Elliot and I asked him for work. Elliot sized me up, invitedme in to rest up, and on talking with him I found him to be anexceedingly congenial soul. He was an old Confederate colonel--wasElliot, but although we had served on opposite sides of the sad war of afew years back, the common bond of nationality that is always strongestbeyond the confines of one's own land prevented us from feeling anyaloofness toward each other on this account. To me Colonel Elliot was anAmerican, and a mighty decent specimen of an American at that--a friendin need. And to Colonel Elliot also I was an American, and one needingassistance. We seldom spoke of our political differences, partly becauseour lives speedily became too full and intimate to admit of the pettyexchange of divergent views, and partly because I had been a boy duringthe Civil War and my youthful brain had not been sufficiently mature toassimilate the manifold prejudices, likes, dislikes and opposingtheories that were the heritage of nearly all those who lived duringthat bloody four years' war. 

I have said that Colonel Elliot was a friend in need. There is an aptsaying that a "friend in need is a friend indeed, " and such was ColonelElliot as I soon found. For I had not been a week at the ranch when Iwas struck down with smallpox, and throughout that dangerous sickness, lasting several weeks, the old Colonel, careless of contagion, nursedme like a woman, finally bringing me back to a point where I once againhad full possession of all my youthful health and vigor. 

I do not just now recall the length of time I worked for Elliot and hispartner, but the stay, if not long, was most decidedly pleasant. I grewto speak Spanish fluently, haunted the town of Mazatlan (from which theJamestown had long since departed), and made as good use generally of mytemporary employment as was possible. I tried hard to master the patoisof the peon as well as the flowery and eloquent language of thearistocracy, for I knew well that should I at any time seek employmentas overseer at a rancho either in Mexico or Arizona, a knowledge of theformer would be indispensable, while a knowledge of the latter was atall times useful in Mexico, especially in the cities, where thepossession of the cultured dialect marked one for special favors andsecured better attention at the stores. 

The Mexicans I grew to understand and like more and more the longer Iknew them. I found the average Mexican gentleman a model of politeness, a Beau Brummel in dress and an artist in the use of the flowery termswith which his splendid language abounds. The peons also I came to knowand understand. I found them a simple-minded, uncomplaining class, willingly accepting the burdens which were laid on them by theirmasters, the rich landlords; and living, loving and playing very much aschildren. They were good-hearted--these Mexicans, and hospitable to thelast degree. This, indeed, is a characteristic as truly of the Mexicanof today as of the period of which I speak. They would, if needs be, share their last crust with you even if you were an utter stranger, andmany the time some lowly peon host of mine would insist on my occupyinghis rude bed whilst he and his family slept on the roof! Suchwarm-hearted simplicity is very agreeable, and it was a vast change fromthe world of the Americans, especially of the West, where the watchwordwas: "Every man for himsel', and the de'il tak' the hindmost. " It may beremarked here that the de'il often took the foremost, too!

When I left the hospitable shelter of Colonel Elliot's home I moved toRosario, Sinaloa, where was situated the famous Tajo mine which has madethe fortunes of the Bradbury family. It was owned then by Don LuisBradbury, senior, the same Bradbury whose son is now such a prominentfigure in the social and commercial life of San Francisco and LosAngeles. I asked for work at the Bradbury mine, obtained it, and startedin shoveling refuse like any other common laborer at the munificent wageof ten dollars per week, which was a little less than ten dollars morethan the Mexican peons laboring at the same work obtained. I had notbeen working there long, however, when some suggestions I made to theengineer obtained me recognition and promotion, and at the end of ayear, when I quit, I was earning $150 per month, or nearly four timeswhat my wage had been when I started. 

And then--and then, I believe it was the spell of the Arizona plainsthat gripped the strings of my soul again and caused them to play adifferent tune. . . . Or was it the prospect of an exciting and more orless lawless life on the frontier that beckoned with enticing lure? I donot know. But I grew to think more and more of Arizona, the Territory inwhich I had reached my majority and had found my manhood; and more andmore I discovered myself longing to be back shaking hands with my oldfriends and companions, and shaking, too, dice with Life itself. So oneday saw me once more on my way to the wild and free Territory, althoughthis time my road did not lie wholly across a burning and uninhabiteddesert. 

It is a hard enough proposition now to get to the United States fromMazatlan, or any other point in Mexico, when the Sud Pacifico and otherrailroads are shattered in a dozen places and their schedules, thosethat have them, are dependent on the magnanimity of the various tribesof bandits that infest the routes; but at the time I write of it washarder. 

To strike north overland was possible, though not to be advised, forbrigands infested the cedar forests of Sinaloa and southern Sonora; andsavage Yaquis, quite as much to be feared as the Apaches of furthernorth, ravaged the desert and mountain country. I solved the difficultyfinally by going to Mazatlan and shipping from that port as a deck-handon a Dutch brigantine, which I remember because of its exceptionallyvile quarters and the particularly dirty weather we ran up against onour passage up the Gulf. The Gulf of California, especially the mouth ofit, has always had an evil reputation among mariners, and with justness, but I firmly believe the elements out-did themselves in ferocity on thetrip I refer to. 

Guaymas reached, my troubles were not over, for there was still the longSonora desert to be crossed before the haven of Hermosillo could bereached. At last I made arrangements with a freighting outfit and wentalong with them. I had had a little money when I started, but bothMazatlan and Guaymas happened to be chiefly filled with cantinas andgambling-hells, and as I was not averse to frequenting either of theseplaces of first resort to the lonely wanderer, my money-bag wasconsiderably depleted when at last I arrived in the beautiful capital ofSonora. I was, in fact, if a few odd dollars are excepted, broke, andwork was a prime necessity. Fortunately, jobs were at that time not veryhard to find. 

There was at that time in Hermosillo a house named the Casa Marian Para, kept by one who styled himself William Taft. The Casa Marian Para willprobably be remembered in Hermosillo by old-timers now--in fact, I havemy doubts that it is not still standing. It was the chief stopping-housein Sonora at that time. I obtained employment from Taft as a cook, butstayed with it only long enough to procure myself a "grub-stake, " afterwhich I "hit the grit" for Tucson, crossing the border on the Nogalestrail a few days later. I arrived in Tucson in the latter part of theyear 1870, and obtained work cooking for Charlie Brown and his family. 

It was while I was employed as chef in the Brown household that Imade--and lost, of course, a fortune. No, it wasn't a very big fortune, but it was a fortune certainly very curiously and originally made. Imade it by selling ham sandwiches!

Charlie Brown owned a saloon not far from the Old Church Plaza. It wascalled Congress Hall, had been completed in 1868 and was one of the mostpopular places in town. Charlie was fast becoming a plutocrat. One nightin the saloon I happened to hear a man come in and complain becausethere wasn't a restaurant in town that would serve him a light snack atthat time of night except at outrageous prices. 

"That's right, " said another man near me, "if somebody would only havethe sense to start a lunch-counter here the way they have them in theEast he'd make all kinds of money. "

The words suggested a scheme to me. The next day I saw Brown and got hispermission to serve a light lunch of sandwiches and coffee in the saloonafter I had finished my work at the house. Just at that time there was abig crowd in the town, the first cattle having arrived in charge of ahungry lot of Texan cowpunchers, and everyone was making money. I set upmy little lunch counter, charged seventy-five cents, or "six-bits" inthe language of the West, for a lunch consisting of a cup of coffee anda sandwich, and speedily had all the customers I could handle. For fortyconsecutive nights I made a clear profit of over fifty dollars eachnight. Those sandwiches were a mint. And they were worth what I chargedfor them, too, for bacon, ham, coffee and the other things were 'way up, the three mentioned being fifty or sixty cents a pound for a veryindifferent quality. 

Sometimes I had a long line waiting to buy lunches, and all the time Iran that lunch stand I never had one "kick" at the prices or the gruboffered. Those cowboys were well supplied with money, and they were morethan willing to spend it. Charlie Brown was making his fortune fast. 

After I quit Brown's employ, John McGee--the same man who now issecretary of the Arizona Pioneers' Historical Society and a well-knownresident of Tucson--hired myself and another man to do assessment workon the old Salero mine, which had been operated before the war. Ourconveyance was an old ambulance owned by Lord & Williams, who, as I havesaid, kept the only store and the post office in Tucson. The outfit wasdriven by "Old Bill" Sniffen, who will doubtless be remembered by manyArizona pioneers. We picked up on the way "Old Man" Benedict, anotherfamiliar character, who kept the stage station and ranch at Sahuarita, where the Twin Buttes Railroad now has a station and branch to somemines, and where a smelter is located. We were paid ten dollars per dayfor our work and returned safely to Tucson. 

I spoke of Lord & Williams' store just now. When in the city of Tucsonrecently I saw that Mr. Corbett has his tin shop where the old store andpost office was once. I recognized only two other buildings as havingexisted in pioneer days, although there may be more. One was the oldchurch of San Augustine and the other was part of the Orndorff Hotel, where Levin had his saloon. There were more saloons than anything elsein Tucson in the old days, and the pueblo richly earned its reputation, spread broadcast all over the world, as being one of the "toughest"places on the American frontier. 

Tucson was on the boom just then. Besides the first shipment of cattle, and the influx of cowboys from Texas previously mentioned, theTerritorial capital had just been moved to Tucson from Prescott. It wasafterwards moved back again to Prescott, and subsequently to the newtown of Phoenix; but more of that later. 

After successfully concluding the assessment work and returning toTucson to be paid off by McGee I decided to move again, and this timechose Wickenburg, a little place between Phoenix and Prescott, and oneof the pioneer towns of the Territory. West of Wickenburg on theColorado River was another settlement named Ehrenberg, after a man whodeserves a paragraph to himself. 

