Class F S i 1 
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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
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 JOHN H. CADY, 68 YEARS, SOLDIER OF FORTUNE, ON THE 
 SONOITA, DECEMBER, 1914 
 
ARIZONA'S YESTERDAY 
 
 THE NARRATIVE OF 
 
 JOHN H. CADY 
 
 PIONEER 
 
 4»4» 
 
 Rewritten and Revised by 
 
 Basil Dillon Woon 
 1915 
 
.C>3 
 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 By John H. Cady. 
 
 4' 
 
 APR -7 1916 
 
 CH> 
 
 9aA4284a8 
 
 1<^. f < 
 
TO 
 THE PIONEERS WHO ARE LIVING 
 
 r 
 
 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 the literature about Arizona there 
 was little that attempted to give a straight, chrono- 
 logical and intimate description of events that oc- 
 curred during the early life of the Territory, and, 
 second, that of all the men I knew, Cady was best 
 fitted, by reason of his extraordinary experiences, 
 remarkable memory for names and dates, and senior- 
 ity in pioneership, to supply the work that I felt 
 lacking. 
 
 Some years ago, when I first came West, I hap- 
 pened to be sitting on the observation platform of 
 a train bound for the orange groves of Southern 
 California. A lady with whom I had held some 
 slight conversation on the journey turned to me 
 after we had left Tucson and had started on the 
 long and somewhat dreary journey across the desert 
 that stretches from the ''Old Puebla" to ''San Ber- 
 doo," 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 changed crews and had been im- 
 pressed by the — to the casual observer — sleepiness 
 
6 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 of the ancient town. She told me that never again 
 would she look on a "wild West" moving picture 
 without wanting to laugh. She would not believe 
 that there had ever been a ''wild West" — at least, 
 not in Arizona. And yet it is history that the old 
 Territory of Arizona in days g'one by was the 
 ''wildest and woolliest" of all the West, as any old 
 settler will testify. 
 
 There is no doubt that to the tourist the West is 
 now a source of constant disappointment. The 
 "movies" and certain literature have educated the 
 Easterner to the belief that even now Indians go on 
 the war-path occasionally, that even now cow-boys 
 sometimes find an outlet for their exuberant spirits 
 in the hair-raising sport of "shooting up the town," 
 and that even now battles between the law-abiding 
 cattlemen and the "rustlers" are more or less fre- 
 quent. When these people come west in their com- 
 fortable Pullmans and discover nothing more inter- 
 esting in the shape of Indians than a few old squaws 
 selling trinkets and blankets on station platforms, as 
 at Yuma; when they visit one of the famous old 
 towns where in days gone by white men were wont 
 to sleep with one eye and an ear open for marauding 
 Indians, and find electric cars, modern office build- 
 ings, paved streets crowded with luxurious motors, 
 and the inhabitants nonchalantly pursuing the even 
 tenor of their ways garbed in habiliments strongly 
 suggestive of Forty-fourth street and Broadway; 
 when they come West and note these signs of an 
 
Preface 7 
 
 advancing- and all-conquering civilization, I say, 
 they invariably are disappointed. One lady I met 
 even thought ''how delightful" it would be ''if the 
 Apaches would only hold up the train!" It failed 
 altogether to occur to her that, in the days when 
 wagon-trains were held up by Apaches, few of those 
 in them escaped to tell the gruesome tale. And yet 
 this estimable lady, fresh from the drawing-rooms 
 of Upper-Radcliffe-on-the-Hudson and the ballroom 
 of Rector's, thought how ''delightful" this would 
 be! Ah, fortunate indeed is it that the pluck and 
 persistence of the pioneers carved a way of peace 
 for the pilgrims of today ! 
 