Herman Ehrenberg was a civil engineer and scientist of exceptionaltalents who engaged in mining in the early days of Arizona following theoccupation of the Territory by the Americans. He was of German birthand, coming at an early age to the United States, made his way to NewOrleans, where he enlisted in the New Orleans Grays when war broke outbetween Mexico and Texas. After serving in the battles of Goliad andFanning's Defeat he returned to Germany and wrote and lectured for sometime on Texas and its resources. Soon after the publication of his bookon Texas he returned to the United States and at St. Louis, in 1840, hejoined a party crossing to Oregon. From that Territory he went to theSandwich Islands and for some years wandered among the islands of thePolynesian Archipelago, returning to California in time to join GeneralFremont in the latter's attempt to free California from Mexican rule. After the Gadsden Purchase he moved to Arizona, where, after years ofoccupation in mining and other industries, he was killed by a DiggerIndian at Dos Palmas in Southern California. The town of Ehrenberg wasnamed after him. [1]

[Illustration: FORT CRITTENDEN RUINS, 1914. QUARTERS OF COS. K ANDC, 1ST U. S. CAVALRY IN 1868]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 1: This information relative to Ehrenberg is taken largelyfrom The History of Arizona; De Long, 1905. ]

STAGE DRIVER'S LUCK

 _God, men call Destiny: Hear thee my prayer! Grant that life's secret for e'er shall be kept. Wiser than mine is thy will; I dare Not dust where thy broom hath swept. _ --WOON. 

I have said that Wickenburg was a small place half-way between Phoenixand Prescott, but that is not quite right. Wickenburg was situatedbetween Prescott and the valley of the Salt River, in the fertile midstof which the foundation stones of the future capital of Arizona had yetto be laid. To be sure, there were a few shacks on the site, and a fewranchers in the valley, but the city of Phoenix had yet to blossom forthfrom the wilderness. I shall find occasion later to speak of the birthof Phoenix, however. 

When I arrived in Wickenburg from Tucson--and the journey was no meanaffair, involving, as it did, a ride over desert and mountains, both ofwhich were crowded with hostile Apaches--I went to work as stage driverfor the company that operated stages out of Wickenburg to Ehrenberg, Prescott and other places, including Florence which was just thenbeginning to be a town. 

Stage driving in Arizona in the pioneer days was a dangerous, difficult, and consequently high-priced job. The Indians were responsible for thisin the main, although white highwaymen became somewhat numerous lateron. Sometimes there would be a raid, the driver would be killed, and thestage would not depart again for some days, the company being unable tofind a man to take the reins. The stages were large and unwieldy, butstrongly built. They had to be big enough to hold off raiders shouldthey attack. Every stage usually carried, besides the driver, twocompany men who went heavily armed and belted around with numerouscartridges. One sat beside the driver on the box-seat. In the case ofthe longer stage trips two or three men guarded the mail. Very few womentraveled in those days--in fact, there were not many white women in theTerritory and those who did travel usually carried some masculineprotector with them. A man had to be a good driver to drive a stage, too, for the heavy brakes were not easily manipulated and there weresome very bad stretches of road. 

Apropos of what I have just said about stage drivers being slain, andthe difficulty sometimes experienced in getting men to take theirplaces, I remember that on certain occasions I would take the place ofthe mail driver from Tucson to Apache Pass, north of where Douglas nowis--the said mail driver having been killed--get fifty dollars for thetrip and blow it all in before I started for fear I might not otherwiseget a chance to spend it. 

The stage I drove for this Wickenburg company was one that ran regulartrips out of Wickenburg. Several trips passed without much occurringworthy of note; and then on one trip I fell off the box, injuring myankle. When I arrived back in Wickenburg I was told by Manager Piersonof the company that I would be relieved from driving the stage becausemy foot was not strong enough to work the heavy brakes, and would begiven instead the buckboard to drive to Florence and back on post-officebusiness. 

The next trip the stage made out of Wickenburg, therefore, I remainedbehind. A few miles from town the stage was held up by an overwhelmingforce of Apaches, the driver and all save two of the passengersmassacred, and the contents looted. A woman named Moll Shepherd, goingback East with a large sum of money in her possession, and a man namedKruger, escaped the Indians, hid in the hills and were the only two whosurvived to tell the story of what has gone down into history as thefamous "Wickenburg Stage Massacre. " I shudder now to think how nearly Imight have been on the box on that fatal trip. 

I was not entirely to escape the Apaches, however. On the first returntrip from Florence to Wickenburg with the buckboard, while I wascongratulating myself and thanking my lucky stars for the accident to myankle, Apaches "jumped" the buckboard and gave me and my one passenger, Charlie Block of Wickenburg, a severe tussle for it. We beat them off inthe end, owing to superior marksmanship, and arrived in Wickenburgunhurt. Block was part owner of the Barnett and Block store inWickenburg and was a well-known man in that section. 

After this incident I determined to quit driving stages and buckboardsand, casting about for some new line of endeavor, went for the firsttime into the restaurant business for myself. The town needed anestablishment of the kind I put up, and as I had always been a good cookI cleaned up handsomely, especially as it was while I was running therestaurant that Miner started his notorious stampede, when thousands ofgold-mad men followed a will-o'-the-wisp trail to fabulously richdiggings which turned out to be entirely mythical. 

It was astonishing how little was required in those days to start astampede. A stranger might come in town with a "poke" of gold dust. Hewould naturally be asked where he had made the strike. As a matter offact, he probably had washed a dozen different streams to get thepoke-full, but under the influence of liquor he might reply: "Oh, overon the San Carlos, " or the San Pedro, or some other stream. It did notrequire that he should state how rich the streak was, or whether it hadpanned out. All that was necessary to start a mad rush in the directionhe had designated was the sight of his gold and the magic word "streak. "Many were the trails that led to death or bitter disappointment, inArizona's early days. 

Most of the old prospectors did not see the results of their own"strikes" nor share in the profits from them after their first "poke"had been obtained. There was old John Waring, for instance, who foundgold on a tributary of the Colorado and blew into Arizona City, gotdrunk and told of his find:

"Gold--Gold. . . . Lots 'v it!" he informed them, drunkenly, incoherently, and woke up the next morning to find that half the town had disappearedin the direction of his claim. He rushed to the registry office toregister his claim, which he had foolishly forgotten to do the nightbefore. He found it already registered. Some unscrupulous rascal hadfilched his secret, even to the exact location of his claim, from theaged miner and had got ahead of him in registering it. No claim isreally legal until it is registered, although in the mining camps of theold days it was a formality often dispensed with, since claim jumpersmet a prompt and drastic punishment. 

In many other instances the big mining men gobbled up the smaller ones, especially at a later period, when most of the big mines were groupedunder a few large managements, with consequent great advantage overtheir smaller competitors. 

Indeed, there is comparatively little incentive now for a prospector toset out in Arizona, because if he chances to stumble on a really richprospect, and attempts to work it himself, he is likely to be sobrowbeaten that he is finally forced to sell out to some large concern. There are only a few smelters in or near the State and these arecontrolled by large mining companies. Very well; we will suppose ahypothetical case:

A, being a prospector, finds a copper mine. He says to himself: "Here'sa good property; it ought to make me rich. I won't sell it, I'll hold onto it and work it myself. "

So far, so good. 

A starts in to work his mine. He digs therefrom considerable rich ore. And now a problem presents itself. 

He has no concentrator, no smelter of his own. He cannot afford to buildone; therefore it is perfectly obvious that he cannot crush his own ore. He must, then, send it elsewhere to be smelted, and to do this must sellhis ore to the smelter. 

In the meantime a certain big mining company has investigated A's findand has seen that it is rich. The company desires the property, as itdesires all other rich properties. It offers to buy the mine for a sumfar below its actual value. Naturally, the finder refuses. 

But he must smelt his ore. And to smelt it he finds he is compelled tosell it to a smelter that is controlled by the mining company whoseoffer he has refused. He sends his ore to the smelter. Back comes thequotation for his product, at a price ridiculously low. "That's whatwe'll give you, " says the company, through its proxy the smelter, "takeit or leave it, " or words to that effect. 

Now, what can A do? Nothing at all. He must either sell his ore at anactual loss or sell his mine to the company. Naturally, he does thelatter, and at a figure he finds considerably lower than the firstoffer. The large concern has him where it wanted him and it snuffs outhis dreams of wealth and prosperity effectively. 

These observations are disinterested. I have never, curiously enough, heeded the insistent call of the diggings; I have never "washed a pan, "and my name has never appeared on the share-list of a mine. And this, too, has been in spite of the fact that often I have been directly inthe paths of the various excitements. I have been always wise enough tosee that the men who made rapid fortunes in gold were not the men whostampeded head-over-heels to the diggings, but the men who stayed behindand opened up some kind of business which the gold-seekers wouldpatronize. These were the reapers of the harvest, and there was littlerisk in their game, although the stakes were high. 

I have said that I never owned a mining share. Well, I never did; butonce I came close to owning a part share in what is now the richestcopper mine on earth--a mine that, with the Anaconda in Montana, almostdetermines the price of raw copper. I will tell you the tale. 

Along in the middle seventies--I think it was '74, I was partner with aman named George Stevens at Eureka Springs, west of Fort Thomas in theApache country, a trading station for freighters. We were owners of thetrading station, which was some distance south of where the coppercities of Globe and Miami are now situated. We made very good money atthe station and Stevens and I decided to have some repairs and additionsbuilt to the store. We looked around for a mason and finally hired onenamed George Warren, a competent man whose only fault was a fondness forthe cup that cheers. 

Warren was also a prospector of some note and had made several richstrikes. It was known that, while he had never found a bonanza, whereverhe announced "pay dirt" there "pay dirt" invariably was to be found. Inother words, he had a reputation for reliability that was valuable tohim and of which he was intensely vain. He was a man with "hunches, " andhunches curiously enough, that almost always made good. 