 Considering the foregoing, such a book as this, 
 presenting as it does in readable form the Arizona 
 West as it really zms, is, in my opinion, most oppor- 
 tune and fills a real need. The people have had 
 fiction stories from the capable pens of Stewart Ed- 
 ward White and his companions in the realm of 
 w^estern literature, and have doubtless enjoyed their 
 refreshing atmosphere and daring, originality, but, 
 despite this, fiction localized in the West and founded 
 however-much on fact, does riot supply all the needs 
 of the Eastern reader, who demands the truth about 
 those old days, presented in a compact and intimate 
 form. I cannot too greatly emphasize that word 
 ''intimate," for it signifies to me the quality that has 
 been most lacking in authoritative works on the 
 Western country. 
 
 Wlien I first met Captain Cady I found him the 
 
8 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 very personification of what he ought not to have 
 been, considering the fact that he is one of the oldest 
 pioneers in Arizona. Instead of peacefully awaiting 
 the close of a long and active career in some old 
 soldiers' home, I found him energetically superin- 
 tending the hotel he owns at Patagonia, Santa Cruz 
 county — and with a badly burned hand, at that. 
 There he was, with a characteristic chef's top-dress 
 on him (Cady is well known as a first-class cook), 
 standing behind the wood-fire range himself, per- 
 mitting no one else to do the cooking, allowing no 
 one else to shoulder the responsibilities that he, as a 
 man decidedly in the autumn of life, should by all 
 the rules of the ''game" have long since relinquished. 
 Where this grizzled old Indian fighter, near his 
 three-score-and-ten, should have been white-haired, 
 he was but gray ; where he should have been inflicted 
 with the kindred illnesses of advancing old age he 
 simply owned up, and sheepishly at that, to a burned 
 hand. Where he should have been willing to lay 
 down his share of civic responsibility and let the 
 "young fellows" have a go at the game, he w'as as 
 ever on the firing-line, his name in the local paper a 
 half-dozen times each week. Oh, no, it is wrong to 
 say that John H. Cady zms a fighter — wrong in the 
 spirit of it, for, you see, he is very much of a fighter, 
 now. He has lost not one whit of that aggressive- 
 ness and sterling courage that he always has owned, 
 the only difference being that, instead of fighting 
 Indians and bad men, he is now fighting the forces 
 
Preface 9 
 
 of evil within his own tow^n and contesting, as well, 
 the grim advances made by the relentless Reaper. 
 
 In travels that have taken me over a good slice 
 of Mother Earth, and that 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 of John 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 true 
 American. He is a man anybody would far sooner 
 have with him than against him in a controversy. 
 If so far as world-standards go he has not achieved 
 fame — I had rather call it ''notoriety" — it is because 
 of the fact 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 its infantile 
 civilization, this hardy pioneer should be honored 
 by the present generation and his name handed 
 down to posterity as that of one who fought the 
 good fight of progress, and fought well, with 
 weapons which if perhaps crude and clumsy — as the 
 age was crude and clumsy judged by Twentieth 
 Century standards — were at least most remarkably 
 efTective. 
 
 The subject of this autobiography has traveled 
 to many out of the way places and accomplished 
 many remarkable things, but the most astonishing 
 thing about him is the casual and unaffected way in 
 which he, in retrospect, views his extraordinarily 
 active life. He talks to me as unconcernedly of 
 
10 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 tramping hundreds of miles across a barren desert 
 peopled with hostile Indians as though it were 
 merely a street-car trip up the thoroughfares of one 
 of Arizona's progressive cities. He talks of des- 
 perate rides through a wild and dangerous country, 
 of little scraps, as he terms them, with bands of mur- 
 derous Apaches, of meteoric rises from hired hand 
 to ranch foreman, of adventurous expeditions into 
 the realm of trade when everything was a risk in a 
 land of uncertainty, of journeys through a foreign 
 and wild country ''dead broke" — of these and many 
 similar things, as though they were commonplace 
 incidents scarcely worthy of mention. 
 
 Yet the story of Cady's life is, I venture to state, 
 one of the most gripping and interesting ever told, 
 both from an historical and from a human point of 
 view. It illustrates vividly the varied fortunes en- 
 countered by an adventurous pioneer of the old days 
 in Arizona and contains, besides, historical facts not 
 before recorded that cannot help making 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 
 and its 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 
 
 V Cady and his Family 108 
 
ARIZONA'S YESTERDAY 
 
 THE BOY SOLDIER 
 
 ''For the right that needs assistance, 
 For the zvrong 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 between the North 
 and the South of the ''United States of 
 America," before there came the terrific clash of 
 steel and muscle in front of which the entire world 
 retreated to a distance, horrified, amazed, fascinated 
 and confounded; before there came the dreadful day 
 when families were estranged and birthrights sur- 
 rendered, loves sacrificed and the blight of the bullet 
 placed on hundreds of thousands of sturdy hearts — 
 fourteen years before this, on the banks of the 
 mighty Ohio at Cincinnati, I was born, on Septem- 
 ber 15, 1846. My parents were John N. Cady, of 
 Cincinnati, and Maria Clingman Cad^v, who was of 
 German descent, and of whom I remember little 
 owing to the fact that she died when I reached my 
 third birthday. 
 
 Ah, Cincinnati! To me you shall always be my 
 City of EXestiny, for it was within your boundaries 
 
14 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 that I, boy and man, met my several fates. One sent 
 me through the turmoil and suffering of the Civil 
 War; another sent me westward mounted on the 
 wings of youthful hope and ambition. For that 
 alone I am ever in the debt of Ohio's fairest city, 
 which I hope to see again some day before there 
 sounds for me the Taps. . . . But I do not 
 know. The tide of life is more than past its ebb for 
 me and I should be thinking more of a quiet rest on 
 the hillside, my face turned to the turquoise blue of 
 Arizona's matchless infinity, than to the treading 
 again of noisy city streets in the country of my 
 birth. 
 
 But this is to be a story of Arizona, and I must 
 hasten through the events that occurred prior to my 
 leaving for the West. When I had reached three 
 years of age my father married again — a milliner — 
 and moved to Philadelphia. My grandmother, who 
 had raised me practically from birth, removed with 
 me to Maysville in Kentucky, where I was sent to 
 school. Some of my pleasantest memories now are 
 of that period in the old-fashioned Kentucky river 
 town. 
 
 Just after my ninth birthday my father came back 
 to Maysville, claimed me, took me to Philadelphia 
 with him and afterwards turned me over to one Wil- 
 liam Turner, his wife's brother, who was the owner 
 of a farm on the eastern shore of Maryland. I 
 stayed at the Turner farm until the outbreak of the 
 Civil War in the fall of '61, when mv father, who 
 
The Boy Soldier 15 
 
 was then working for Devlin & Son, clothiers, with 
 headquarters at Broadway and Warren streets, New 
 York City, enlisted in Duryea's Zouaves as orderly 
 sergeant in Company K. The Zouaves wintered at 
 Federal Hill, Baltimore, and I joined my father and 
 the regiment there. In the spring w'e moved to 
 Washington, joining there the great Army of the 
 Potomac, with which we stayed during that army's 
 succession of magnificent battles, until after the 
 Fredericksburg fight in '63. 
 
 In Washington we were quartered at Arlington 
 Heights and I remember that I used to make pocket 
 money by buying papers at the Washington railway 
 depot and selling them on the Heights. The papers 
 were, of course, full of nothing but war news, some 
 of them owing their initial publication to the war, 
 so great was the public's natural desire for news of 
 the titanic struggle that w^as engulfing the continent. 
 Then, as now, there were many conflicting state- 
 ments as to the movements of troops, and so forth, 
 but the war correspondents had full rein to write as 
 they pleased, and the efforts of some of them stand 
 out in my memory today as marvels of word-paint- 
 ing 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 was then 
 making preparations for his famous ''march to the 
 sea," left for Kentucky. At Aguire Creek, near 
 Washington, I purchased a cargo of apples for 
 