These hunches were more or less frequent with Warren. They usually camewhen he was broke for, like all prospectors, Warren found it highlyinconvenient ever to be the possessor of a large sum of money for anylength of time. He had been known to say to a friend: "I've got ahunch!" disappear, and in a week or two, return with a liberal amount ofdust. Between hunches he worked at his trade. 

When he had completed his work on the store at Eureka Springs for myselfand Stevens, Warren drew me aside one night and, very confidentially, informed me that he had a hunch. "You're welcome to it, George, " Isaid, and, something calling me away at that moment, I did not hear ofhim again until I returned from New Fort Grant, whither I had gone witha load of hay for which we had a valuable contract with the government. Then Stevens informed me that Warren had told him of his hunch, hadasked for a grub-stake, and, on being given one, had departed in asoutherly direction with the information that he expected to make a findover in the Dos Cabezas direction. 

He was gone several weeks, and then one day Stevens said to me, quietly:

"John, Warren's back. "

"Yes?" I answered. "Did he make a strike?"

"He found a copper mine, " said Stevens. 

"Oh, only copper!" I laughed. "That hunch system of his must have gottarnished by this time, then!"

You see, copper at that time was worth next to nothing. There was no bigsmelter in the Territory and it was almost impossible to sell the ore. So it was natural enough that neither myself nor Stevens should feelparticularly jubilant over Warren's strike. One day I thought to askWarren whether he had christened his mine yet, as was the custom. 

"I'm going to call it the 'Copper Queen, '" he said. 

I laughed at him for the name, but admitted it a good one. That minetoday, reader, is one of the greatest copper properties in the world. Itis worth about a billion dollars. The syndicate that owns it owns aswell a good slice of Arizona. 

"Syndicate?" I hear you ask. "Why, what about Warren, the man who foundthe mine, and Stevens, the man who grub-staked him?"

Ah! What about them! George Stevens bet his share of the mine against$75 at a horse race one day, and lost; and George Warren, the man withthe infallible hunch, died years back in squalid misery, driven there bydrink and the memory of many empty discoveries. The syndicate thatobtained the mine from Warren gave him a pension amply sufficient forhis needs, I believe. It is but fair to state that had the mine beenretained by Warren the probabilities are it would never have beendeveloped, for Warren, like other old prospectors, was a genius atfinding pay-streaks, but a failure when it came to exploiting them. 

That, reader, is the true story of the discovery of the Copper Queen, the mine that has made a dozen fortunes and two cities--Bisbee andDouglas. If I had gone in with Stevens in grub-staking poor Warren wouldI, too, I wonder, have sold my share for some foolish trifle orrecklessly gambled it away? I wonder!. . . Probably, I should. 

A FRONTIER BUSINESS MAN

 "_The chip of chisel, hum of saw, The stones of progress laid; The city grew, and, helped by its law, Men many fortunes made. _"

 --Song of the City, by T. BURGESS. 

A Phoenix man was in Patagonia recently and--I don't say he was atypical Phoenix man--commented in a superior tone on the size of thetown. 

"Why, " he said, as if it clinched the argument, "Phoenix would make tenPatagonias. "

"And then some, " I assented, "but, sonny, I built the third house inPhoenix. Did you know that? And I burnt Indian grain fields in the SaltRiver Valley long before anyone ever thought of building a city there. Even a big city has had some time to be a small one. "

That settled it; the Phoenix gentleman said no more. 

I told him only the exact truth when I said that I built the third housein Phoenix. 

After I had started the Wickenburg restaurant came rumors that a newcity was to be started in the fertile Salt River Valley, between Sacatonand Prescott, some forty or fifty miles north of the former place. Stories came that men had tilled the land of the valley and had foundthat it would grow almost anything, as, indeed, it has since been foundthat any land in Arizona will do, providing the water is obtained toirrigate it. One of Arizona's most wonderful phenomena is the suddengreening of the sandy stretches after a heavy rain. One day everythingis a sun-dried brown, as far as the eye can see. Every arroyo is dry, the very cactus seems shriveled and the deep blue of the sky gives nopromise of any relief. Then, in the night, thunder-clouds roll up fromthe painted hills, a tropical deluge resembling a cloud-burst falls, andin the morning--lo! where was yellow sand parched from months ofdrought, is now sprouting green grass! It is a marveloustransformation--a miracle never to be forgotten by one who has seen it. 

However, irrigation is absolutely necessary to till the soil in mostdistricts of Arizona, though in some sections of the State dry farminghas been successfully resorted to. It has been said that Arizona hasmore rivers and less water than any state in the Union, and this istrue. Many of these are rivers only in the rainy season, which in thedesert generally comes about the middle of July and lasts until earlyfall. Others are what is known as "sinking rivers, " flowing above groundfor parts of their courses, and as frequently sinking below the sand, toreappear further along. The Sonoita, upon which Patagonia is situated, is one of these "disappearing rivers, " the water coming up out of thesand about half a mile from the main street. The big rivers, theColorado, the Salt, the upper Gila and the San Pedro, run the yeararound, and there are several smaller streams in the more fertiledistricts that do the same thing. 

The larger part of the Arizona "desert" is not barren sand, but fertilesilt and adobe, needing only water to make of it the best possible soilfor farming purposes. Favored by a mild winter climate the Salt RiverValley can be made to produce crops of some kind each month in theyear--fruits in the fall, vegetables in the winter season, grains inspring and alfalfa, the principal crop, throughout the summer. Asuccession of crops may oftentimes be grown during the year on one farm, so that irrigated lands in Arizona yield several times the produceobtainable in the Eastern states. Alfalfa may be cut six or seven timesa year with a yield of as much as ten tons to the acre. The finestEgyptian cotton, free from the boll weevil scourge, may also be grownsuccessfully and is fast becoming one of the staple products of theState. Potatoes, strawberries, pears, peaches and melons, from temperateclimates; and citrus fruits, sorghum grains and date palms fromsubtropical regions, give some idea of the range of crops possible here. Many farmers from the Eastern and Southern states and from California, finding this out, began to take up land, dig irrigating ditches and makehomes in Arizona. 

Fifteen or twenty pioneers had gone to the Salt River Valley while Iwas at Wickenburg and there had taken up quarter sections on which theyraised, chiefly, barley, wheat, corn and hay. A little fruit was alsoexperimented in. Some of the men who were on the ground at the beginningI remember to have been Dennis and Murphy, Tom Gray, Jack Walters, Johnny George, George Monroe, Joe Fugit, Jack Swilling, Patterson, theParkers, the Sorrels, the Fenters and a few others whose names I do notrecall. A townsite had been laid out, streets surveyed, and before longit became known that the Territory had a new city, the name of which wasPhoenix. 

The story of the way in which the name "Phoenix" was given to the citythat in future days was to become the metropolis of the State, isinteresting. When the Miner excitement was over I decided to move to thenew Salt River townsite, and soon after my arrival there attended ameeting of citizens gathered together to name the new city. Practicallyevery settler in the Valley was at this meeting, which was destined tobecome historic. 

Among those present was a Frenchman named Darrel Dupper, or Du Perre, ashis name has sometimes been written, who was a highly educated man andhad lived in Arizona for a number of years. When the question of namingthe townsite came up several suggestions were offered, among them being"Salt City, " "Aricropolis, " and others. Dupper rose to his feet andsuggested that the city be called Phoenix, because, he explained, thePhoenix was a bird of beautiful plumage and exceptional voice, whichlived for five hundred years and then, after chanting its death-song, prepared a charnel-house for itself and was cremated, after which a newand glorified bird arose from the ashes to live a magnificent existenceforever. When Dupper finished his suggestion and explanation the meetingvoted on the names and the Frenchman's choice was decided upon. "Phoenix" it has been ever since. 

Before I had been in Phoenix many days I commenced the building of arestaurant, which I named the Capital Restaurant. The capital was thenat Prescott, having been moved from Tucson, but my name evidently musthave been prophetic, for the capital city of Arizona is now none otherthan Phoenix, which at the present day probably has the largestpopulation in the State--over twenty thousand. 

Soon I gained other interests in Phoenix besides the restaurant. TheCapital made me much money, and I invested what I did not spend in"having a good time, " in various other enterprises. I went into thebutcher business with Steel & Coplin. I built the first bakery inPhoenix. I staked two men to a ranch north of the city, from which Ilater on proceeded to flood the Territory with sweet potatoes. I was thefirst man, by the way, to grow sweet potatoes in Arizona. I built asaloon and dance hall, and in this, naturally, was my quickest turnover. 

I am not an apologist, least of all for myself, and as this is the truestory of a life I believe to have been exceptionally varied I think thatin it should be related the things I did which might be considered "bad"nowadays, as well as the things I did which, by the same token, present-day civilization may consider "good. "

I may relate, therefore, that for some years I was known as the largestliquor dealer in the Territory, as well as one of the shrewdest hands atcards. Although I employed men to do the work, often players wouldinsist on my dealing the monte deck or laying down the faro lay-out forthem. I played for big stakes, too--bigger stakes than people play fornowadays in the West. Many times I have sat down with the equivalent ofthousands of dollars in chips and played them all away, only to regainthem again without thinking it anything particularly unusual. As gamesgo, I was considered "lucky" for a gambler. Though not superstitious, Ibelieved in this luck of mine, and this is probably the reason that itheld good for so long. If of late various things, chiefly the miningdepression, have made my fortunes all to the bad, I am no man to whineat the inevitable. I can take my ipecac along with the next man!

There were few men in the old days in Phoenix, or, indeed, the entireTerritory, who did not drink liquor, and lots of it. In fact, it may besaid that the entire fabric of the Territory was constructed on liquor. The pioneers were most of them whiskey fiends, as were the gamblers. By this I am not defending the liquor traffic. I have sold more liquorthan any man in Arizona over the bar in my life-time, but I voted dry atthe last election and I adhere to the belief that a whiskey-less Arizonawill be the best for our children and our children's children. 