16 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 $900 — m}^ first of two exceedingly profitable ven- 
 tures in the apple-selling industry — and, after sell- 
 ing them at a handsome profit, followed Sherman's 
 reinforcements as far as Cincinnati. I did not at 
 this time stay long in the city of my birth, going in 
 a few days to Camp Nelson, Ky., where I obtained 
 work driving artillery horses to Atlanta and bring- 
 ing back to Chattanooga condemned army stock. 
 Even at that time — 1864 — the proud old city of At- 
 lanta felt the shadow of its impending 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 October 12, in the California Rocky 
 Mountain service. Before this, however, I had 
 shipped in the Ram Vindicator of the Mississippi 
 Squadron and after being transferred to the gun- 
 boat Syren had helped move the navy yard from 
 Mound City, 111., to Jefferson Barracks, St. Louis, 
 Mo., where it still is. 
 
 I was drafted in the First United States Cavalry 
 and sent to Carlisle Barracks in Pennsylvania, from 
 which place I traveled to New Orleans, where I 
 joined my reg'iment. I was allotted to Company C 
 and remember my officers to have been Captain 
 Dean, First Lieutenant Vail and Second Lieutenant 
 Winters. Soon after my arrival in New Orleans we 
 commenced our journey to California, then the 
 golden country of every man's dreams and the 
 Mecca of every man's ambition. 
 
FOLLOWING THE ARGONAUTS 
 
 So it's Westward Ho! for the land of zvorth, 
 
 Where the "is," not ''zvas'' 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 car- 
 ried us from the Isthmus of Panama (we 
 had journeyed to the Isthmus from New 
 Orleans in the little transport McClellan), steamed 
 through the Golden Gate and anchored off the Pre- 
 sidio I looked with great eagerness and curiosity on 
 the wonderful city known in those days as "the 
 toughest hole on earth," of which I had read and 
 heard so much and which I had so longed to see. I 
 saw a city rising on terraces from the smooth 
 waters of a glorious bay whose wavelets were tem- 
 pered by a sunshine that was as brilliant as it was 
 ineffective against the keen sea-breeze of winter. 
 The fog that had obscured our sight outside the 
 Golden Gate was now gone — vanished like the mist- 
 wraiths of the long-ago philosophers, and the glo- 
 rious city of San Francisco was revealed to view. 
 
18 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 I say "glorious," but the term must be understood 
 to apply only to the city's surroundings, which were 
 in truth magnificent. She looked like some imperial 
 goddess, her forehead encircled by the faint band of 
 mist that still lingered caressingly to the mountain 
 tops, her countenance glistening with the dew on 
 the green hill-slopes, her garments quaintly fash- 
 ioned for her by the civilization that had brought 
 her into being, her slippers the lustrous waters of 
 the Bay itself. Later I came to know that she, too, 
 was a goddess of moods, and dangerous moods; 
 a coquette to some, a love to others, and to many a 
 heartless vampire that sucked from them their hard- 
 wrung dust, scattered their gold to the four winds 
 of avarice that ever circled enticingly about the vor- 
 tex of shallow joys that the City harbored, and, 
 after intoxicating them with her beauty and her 
 wine, flung them aside to make ready for the next 
 comer. Too well had San Francisco merited the 
 title I give it in the opening lines of this chapter. 
 Some say that the earthquake and the fire came like 
 vitriol cast on the features of a beautiful woman for 
 the prostitution of 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 it is 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 
 Barbaree claimed my youthful attention. But I 
 remember a city as evil within as it was lovely with- 
 
Following the Argonauts 19 
 
 out, a city where were gathered the very dregs of 
 humanity from the four corners of the earth. What 
 Port Said is now, San Francisco was then, only 
 worse. For every crime that is committed in the 
 dark alleys of the Suez port or the equally murky 
 callejons of the pestholes of Mexico, four were com- 
 mitted in the beautiful Californian town when I first 
 went there. Women as well as men carried "hard- 
 ware" strapped outside, and scarcely one who had 
 not at some time found this precaution useful. The 
 city abounded with footpads and ruffians of every 
 nationality and description, whose prices for cutting 
 a throat or "rolling a stiff" depended on the cupidity 
 of the moment or on the quantity of liquor their 
 capacious stomachs held. Scores of killings occurred 
 and excited little comment. 
 