[Illustration: THE OLD WARD HOMESTEAD, WHERE CADY KEPT STORE DURING THEBUILDING OF THE SANTA FE RAILROAD]

During my residence in Phoenix Darrel Dupper, the man who had christenedthe town, became one of my best friends. He kept the post and tradingstore at Desert Station, at which place was the only water to be foundbetween Phoenix and Wickenburg, if I remember correctly. The stationmade him wealthy. Dupper was originally Count Du Perre, and came of anoted aristocratic French family. His forefathers were, I believe, prominent in the court of Louis XIV. When a young man he committed somefoolhardy act in France and was banished by his people, who sent him amonthly remittance on condition that he get as far away from his home ashe could, and stay there. To fulfill the terms of this agreement DuPerre came to Arizona among the early pioneers and soon proved that hehad the stuff of a real man in him. He learned English and Americanizedhis name to Dupper. He engaged in various enterprises and finallystarted Desert Station, where he made his fortune. 

He was a curious character as he became older. Sometimes he would stayaway from Phoenix for several months and then one day he would appearwith a few thousand dollars, more or less, spend every cent of it intreating the boys in my house and "blow back" home again generally in mydebt. He used to sing La Marseillaise--it was the only song he knew--andafter the first few drinks would solemnly mount a table, sing a fewverses of the magnificent revolutionary song, call on me to do likewise, and then "treat the house. " Often he did this several times each night, and as "treating the house" invariably cost at least thirty dollars andhe was an inveterate gambler, it will be seen that in one way or anotherI managed to secure considerable of old Dupper's fortune. His partialityto the Marseillaise leads me to the belief that he was banished forparticipation in one of the French revolutions; but this I cannot statepositively. 

On one occasion I remember that I was visiting with Dupper and we made atrip together somewhere, Dupper leaving his cook in charge. When wereturned nobody noticed us and I happened to look through a windowbefore entering the house. Hastily I beckoned to Dupper. 

The Frenchman's cook was sitting on his bed with a pile of money--theday's takings--in front of him. He was dividing the pile into twohalves. Taking one bill off the pile he would lay it to one side andsay:

"This is for Dupper. "

Then he'd take the next bill, lay it in another spot, and say:

"And this is for me. "

We watched him through the window unnoticed until he came to the lastten-dollar bill. It was odd. The cook deliberated a few moments andfinally put the bill on top of the pile he had reserved for himself. Then Dupper, whose face had been a study in emotions, could keep stillno longer. 

"Hey, there!" he yelled, "play fair--play fair! Divvy up that ten spot!"

What happened afterwards to that cook I don't remember. But Dupper was agood sport. 

VENTURES AND ADVENTURES

 _Hush! What brooding stillness is hanging over all? What's this talk in whispers, and that placard on the wall? Aha! I see it now! They're going to hang a man! Judge Lynch is on the ramparts and the Law's an "Also-Ran!"_ --WOON. 

Reader, have you ever seen the look in a man's eyes after he has beencondemned by that Court of Last Appeal--his fellow-men? I have, manytimes. It is a look without a shadow of hope left, a look of dread atthe ferocity of the mob, a look of fear at what is to come afterwards;and seldom a hint of defiance lurks in such a man's expression. 

I have seen and figured in many lynchings. In the old days they were theinseparables, the Frontier and Judge Lynch. If a white man killed aMexican or Indian nothing was done, except perhaps to hold a farce of atrial with the killer in the end turned loose; and if a white man killedanother white man there was seldom much outcry, unless the case wascold-blooded murder or the killer was already unpopular. But let aMexican or an Indian lift one finger against a white man and the wholestrength of the Whites was against him in a moment; he was hounded tohis hole, dragged forth, tried by a committee of citizens over whomJudge Lynch sat with awful solemnity, and was forthwith hung. 

More or less of this was in some degree necessary. The killing of anApache was accounted a good day's work, since it probably meant that themurderer of several white men had gone to his doom. To kill a Mexicanonly meant that another "bad hombre" had gone to his just deserts. 

And most of the Mexicans in Arizona in the early days were "badhombres"--there is no doubt about that. It was they who gave the Mexicansuch a bad name on the frontier, and it was they who first earned thetitle "greaser. " They were a murderous, treacherous lot of rascals. 

In the Wickenburg stage massacre, for instance, it was known thatseveral Mexicans were involved--wood-choppers. One of these Mexicans washunted for weeks and was caught soon after I arrived in Phoenix. I wasrunning my dance hall when a committee of citizens met in a mass-meetingand decided that the law was too slow in its working and gave theMexican too great an opportunity to escape. The meeting then resolveditself into a hanging committee, broke open the jail, seized theprisoner from the arms of the sheriff and hung him to the rafters justinside the jail door. That done, they returned to their homes andoccupations satisfied that at least one "Greaser" had not evaded thefull penalty of his crimes. 

Soon after a Mexican arrived in town with a string of cows to sell. Somebody recognized the cows as ones that had belonged to a ranchernamed Patterson. The Mexican was arrested by citizens and a horsemansent out to investigate. Patterson was found killed. At once, and withlittle ceremony, the Mexican with the cattle was "strung up" to thecross of a gatepost, his body being left to sway in the wind untilsomebody came along with sufficient decency to cut it down. 

Talking about lynchings, reminds me of an incident that had almostslipped my mind. Before I went to Wickenburg from Tucson I becamepartners with a man named Robert Swope in a bar and gambling lay-out ina little place named Adamsville, a few miles below where Florence now ison the Gila River. Swope was tending bar one night when an American shothim dead and got away. The murderer was soon afterward captured inTucson and lynched in company with two Mexicans who were concerned inthe murder of a pawnbroker there. 

 * * * * *

In Phoenix I married my first wife, whose given name was Ruficia. Soonafterwards I moved to Tucson, where, after being awarded one child, Ihad domestic trouble which ended in the courts. My wife finally returnedto Phoenix and, being free again, married a man named Murphy. After thisexperience I determined to take no further chances with matrimony. However, I needed a helpmate, so I solved the difficulty by marryingPaola Ortega by contract for five years. Contract marriages wereuniversally recognized and indulged in in the West of the early days. Myrelations with Paola were eminently satisfactory until the expiration ofthe contract, when she went her way and I mine. 

Before I leave the subject of Phoenix it will be well to mention thatwhen I left I sold all my property there, consisting of some twenty-twolots, all in the heart of the city, for practically a song. Six of theselots were situated where now is a big planing mill. Several lots I soldto a German for a span of mules. The German is alive today and lives inPhoenix a wealthy man, simply because he had the foresight and acumen todo what I did not do--hang on to his real estate. If I had kept thosetwenty-two lots until now, without doing more than simply pay my taxeson them, my fortune today would be comfortably up in the six figures. However, I sold the lots, and there's no use crying over spilled milk. Men are doing today all over the world just what I did then. 

I had not been in Tucson long before I built there the largest saloonand dance-hall in the Territory. Excepting for one flyer in Florence, which I shall speak of later on, this was to be my last venture into theliquor business. My hall was modeled after those on the Barbary Coast. It cost "four-bits" and drinks to dance, and the dances lasted only afew minutes. At one time I had thirteen Mexican girls dancing in thehall, and this number was increased on special days until the floor wascrowded. I always did good business--so good, in fact, that jealousyaroused in the minds of my rivals finally forced me out. Since then, asI have said, with the single Florence exception, I have not been in thedance-hall business, excepting that I now have at some expense put aballroom into my hotel at Patagonia, in which are held at times socialdances which most of the young folk of the county attend, the liquorelement being entirely absent, of course. [2]

Besides paying a heavy license for the privilege of selling liquor in myTucson dance hall, I was compelled every morning, in addition, to payover $5 as a license for the dance-hall and $1. 50 collector's fees, which, if not paid out every morning as regularly as clockwork, wouldhave threatened my business. I did not complain of this tax; it was afair one considering the volume of trade I did. But my patronage grewand grew until there came a day when "Cady's Place, " as it was known, was making more money for its owner than any similar establishment inArizona. The saloon-keepers in Tucson became inordinately jealous anddetermined to put an end to my "luck, " as they called it. Accordingly, nine months after I had opened my place these gentlemen used theirinfluence quietly with the Legislature and "jobbed" me. The license wasraised for dance halls at one bound to $25 per night. This was aheavier tax than even my business would stand, so I set about at oncelooking for somebody on whom to unload the property. I claimoriginality, if not a particular observance of ethics, in doing this. 

One day a man came along and, when he saw the crowd in the hall, suggested that I sell him a share in the enterprise. 

"No, " I replied, "I'll not sell you a share; but, to tell you the truth, I'm getting tired of this business, and want to get out of it for good. I'll sell you the whole shooting-match, if you want to buy. Suppose youstay tonight with my barkeep and see what kind of business I do. "

He agreed and I put two hundred dollars in my pocket and started aroundtown. I spent that two hundred dollars to such good purpose that thatnight the hall was crowded to the doors. The prospective purchaserlooked on with blinking eyes at the thought of the profits that mustaccrue to the owner. Would he buy the place? Would he? Well, say--he wasso anxious to buy it that he wanted to pass over the cash when he saw mecounting up my takings in the small hours of the morning. The takingswere, I remember, $417. But I told him not to be in a hurry, to go homeand sleep over the proposition and come back the next day. 

After he had gone the collector came around, took his $26. 50 anddeparted. On his heels came my man. 

"Do you still want to buy?" I asked him. 

"You bet your sweet life I want to buy, " he replied. 

"You're sure you've investigated the proposition fully?" I asked him. 

The customer thought of that four hundred and seventeen dollars taken inover the bar the night before and said he had. 

"Hand over the money, then, " I said, promptly. "The place is yours. "

The next morning he came to me with a lugubrious countenance. 

"Well, " I greeted him, "how much did you make last night?"