 Thousands of men were daily passing in and out 
 of the city, drawn by the lure of the Sierra gold- 
 fields; some of these came back with the joy of 
 dreams come true and full pokes hung around their 
 necks, some came with the misery of utter failure in 
 their hearts, and some — alas, they were many, re- 
 turned not at all. 
 
 The Barbary Coast was fast gaining for itself an 
 unenviable reputation throughout the world. Every 
 time one walked on Pacific street with any money 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 
 
20 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 sums as commissions on drinks their consorts could 
 be persuaded to buy. Hundreds of thousands of dol- 
 lars were spent nightly in the great temples devoted 
 to gambling, and there men risked on the luck of a 
 moment or the turn of a painted wheel fortunes 
 wrung from the soil by months and sometimes years 
 of terrific work in the diggings. The most famous 
 gamblers of the West at that time made their head- 
 quarters in San Francisco, and they came from all 
 countries. England contributed not a few of these 
 gentlemen traders in the caprices of fortune, France 
 her quota, Germany very few and China many; but 
 these last possessed the dives, the lowest kind of 
 gambling places, where men went only when they 
 were desperate and did not care. 
 
 We were not at this time, however, to be given an 
 opportunity to see as much of San Francisco as most 
 of us would have liked. After a short stay at the 
 Presidio we were sent to Wilmington, then a small 
 port in the southern part of the State but now incor- 
 porated^ in the great city of Los Angeles. Here we 
 drew our horses for the long trek across the desert 
 to our future home in the Territory of Arizona. 
 There was no railroad at that time in California, the 
 line not even having been surveyed as far as San 
 Jose, which was already a city but, instead of being, 
 as now, the market-place for a dozen fertile and 
 beautiful valleys, she was then merely an outfitting 
 point for parties of travelers, prospectors, cattlemen 
 
Following the Argonauts 21 
 
 and the like, and was also a station and terminus for 
 various stage lines. 
 
 Through San Jose, too, came those of the gold- 
 seekers, bound for the high Sierras on the border 
 of the desert, who had not taken the Sacramento 
 River route and had decided to brave instead the 
 dangers of the trail through the fertile San Joaquin, 
 up to the Feather River and thus into the diggings 
 about Virginia City. Gold had been found by that 
 time in Nevada and hundreds of intrepid men were 
 facing the awful Mojave and Nevada deserts, 
 blazing hot in day-time and icy cold at night, to 
 seek the new Eldorados. Since this is a book about 
 pioneers, and since I am one of them, it is fitting to 
 stay awhile and consider what civilization owes to 
 these daring souls who formed the vanguard of her 
 army. Cecil Rhodes opened an Empire by mobilizing 
 a black race; Jim Hill opened another when he struck 
 westward with steel rails. But the pioneers of the 
 early gold rushes created an empire of immense 
 riches with no other aid than their own gnarled 
 hands and sturdy hearts. They opened up a country 
 as vast as it w)as rich, and wrested from the very 
 bosom of Mother Earth treasures that had been in 
 her jealous keeping for ages before the era of Man. 
 They braved sudden death, death from thirst and 
 starvation, death from prowling savages, death 
 from the wild creatures, — all that the works of man 
 might flourish where they had not feared to tread. 
 
22 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 It is the irony of fate that these old pioneers, 
 many of whom hated civiHzation and were fleeing 
 from her guiles, should have been the advance- 
 guard of the very Power they sought to avoid. 
 
 The vast empire of Western America is strewn 
 with the bones of these men. Some of them lie in 
 kindly resting places, the grass over their graves 
 kept green by loving friends; some lie uncared for 
 in potters' fields or in the cemeteries of homes for 
 the aged, and some — a vast horde — still lie bleached 
 and grim, the hot sand drifted over them by the 
 desert winds. 
 