"Took in ninety-six dollars, " he answered, sadly. "Cady, why didn't youtell me about that $25 tax?"

"Tell you about it?" I repeated, as if astonished. "Why, didn't I askyou if you had investigated the thing fully? Did I ask you to go intothe deal blindfold? It wasn't my business to tell you about any tax. "

And with that he had to be content. 

 * * * * *

I was now out of the dance-hall business for good, and I looked aboutfor some other and more prosaic occupation to indulge in. Thanks to thedeal I had put through with the confiding stranger with the ready cash, I was pretty well "heeled" so far as money went, and all my debts werepaid. Finally I decided that I would go into business again and boughta grocery store on Mesilla street. 

The handing out of canned tomatoes and salt soda crackers, however, speedily got on my nerves. I was still a comparatively young man and myrestless spirit longed for expression in some new environment. Aboutthis time Paola, my contract-wife, who was everything that a wife shouldbe in my opinion, became a little homesick and spoke often of the homeshe had left at Sauxal, a small gulf-coast port in Lower California. Accordingly, one morning, I took it into my head to take her home on avisit to see her people, and, the thought being always father to theaction with me, I traded my grocery store for a buckboard and team andsome money, and set forth in this conveyance for Yuma. This was a tripnot considered so very dangerous, except for the lack of water, for theIndians along the route were mostly peaceable and partly civilized. Onlyfor a short distance out of Tucson did the Apache hold suzerainty, andthis only when sufficient Papagos, whose territory it really was, couldnot be mustered together in force to drive them off. The Papago Indianshated the Apaches quite as much as the white man did, for the Papagolacked the stamina and fighting qualities of the Apache and in othercharacteristics was an entirely different type of Indian. I have reasonto believe that the Apaches were not originally natives of Arizona, butwere an offshoot of one of the more ferocious tribes further north. This I think because, for one thing, the facial characteristics of theother Arizona Indians--the Pimas, Papagos, Yumas, Maricopas, andothers--are very similar to each other but totally different from thoseof the various Apache tribes, as was the language they spoke. ThePapagos, Pimas, Yumas, Maricopas and other peaceable Indian peoples wereof a settled nature and had lived in their respective territories forages before the white man came to the West. The Apache, on the otherhand, was a nomad, with no definite country to call his own andrecognizing no boundary lines of other tribes. It was owing to Apachedepredations on the Papagos and Pimas that the latter were so willinglyenlisted on the side of the White man in the latter's fight forcivilization. 

Reaching Yuma without any event to record that I remember, we took oneof the Colorado River boats to the mouth of the Colorado, wheretransfers were made to the deep-sea ships plying between the ColoradoGulf and San Francisco. One of these steamers, which were creditable tothe times, we took to La Paz. At La Paz Paola was fortunate enough tomeet her padrina, or godfather, who furnished us with mules and horseswith which we reached Sauxal, Paola's home. There we stayed with herfamily for some time. 

While staying at Sauxal I went to a fiesta in the Arroyo San Luis andthere began playing cooncan with an old rancher who was accounted one ofthe most wealthy inhabitants of the country. I won from him twothousand oranges, five gallons of wine, seventeen buckskins and twohundred heifers. The heifers I presented to Paola and the buckskins Igave to her brothers to make leggings out of. The wine and oranges Itook to La Paz and sold, netting a neat little sum thereby. 

Sixty miles from La Paz was El Triunfo, one of the best producing silvermines in Lower California, managed by a man named Blake. Obeying animpulse I one day went out to the mine and secured a job, working at itfor some time, and among other things starting a small store which waspatronized by the company's workmen. Growing tired of this occupation, Ireturned to Sauxal, fetched Paola and with her returned to Yuma, orArizona City, where I started a small chicken ranch a few miles up theriver. Coyotes and wolves killed my poultry, however, and soresoccasioned by ranch work broke out on my hands, so I sold the chickenranch and moved to Arizona City, opening a restaurant on the mainstreet. In this cafe I made a specialty of pickled feet--not pig's feet, but bull's feet, for which delicacy I claim the original creation. Itwas some dish, too! They sold like hot-cakes. 

While I was in Lower California I witnessed a sight that is well worthspeaking of. It was a Mexican funeral, and the queerest one I ever sawor expect to see, though I have read of Chinese funerals that perhapsapproach it in peculiarity. It was while on my way back to Sauxal fromLa Paz that I met the cortege. The corpse was that of a wealthyrancher's wife, and the coffin was strung on two long poles borne byfour men. Accompanying the coffin alongside of those carrying it wereabout two hundred horsemen. The bearers kept up a jog-trot, never oncefaltering on the way, each horseman taking his turn on the poles. Whenit became a man's turn to act as bearer nobody told him, but he slippedoff his horse, letting it run wherever it pleased, ran to the coffin, ducked under the pole and started with the others on the jog-trot, whilethe man whose place he had taken caught his horse. Never once in a carryof 150 miles did that coffin stop, and never once did that jog-trotfalter. The cortege followers ate at the various ranches they passed, nobody thinking of refusing them food. The 150 mile journey to San Luiswas necessary in order to reach a priest who would bury the dead woman. All the dead were treated in the same manner. 

While I was in Yuma the railroad reached Dos Palmas, SouthernCalifornia, and one day I went there with a wagon and bought a load ofapples, which, with one man to accompany me, I hauled all the way toTucson. That wagon-load of apples was the first fruit to arrive in theTerritory and it was hailed with acclaim. I sold the lot for onethousand dollars, making a profit well over fifty per cent. Then withthe wagon I returned to Yuma. 

On the way, as I was nearing Yuma, I stopped at Canyon Station, which aman named Ed. Lumley kept. Just as we drove up an old priest came out ofLumley's house crying something aloud. We hastened up and he motionedinside. Within we saw poor Lumley dead, with both his hands slashed offand his body bearing other marks of mutilation. It turned out that twoMexicans to whom Lumley had given shelter had killed him because herefused to tell them where he kept his money. The Mexicans wereafterwards caught in California, taken to Maricopa county and there, after trial by the usual method, received the just penalty for theircrime. 

From Yuma I moved to Florence, Arizona, where I built a dance-hall andsaloon, which I sold almost immediately to an Italian named Gendani. Then I moved back to Tucson, my old stamping-ground. 

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 2: Since this was written the State has abolished the sale ofliquor from within its boundaries. ]

INDIAN WARFARE

 _When strong men fought and loved and lost, And might was right throughout the land; When life was wine and wine was life, And God looked down on endless strife; Where murder, lust and hate were rife, What footprints Time left in the sand!_ --WOON. 

In the seventies and early eighties the hostility of the various ApacheIndian tribes was at its height, and there was scarcely a man in theTerritory who had not at some time felt the dread of these implacableenemies. 

By frequent raids on emigrants' wagons and on freighting outfits, theIndians had succeeded in arming themselves fairly successfully with therifle of the white man; and they kept themselves in ammunition by raidson lonely ranches and by "jumping" or ambushing prospectors and lonetravelers. If a man was outnumbered by Apaches he often shot himself, for he knew that if captured he would probably be tortured by one of thefiendish methods made use of by these Indians. If he had a woman withhim it was an act of kindness to shoot her, too, for to her, also, evenif the element of torture were absent, captivity with the Indians wouldinvariably be an even sadder fate. 

[Illustration: CADY'S SHEEP CAMP ON THE SONOITA, DECEMBER 8, 1914. BUILTIN 1884]

Sometimes bands of whites would take the place of the soldiers andrevenge themselves on Apache raiders. There was the raid on the Woosterranch, for instance. This ranch was near Tubac. Wooster lived alone onthe ranch with his wife and one hired man. One morning Apaches swoopeddown on the place, killed Wooster and carried off his wife. As she hasnever been heard of since it has always been supposed that she waskilled. This outrage resulted in the famous "Camp Grant Massacre, " thetale of which echoed all over the world, together with indignantprotests from centers of culture in the East that the whites of Arizonawere "more savage" than the savages themselves. I leave it to the readerto judge whether this was a fact. 

The Wooster raid and slaughter was merely the culminating tragedy of aseries of murders, robberies and depredations carried on by the Apachesfor years. Soldiers would follow the raiders, kill a few of them inretaliation, and a few days later another outrage would be perpetrated. The Apaches were absolutely fearless in the warfare they carried on forpossession of what they, rightly or wrongly, considered their invadedterritory. The Apache with the greatest number of murders to his namewas most highly thought of by his tribe. 

When the Wooster raid occurred I was in Tucson. Everybody in Tucson knewWooster and liked him. There was general mourning and a cry for instantrevenge when his murder was heard of. For a long time it had beenbelieved that the Indians wintering on the government reservation atCamp Grant, at the expense of Uncle Sam, were the authors of thenumerous raids in the vicinity of Tucson, though until that time it hadbeen hard to convince the authorities that such was the case. This time, however, it became obvious that something had to be done. 

The white men of Tucson held a meeting, at which I was present. SidneyR. De Long, first Mayor of Tucson, was also there. After the meeting hadbeen called to order De Long rose and said:

"Boys, this thing has got to be stopped. The military won't believe uswhen we tell them that their charity to the Indians is our undoing--thatthe government's wards are a pack of murderers and cattle thieves. Whatshall we do?"

"Let the military go hang, and the government, too!" growled one man, "Old Bill" Oury, a considerable figure in the life of early Tucson, andan ex-Confederate soldier. 

The meeting applauded. 

"We can do what the soldiers won't, " I said. 

"Right!" said Oury, savagely. "Let's give these devils a taste of theirown medicine. Maybe after a few dozen of 'em are killed they'll learnsome respect for the white man. "

Nobody vetoed the suggestion. 

The following day six white men--myself, De Long and fierce old BillOury among them, rode out of Tucson bound for Tubac. With us we hadthree Papago Indian trailers. Arrived at the Wooster ranch the Papagoswere set to work and followed a trail that led plain as daylight to theIndian camp at Fort Grant. A cry escaped all of us at this justificationof our suspicions. 