 But, wherever they lie, all honor to the pioneer! 
 There should be a day set apart on which every 
 American should revere the memory of those men 
 of long ago who hewed the way for the soft paths 
 that fall to the generation of today. 
 
 What San Bernardino is now to the west-bound 
 traveler, Wilmington was then — the end of the des- 
 ert. From Wilmington eastward stretched one tre- 
 mendous ocean of sand, interspersed here and there 
 by majestic mountains in the fastnesses of which 
 little fertile valleys with clear mountain streams 
 were to be discovered later by the pioneer home- 
 steaders. Where now are miles upon miles of yel- 
 low-fruited orange and lemon groves, betraying the 
 care and knowledge of a later generation of scien- 
 tific farmers, were then only dreary, barren wastes, 
 with only the mountains and clumps of sagebrush, 
 
Following the Argonauts 23 
 
 soapwieed, cacti, creosote bushes and mesquite to 
 break the everlasting monotony of the prospect. 
 
 Farming- then, indeed, was almost as little thought 
 of as irrigation, for men's minds were fixed on the 
 star of whitest brilliancy^ — Gold. Men even made 
 fortunes in the diggings and returned East and 
 bought farms, never realizing that what might be 
 pushed above the soil of California was destined to 
 prove of far greater consequence than anything men 
 would ever find hidden beneath. 
 
 The march to Arizona was both difficult and dan- 
 gerous, and was to be attempted safely only by large 
 parties. Water was scarce and wells few and far 
 between, and there were several stretches as, for 
 instance, that between what are now known as the 
 Imperial Mountains and Yuma, of more than sixty 
 miles with no water at all. The well at Dos Palmas 
 was not dug until a later date. Across these 
 stretches the traveler had to depend on what water 
 he could manage to pack in a canteen strung around 
 his waist or on his horse or mule. On the march 
 were often to be seen, as they are still, those won- 
 derful desert mirages of which so much has been 
 written by explorers and scientists. Sometimes 
 these took the form of lakes, fringed with palms, 
 which tantalized and ever kept mockingly at a dis- 
 tance. Many the desert traveler who has been 
 cruelly deceived by these mirages! 
 
 Yuma, of which I have just spoken, is famed for 
 many reasons. For one thing, the story that United 
 
24 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 States army officers "raised the temperature of the 
 place thirty degrees" to be reHeved from duty there, 
 has been laughed at wherever Americans have been 
 wont to congregate. And that old story told by 
 Sherman, of the soldier who died at Yuma after 
 living a particularly vicious existence here below, 
 and who soon afterwards telegraphed from Hades 
 for his blankets, has also done much to heighten the 
 reputation of the little city, which sometimes still 
 has applied to it the distinction of being the hottest 
 place in the United States. This, however, is 
 scarcely correct, as many places in the Southwest — 
 Needles in California, and the Imperial Valley are 
 examples — have often demonstrated higher temper- 
 atures than have ever been known at Yuma. A sum- 
 mer at the little Colorado River town is quite hot 
 enough, however, to please the most tropical sav- 
 age. It may be remarked here, in justice to the rest 
 of the State, that the temperature of Yuma is not 
 typical of Arizona as a whole. In the region I now 
 live in — the Sonoita Valley in the southeastern part 
 of the State, and in portions around Prescott, the 
 summer temperatures are markedly cool and tem- 
 perate. 
 
 Yuma, how'ever, is not famed for its temperature 
 alone; in fact, that feature of its claim to notice is 
 least to be considered. The real noteworthy fact 
 about Yuma from a historical point of view is that, 
 as Arizona City, it was one of the earliest-settled 
 points in the Territory and was at first easily the 
 
Following the Argonauts 25 
 
 most important. The route of the major portion of 
 the Forty-Niners took them across the Colorado 
 River where Fort Yuma was situated on the Cah- 
 fornia side; and the trend of exploration, business 
 and commerce a few years later flowed westward to 
 Yuma over the picturesque plains of the Gadsden 
 Purchase. The famous California Column ferried 
 itself across the Colorado at Yuma, and later on the 
 Overland Mail came through the settlement. It is 
 now a division point on the Southern Pacific Rail- 
 way, just across the line from California, and has a 
 population of three or four thousand. 
 