"That settles it!" ground out Oury, between his set teeth. "It's themInjuns or us. And--it won't be us. "

We returned to Tucson, rounded up a party consisting of about fiftyPapagos, forty-five Mexicans and ourselves, and set out for Camp Grant. We reached the fort at break of day, or just before, and before thestartled Apaches could fully awaken to what was happening, or thenear-by soldiers gather their wits together, eighty-seven AravaipaApaches had been slain as they lay. The Papagos accounted for most ofthe dead, but we six white men and our Mexican friends did our part. Itwas bloody work; but it was justice, and on the frontier then the whitesmade their own justice. 

All of us were arrested, as a matter of course, and when word reachedGeneral Sherman at Washington from the commander of the military forcesat Fort Grant, an order was issued that all of us were to be tried formurder. We suffered no qualms, for we knew that according to frontierstandards what we had done was right, and would inevitably have beendone some time or another by somebody. We were tried in Judge Titus'Territorial Court, but, to the dismay of the military and GeneralSherman, who of course knew nothing of the events that had preceded themassacre, not a man in the jury could be found who would hang us. TheTerritory was searched for citizens impartial enough to adjudge theslaying of a hostile Apache as murder, but none could be found. Thetrial turned out a farce and we were all acquitted, to receive thegreatest demonstration outside the courtroom that men on trial for theirlives ever received in Arizona, I think. One thing that made ouracquittal more than certain was the fact, brought out at the trial, thatthe dress of Mrs. Wooster and a pair of moccasins belonging to herhusband were found on the bodies of Indians whom we killed. LieutenantWhitman, who was in command at Fort Grant, and on whom theresponsibility for the conduct of the Indians wintering there chieflyrested, was soon after relieved from duty and transferred to anotherpost. General George Crook arrived to take his place late in 1871. Themassacre had occurred on the last day of April of that year. 

Other raids occurred. Al Peck, an old and valued friend of mine, hadseveral experiences with the Apaches, which culminated in the Peck raidof April 27, 1886, when Apaches jumped his ranch, killed his wife and aman named Charles Owens and carried off Peck's niece. Apparentlysatisfied with this, they turned Peck loose, after burning the ranchhouse. The unfortunate man's step-niece was found some six weeks laterby Mexican cowpunchers in the Cocoapi Mountains in Old Mexico. 

The famous massacre of the Samaniego freight teams and the destructionof his outfit at Cedar Springs, between Fort Thomas and Wilcox, waswitnessed by Charles Beck, another friend of mine. Beck had come in witha quantity of fruit and was unloading it when he heard a fusilade ofshots around a bend in the road. A moment later a boy came byhelter-skelter on a horse. 

"Apaches!" gasped the boy, and rode on. 

Beck waited to hear no more. He knew that to attack one of Samaniego'soutfits there must be at least a hundred Indians in the neighborhood. Unhitching his horse, he jumped on its back and rode for dear life inthe direction of Eureka Springs. Indians sighted him as he swept intothe open and followed, firing as they rode. By luck, however, and thefact that his horse was fresher than those of his pursuers, Beck gotsafely away. 

Thirteen men were killed at this Cedar Springs massacre and thousands ofdollars' worth of freight was carried off or destroyed. The raid wasunexpected owing to the fact that the Samaniego brothers had contractswith the government and the stuff in their outfit was intended for thevery Indians concerned in the ambuscade. One of the Samaniegos was slainat this massacre. 

Then there was the Tumacacori raid, at Barnett's ranch in the TumacacoriMountains, when Charlie Murray and Tom Shaw were killed. Old ManFrenchy, as he was called, suffered the severe loss of his freight andteams when the Indians burned them up across the Cienega. Many otherraids occurred, particulars of which are not to hand, but those I haverelated will serve as samples of the work of the Indians and will showjust how it was the Apaches gained the name they did of being veritablefiends in human form. 

 * * * * *

After the expiration of my contract with Paola Ortega I remained in astate of single blessedness for some time, and then married GregoriaSosa, in the summer of 1879. Gregoria rewarded me with one child, a boy, who is now living in Nogales. On December 23, 1889, Gregoria died and inOctober, 1890, I married my present wife, whose maiden name was DonnaPaz Paderes, and who belongs to an old line of Spanish aristocracy inMexico. We are now living together in the peace and contentment of oldage, well occupied in bringing up and providing for our family of twochildren, Mary, who will be twenty years old on February 25, 1915, andCharlie, who will be sixteen on the same date. Both our children, by thegrace of God, have been spared us after severe illnesses. 

 * * * * *

To make hundreds of implacable enemies at one stroke is something anyman would very naturally hesitate to do, but I did just that about ayear after I commenced working for D. A. Sanford, one of the biggestranchers between the railroad and the border. The explanation of thislies in one word--sheep. 

If there was one man whom cattlemen hated with a fierce, unreasoninghatred, it was the man who ran sheep over the open range--a proceedingperfectly legal, but one which threatened the grazing of the cattleinasmuch as where sheep had grazed it was impossible for cattle to feedfor some weeks, or until the grass had had time to grow again. Sheepcrop almost to the ground and feed in great herds, close together, andthe range after a herd of sheep has passed over it looks as if somebodyhad gone over it with a lawnmower. 

In 1881 I closed out the old Sanford ranch stock and was informed by myemployer that he had foreclosed a mortgage on 13, 000 head of sheep ownedby Tully, Ochoa and De Long of Tucson. This firm was the biggest at thattime in the Territory and the De Long of the company was one of the sixmen who led the Papagos in the Camp Grant Massacre. He died in Tucsonrecently and I am now the only white survivor of that occurrence. Tully, Ochoa and De Long were forced out of business by the coming of therailroad in 1880, which cheapened things so much that the large stockheld by the company was sold at prices below what it had cost, necessitating bankruptcy. 

I was not surprised to hear that Sanford intended to run sheep, though Iwill admit that the information was scarcely welcome. Sheep, however, atthat time were much scarcer than cattle and fetched, consequently, muchhigher prices. My employer, D. A. Sanford, who now lives in Washington, D. C. , was one of the shrewdest business men in the Territory, and was, as well, one of the best-natured of men. His business acumen istestified to by the fact that he is now sufficiently wealthy to counthis pile in the seven figures. 

Mr. Sanford's wishes being my own in the matter, of course, I did as Iwas told, closed out the cattle stock and set the sheep grazing on therange. The cattlemen were angry and sent me an ultimatum to the effectthat if the sheep were not at once taken off the grass there would be"trouble. " I told them that Sanford was my boss, not them; that I wouldtake his orders and nobody else's, and that until he told me to take thesheep off the range they'd stay precisely where they were. 

My reply angered the cattlemen more and before long I became subject tomany annoyances. Sheep were found dead, stock was driven off, my ranchhands were shot at, and several times I myself narrowly escaped death atthe hands of the enraged cattlemen. I determined not to give in until Ireceived orders to that effect from Mr. Sanford, but I will admit thatit was with a feeling of distinct relief that I hailed those orders whenthey came three years later. For one thing, before the sheep businesscame up, most of the cattlemen who were now my enemies had been my closefriends, and it hurt me to lose their esteem. I am glad to say, however, that most of these cattlemen and cowboys, who, when I ran sheep, wouldcheerfully have been responsible for my funeral, are my very goodfriends at the present time; and I trust they will always remain so. Most of them are good fellows and I have always admitted that their sidehad the best argument. 

In spite of the opposition of the cattlemen I made the sheep business apaying one for Mr. Sanford, clearing about $17, 000 at the end of threeyears. When that period had elapsed I had brought shearers to SanfordStation to shear the sheep, but was stopped in my intention with thenews that Sanford had sold the lot to Pusch and Zellweger of Tucson. Ipaid off the men I had hired, satisfied them, and thus closed my lastdeal in the sheep business. One of the men, Jesus Mabot, I hired to goto the Rodeo with me, while the Chinese gardener hired another namedFernando. 

Then occurred that curious succession of fatalities among the Chinamenin the neighborhood that puzzled us all for years and ended by its beingimpossible to obtain a Chinaman to fill the last man's place. 

DEPUTY SHERIFF, CATTLEMAN AND FARMER

 _You kin have yore Turner sunsets, --he never painted one Like th' Santa Rita Mountains at th' settin' o' th' sun! You kin have yore Eastern cornfields, with th' crops that never change, Me--I've all Arizona, and, best o' all, the Range!_ --WOON. 

About this time Sheriff Bob Paul reigned in Tucson and made me one ofhis deputies. I had numerous adventures in that capacity, but rememberonly one as being worth recording here. 

One of the toughest characters in the West at that time, a man fearedthroughout the Territory, was Pat Cannon. He had a score of killings tohis credit, and, finally, when Paul became sheriff a warrant was issuedfor his arrest on a charge of murder. After he had the warrant Paul cameto me. 

"Cady, " he said, "you know Pat Cannon, don't you?"

"I worked with him once, " I answered. 

"Well, " returned Paul, "here's a warrant for his arrest on a murdercharge. Go get him. "

I obtained a carryall and an Italian boy as driver, in Tucson, andstarted for Camp Grant. Arrived there I was informed that it wasbelieved Cannon was at Smithy's wood camp, several miles away. We wenton to Smithy's wood camp. Sure enough, Pat was there--very much so. Hewas the first man I spotted as I drove into the camp. Cannon was sittingat the door of his shack, two revolvers belted on him and his riflestanding up by the door at his side, within easy reach. I knew that Patdidn't know that I was a deputy, so I drove right up. 

"Hello, " I called. "How's the chance for a game of poker?"

"Pretty good, " he returned, amiably. "Smithy'll be in in a few moments, John. Stick around--we have a game every night. "

"Sure, " I responded, and descended. As I did so I drew my six-shooterand whirled around, aiming the weapon at him point blank. 

"Hands up, Pat, you son-of-a-gun, " I said, and I guess I grinned. "You're my prisoner. "

I had told the Italian boy what to do, beforehand, and he now gave methe steel bracelets, which I snapped on Cannon, whose face bore anexpression seemingly a mixture of intense astonishment and disgust. Finally, when I had him safely in the carryall, he spat out a huge chewof tobacco and swore. 

He said nothing to me for awhile, and then he remarked, in an injuredway:

"Wa-al, Johnny, I sure would never have thought it of you!"

He said nothing more, except to ask me to twist him a cigarette or two, and when we reached Tucson I turned him over safely to Sheriff Paul. 

 * * * * *

You who read this in your stuffy city room, or crowded subway seat, imagine, if you can, the following scene:

Above, the perfect, all-embracing blue of the Arizona sky; set flamingin the middle of it the sun, a glorious blazing orb whose beauty one maydare to gaze upon only through smoked glasses; beneath, the Range, which, far from being a desert, is covered with a growth of grass whichgrows thicker and greener as the rivers' banks are reached. 

All around, Arizona--the painted hills, looking as though someone hadcarefully swept them early in the morning with a broom; the valleysstudded with mesquite trees and greasewood and dotted here and therewith brown specks which even the uninitiated will know are cattle, andthe river, one of Arizona's minor streams, a few yards across and only acouple of feet deep, but swift-rushing, pebble-strew'd and clear ascrystal. 

Last, but not least, a heterogeneous mob of cowboys and vaqueros, withtheir horses champing at the bit and eager to be off on their work. Inthe foreground a rough, unpainted corral, where are moreponies--wicked-looking, intelligent little beggars, but quick turning asthough they owned but two legs instead of four, and hence priceless forthe work of the roundup. In the distance, some of them quietly andimpudently grazing quite close at hand, are the cattle, the object ofthe day's gathering. 

Cowboys from perhaps a dozen or more ranches are gathered here, for thisis the commencement of the Rodeo--the roundup of cattle that takes placesemi-annually. Even ranches whose cattle are not grazed on thisparticular range have representatives here, for often there are strayswith brands that show them to have traveled many scores of miles. Thebusiness of the cowboys[3] is to round up and corral the cattle and pickout their own brands from the herd. They then see that the unbrandedcalves belonging to cows of their brand are properly marked with the hotiron and with the ear-slit, check up the number of yearlings for thebenefit of their employers, and take charge of such of the cattle it isconsidered advisable to drive back to the home ranch. 

So much sentimental nonsense has been talked of the cruelty of brandingand slitting calves that it is worth while here, perhaps, to statepositively that the branding irons do not penetrate the skin and servesimply to burn the roots of the hair so that the bald marks will showto which ranch the calf belongs. There is little pain to the calfattached to the operation, and one rarely if ever even sees a calflicking its brand after it has been applied; and, as is well known, thecow's remedy for an injury, like that of a dog, is always to lick it. Asto the ear-slitting, used by most ranches as a check on their brands, itmay be said that if the human ear is somewhat callous to pain--as itis--the cow's ear is even more so. One may slice a cow's ear in half ina certain way and she will feel only slight pain, not sufficient to makeher give voice. The slitting of a cow's ear draws very little blood. 

While I am on the subject, --it was amusing to note the unboundedastonishment of the cattlemen of Arizona a few years ago when somealtruistic society of Boston came forward with a brilliant idea that wasto abolish the cruelty of branding cows entirely. What was the idea? Oh, they were going to hang a collar around the cow's neck, with a brass tagon it to tell the name of the owner. Or, if that wasn't feasible, theythought that a simple ring and tag put through the cow's ear-lobe wouldprove eminently satisfactory! The feelings of the cowboys, when toldthat they would be required to dismount from their horses, walk up toeach cow in turn and politely examine her tag, perhaps with the aid ofspectacles, may be better imagined than described. It is sufficient tosay that the New England society's idea never got further thanMassachusetts, if it was, indeed, used there, which is doubtful. 

The brand is absolutely necessary as long as there is an open range, andthe abolishment of the open range will mean the abandonment of thecow-ranch. At the time I am speaking of the whole of the Territory ofArizona was one vast open range, over the grassy portions of whichcattle belonging to hundreds of different ranches roamed at will. Mostof the big ranches employed a few cowboys the year around to keep thefences in repair and to prevent cows from straying too far from the homerange. The home range was generally anywhere within a twenty-mile radiusof the ranch house. 

The ear-slit was first found necessary because of the activities of therustlers. There were two kinds of these gentry--the kind that ownedranches and passed themselves off as honest ranchers, and the openoutlaws, who drove off cattle by first stampeding them in the Indianmanner, rushed them across the international line and then sold them tonone too scrupulous Mexican ranchers. Of the two it is difficult to saywhich was the most dangerous or the most reviled by the honestcattlemen. The ranches within twenty or thirty miles of the border, perhaps, suffered more from the stampeders than from the small ranchers, but those on the northern ranges had constantly to cope with theactivities of dishonest cattlemen who owned considerably more calvesthan they had cows, as a rule. The difficulty was to prove that thesecalves had been stolen. 

It was no difficult thing to steal cattle successfully, providing therustler exercised ordinary caution. The method most in favor among therustlers was as follows: For some weeks the rustler would ride therange, noting where cows with unbranded calves were grazing. Then, whenhe had ascertained that no cowboys from neighboring ranches were ridingthat way, he would drive these cows and their calves into one of thesecluded and natural corrals with which the range abounds, rope thecalves, brand them with his own brand, hobble and sometimes kill themother cows to prevent them following their offspring, and drive thelatter to his home corral, where in the course of a few weeks they wouldforget their mothers and be successfully weaned. They would then beturned out to graze on the Range. Sometimes when the rustler did notkill the mother cow the calf proved not to have been successfullyweaned, and went back to its mother--the worst possible advertisement ofthe rustler's dirty work. Generally, therefore, the mother cow waskilled, and little trace left of the crime, for the coyotes speedilycleaned flesh, brand and all from the bones of the slain animal. Themotto of most of these rustlers was: "A dead cow tells no tales!"

[Illustration: CADY AND HIS THIRD FAMILY, 1915]

Another method of the rustlers was to adopt a brand much like that of abig ranch near by, and to over-brand the cattle. For instance, a bigranch with thousands of cattle owns the brand Cross-Bar (X--). Therustler adopts the brand Cross L (XL) and by the addition of a verticalmark to the bar in the first brand completely changes the brand. It wasalways a puzzle for the ranchers to find brands that would not be easilychanged. Rustlers engaged in this work invariably took grave chances, for a good puncher could tell a changed brand in an instant, and oftenknew every cow belonging to his ranch by sight, without looking at thebrand. When one of these expert cowboys found a suspicious brand he lostno time hunting up proof, and if he found that there had actually beendirty work, the rustler responsible, if wise, would skip the countrywithout leaving note of his destination, for in the days of which Ispeak the penalty for cow-stealing was almost always death, except whenthe sheriff happened to be on the spot. Since the sheriff was invariablyheart and soul a cattleman himself, he generally took care that hewasn't anywhere in the neighborhood when a cattle thief met his justdeserts. Even now this rule holds effect in the cattle lands. Only twoyears ago a prominent rancher in this country--the Sonoita Range--shotand killed a Mexican who with a partner had been caught red-handed inthe act of stealing cattle. 

With the gradual disappearance of the open range, cattle stealing haspractically stopped, although one still hears at times of cases of thekind, isolated, but bearing traces of the same old methods. Stampedingis, of course, now done away with. 

During the years I worked for D. A. Sanford I had more or less troubleall the time with cattle thieves, but succeeded fairly well in eitherdetecting the guilty ones or in getting back the stolen cattle. I metedout swift and sure justice to rustlers, and before long it becamerumored around that it was wise to let cattle with the D. S. Brand alone. The Sanford brand was changed three times. The D. S. Brand I sold to theVail interests for Sanford, and the Sanford brand was changed to theDipper, which, afterwards, following the closing out of the Sanfordstock, was again altered to the Ninety-Seven (97) brand. Cattle with the97 brand on them still roam the range about the Sonoita. 

 * * * * *

It was to a rodeo similar to the one which I have attempted to describethat Jesus Mabot and I departed following the incident of the selling ofthe sheep. We were gone a week. When we returned I put up my horse andwas seeing that he had some feed when a shout from Jesus, whom I hadsent to find the Chinese gardener to tell him we needed something toeat, came to my ears. 

"Oyez, Senor Cady!" Jesus was crying, "El Chino muerte. "

I hurried down to the field where Mabot stood and found him gazing atthe Chinaman, who was lying face downward near the fence, quite dead. By the smell and the general lay-out, I reckoned he had been dead somethree days. 

I told Mabot to stay with him and, jumping on my horse, rode toCrittenden, where I obtained a coroner and a jury that would sit on theChinaman's death. The next morning the jury found that he had beenkilled by some person or persons unknown, and let it go at that. 

Two weeks later I had occasion to go to Tucson, and on tying my horseoutside the Italian Brothers' saloon, noticed a man I thought lookedfamiliar sitting on the bench outside. As I came up he pulled his hatover his face so that I could not see it. I went inside, ordered adrink, and looked in the mirror. It gave a perfect reflection of the manoutside, and I saw that he was the Mexican Fernando, whom the Chinesegardener had hired when I had engaged Mabot. I had my suspicions rightthen as to who had killed the Chinaman, but, having nothing by which toprove them, I was forced to let the matter drop. 

Two or three years after this I hired as vaquero a Mexican namedNeclecto, who after a year quit work and went for a visit to Nogales. Neclecto bought his provisions from the Chinaman who kept the store Ihad built on the ranch, and so, as we were responsible for the debt, when Bob Bloxton, son-in-law of Sanford, came to pay the Mexican off, hedid so in the Chinaman's store. 

The next morning Neclecto accompanied Bloxton to the train, and, lookingback, Bob saw, the Mexican and another man ride off in the direction ofthe ranch. After it happened Neclecto owned up that he had been in theChinaman's that night drinking, but insisted that he had left withoutany trouble with the yellow-skinned storekeeper. But from that dayonward the Chinaman was never seen again. 

Bloxton persuaded me to return to the ranch from Nogales and we visitedthe Chinaman's house, where we found the floor dug up as though somebodyhad been hunting treasure. My wife found a $10 gold piece hidden in acrack between the 'dobe bricks and later my son, John, unearthed twelveMexican dollars beneath some manure in the hen-coop. Whether this hadbelonged to the Chinaman, Louey, who had disappeared, or to anotherChinaman who had been staying with him, we could not determine. At anyrate, we found no trace of Louey or his body. 

Even this was not to be the end of the strange series of fatalities toChinamen on the Sanford ranch. In 1897 I quit the Sanford foremanshipafter working for my employer seventeen years, and turned the ranch overto Amos Bloxton, another son-in-law of Sanford. I rented agriculturalland from Sanford and fell to farming. Near my place Crazy John, aChinaman, had his gardens, where he made 'dobe bricks besides growingproduce. 

We were living then in the old store building and the Chinaman wasmaking bricks about a quarter of a mile away with a Mexican whom heemployed. One day we found him dead and the Mexican gone. After that, aswas natural, we could never persuade a Chinaman to live anywhere nearthe place. I later built a house of the bricks the Chinaman was makingwhen he met his death. The Mexican escaped to Sonora, came back when hethought the affair had blown over and went to work for the railroad atSonoita. There he had a fracas with the section foreman, stabbed him andmade off into the hills. Sheriff Wakefield from Tucson came down to getthe man and shot him dead near Greaterville, which ended the incident. 

In the preceding I have mentioned the railroad. This was theBenson-Hermosillo road, built by the Santa Fe and later sold to theSouthern Pacific, which extended the line to San Blas in Coahuila, andwhich is now in process of extending it further to the city of Tepic. Iwas one of those who helped survey the original line from Benson toNogales--I think the date was 1883. 

In future times I venture to state that this road will be one of thebest-paying properties of the Southern Pacific Company, which has hadthe courage and foresight to open up the immensely rich empire ofWestern Mexico. The west coast of Mexico is yet in the baby stage of itsdevelopment. The revolutions have hindered progress there considerably, but when peace comes at last and those now shouldering arms for thisand that faction in the Republic return to the peaceful vocations theyowned before the war began, there is no doubt that the world will standastonished at the riches of this, at present, undeveloped country. Thereare portions of the West Coast that have never been surveyed, that areinhabited to this day with peaceful Indians who have seldom seen a whiteface. The country is scattered with the ruins of wonderful temples andcathedrals and, doubtless, much of the old Aztec treasure still liesburied for some enterprising fortune-seeker to unearth. There are alsoimmense forests of cedar and mahogany and other hard woods to be cut;and extensive areas of land suitable for sugar planting and otherfarming to be brought under cultivation. When all this is opened up theWest Coast cannot help taking its place as a wonderfully rich andproductive region. 

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 3: The term "cowpuncher" is not common in Arizona as inMontana, but the Arizona cowboys are sometimes called "vaqueros. "]

IN AGE THE CRICKET CHIRPS AND BRINGS--

 _A faltering step on life's highway, A grip on the bottom rung; A few good deeds done here and there, And my life's song is sung. It's not what you get in pelf that counts, It's not your time in the race, For most of us draw the slower mounts, And our deeds can't keep the pace. It's for each what he's done of kindness, And for each what he's done of cheer, That goes on the Maker's scorebook With each succeeding year. _ --WOON. 

While I was farming on the Sanford ranch a brother-in-law of D. A. Sanford, Frank Lawrence by name, came to live with me. Frank was asplendid fellow and we were fast friends. 

One day during the Rodeo we were out where the vaqueros were working andon our return found our home, a 'dobe house, burned down, and all ourbelongings with it, including considerable provisions. My loss wasslight, for in those days I owned a prejudice against acquiring any moreworldly goods than I could with comfort pack on my back; but Frank losta trunk containing several perfectly good suits of clothes and variousother more or less valuable articles which he set great store by, besides over a hundred dollars in greenbacks. We hunted among the ruins, of course, but not a vestige of anything savable did we find. 

Three days later, however, Sanford himself arrived and took one look atthe ruins. Then, without a word, he started poking about with his stick. From underneath where his bed had been he dug up a little box containingseveral hundred dollars in greenbacks, and from the earth beneath thecharred ruins of the chest of drawers he did likewise. Then he stood upand laughed at us. I will admit that he had a perfect right to laugh. He, the one man of the three of us who could best afford to loseanything, was the only man whose money had been saved. Which only goesto prove the proverbial luck of the rich man. 

Not long after this experience I moved to Crittenden, where I farmedawhile, running buggy trips to the mines in the neighborhood as a sideline. 

One day a man named Wheeler, of Wheeler & Perry, a Tucson merchandiseestablishment, came to Crittenden and I drove him out to Duquesne. Onthe way Wheeler caught sight of a large fir-pine tree growing on theslope of a hill. He pointed to it and said:

"Say, John, I'd give something to have that tree in my house atChristmas. "

It was then a week or so to the twenty-fifth of December. 

I glanced at the tree and asked him:

"You would, eh? Now, about how much would you give?"

"I'd give five dollars, " he said. 

"Done!" I said. "You give me five dollars and count that tree yours forChristmas!" And we shook hands on it. 

A few days later I rigged up a wagon, took along three Mexicans withaxes, and cut a load of Christmas trees--I think there were some threehundred in the load. Then I drove the wagon to Tucson and afterdelivering Wheeler his especial tree and receiving the stipulated fivedollars for it, commenced peddling the rest on the streets. 

And, say! Those Christmas trees sold like wildfire. Everybody wantedone. I sold them for as low as six-bits and as high as five dollars, andbefore I left pretty nearly everybody in Tucson owned one of my trees. 

When I counted up I found that my trip had netted me, over and aboveexpenses, just one thousand dollars. 

This, you will have to admit, was some profit for a load of Christmastrees. Sad to relate, however, a year later when I tried to repeat theperformance, I found about forty other fellows ahead of me loaded to theguards with Christmas trees of all kinds and sizes. For a time Christmastrees were cheaper than mesquite brush as the overstocked crowdendeavored to unload on an oversupplied town. I escaped with my outfitand my life but no profits--that time. 

 * * * * *

On December 15, 1900, I moved to Patagonia, which had just been born onthe wave of the copper boom. I rented a house, which I ran successfullyfor one year, and then started the building of the first wing of thePatagonia Hotel, which I still own and run; together with a dance-hall, skating rink and restaurant. Since that first wing was built the hotelhas changed considerably in appearance, for whenever I got far enoughahead to justify it, I built additions. I think I may say that now thehotel is one of the best structures of its kind in the county. I amconsidering the advisability of more additions, including a largeskating rink and dance-hall, but the copper situation does not justifyme in the outlay at present. 

I am entirely satisfied with my location, however. Patagonia is not alarge place, but it is full of congenial friends and will one day, whenthe copper industry again finds its feet, be a large town. It is in thevery heart of the richest mining zone in the world, if the assayers areto be believed. Some of the mining properties, now nearly alltemporarily closed down, are world-famous--I quote for example the ThreeR. , the World's Fair, the Flux, the Santa Cruz, the Hardshell, theHarshaw, the Hermosa, the Montezuma, the Mansfield and the Mowry. 

This last, nine miles from Patagonia, was a producer long before theCivil War. Lead and silver mined at the Mowry were transported toGalveston to be made into bullets for the war--imagine being hit with asilver bullet! In 1857 Sylvester Mowry, owner of the Mowry mine and oneof the earliest pioneers of Arizona, was chosen delegate to Congress bypetition of the people, but was not admitted to his seat. Mowry wassubsequently banished from Arizona by Commander Carleton and his mineconfiscated for reasons which were never quite clear. 

 * * * * *

My purpose in writing these memoirs is two-fold: First, I desired thatmy children should have a record which could be referred to by themafter I am gone; and, secondly, that the State of Arizona, my adoptedhome, should be the richer for the possession of the facts I have at mydisposal. 

I want the reader to understand that even though the process ofevolution has taken a life-time, I cannot cease wondering at themarvelous development of the Territory and, later, State of Arizona. When I glance back over the vista of years and see the old, and thenopen my eyes to survey the new, it is almost as though a Verne or aHaggard sketch had come to life. 

Who, in an uneventful stop-over at Geronimo, Graham county, wouldbelieve that these same old Indians who sit so peacefully mouthing theircigarros at the trading store were the terrible Apaches of formerdays--the same avenging demons who murdered emigrants, fought themodernly-equipped soldier with bow and arrow, robbed and looted rightand left and finally were forced to give in to their greatest enemy, Civilization. And who shall begin to conjecture the thoughts that nowand again pass through the brains of these old Apache relics, living nowso quietly on the bounty of a none-too-generous government? What dreamsof settlement massacres, of stage robberies, of desperate fights, theymay conjure up until the wheezy arrival of the Arizona Easternlocomotive disperses their visions with the blast of sordid actuality!

For the Arizona that I knew back in the Frontier days was the embodimentof the Old West--the West of sudden fortune and still more sudden death;the West of romance and of gold; of bad whiskey and doubtful women; ofthe hardy prospector and the old cattleman, who must gaze a little sadlyback along the trail as they near the end of it, at thought of the daysthat may never come again. 

And now I myself am reaching the end of my long and eventful journey, and I can say, bringing to mind my youth and all that followed it, thatI have _lived_, really _lived_, and I am content. 

THE END. 

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