 At the time I first saw the place there was only 
 Fort Yuma, on the California side of the river, and 
 a small settlement on the Arizona side called Ari- 
 zona City. It had formerly been called Colorado 
 City, but the name was changed when the town was 
 permanently settled. There were two ferries in op- 
 eration at Yuma when our company arrived there, 
 one of them run by the peaceable Yuma Indians and 
 the other by a company headed by Don Diego Jaeger 
 and Hartshorne. Fort Yuma had been established 
 in 1851 by Major Heintzelman, U.S.A., but owing 
 to scurvy (see De Long's history of Arizona) and 
 the great difficulty in getting supplies, the Colorado 
 River being then uncharted for traflic, it was ahan- 
 doned and not permanently re-established until a 
 year later, when Major Heintzelman returned from 
 San Diego. The townsite of Colorado City was 
 laid out in 1854, but floods wiped out the town witli 
 
26 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 the result that a permanent settlement, called Ari- 
 zona 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, which arrived in 1852. Of all 
 this I can tell, of course, only by hearsay, but there 
 is no doubt that the successful voyage of the Uncle 
 Sam to Y^ma established the importance of that 
 place and gave it pre-eminence over any other ship- 
 ping point into the territories for a long time. 
 
 Until the coming of the railroad, supplies for Ari- 
 zona were shipped from San Francisco to the mouth 
 of the Colorado and ferried from there up the river 
 to Yuma, being there transferred to long wagon 
 trains which traveled across the plains to Tucson, 
 which was then the distributing point 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 an ordinary eastern vil- 
 lage. Prescott, which was the first Territorial 
 Capital; Tubac, considered by many the oldest set- 
 tled town in Arizona, near which the famous mines 
 worked by Sylvester Mowry were located; Ehren- 
 berg, an important stage point ; Sacaton, in the Pima 
 and Maricopa Indian country, and other small set- 
 tlements such as Apache Pass, which was a fort, 
 were already in existence. The Gadsden Purchase 
 having been of very recent date, most of the popu- 
 lation was Indian, after which came the Mexicans 
 
Following the Argonauts 27 
 
 and Spaniards and then the Americans, who arro- 
 gantly termed themselves the Whites, although the 
 Spaniards possessed fully as white a complexion as 
 the average pioneer from the eastern states. Until 
 recently the Indian dominated the white man in Ari- 
 zona in point of numbers, but fortunately only one 
 Indian race — the Apache — showed unrelenting hos- 
 tility to the white man and his works. Had all the 
 Arizona Indians been as hostile as were the Apaches, 
 the probabilities are that the settlement of Arizona 
 by the whites would have been of far more recent 
 date, for in instance after instance the Americans 
 in Arizona were obliged to rely on the help of the 
 peaceful Indians to combat the rapacious Apaches. 
 Yuma is the place where the infamous ''Doc" 
 Glanton and his gang operated. This was long be- 
 fore my time, and as the province of this book is 
 merely to tell the story of life in the Territory as I 
 saw it, it has no place within these pages. It may, 
 however, be mentioned that Glanton was the leader 
 of a notorious gang of freebooters who established 
 a ferry across the Colorado at Yuma and used it as 
 a hold-up scheme to trap unwary emigrants. The 
 Yuma Indians also operated a ferry, for which they 
 had hired as pilot a white man, whom some asserted 
 to have been a deserter from the United States 
 army. One day Glanton and his gang, angered at 
 the successful rivalry of the Indians, fell on them 
 and slew the pilot. The Glanton gang was subse- 
 quently wiped out by the Indians in retaliation. 
 
28 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 When the Gila City gold rush set in Yuma was 
 the point to which the adventurers came to reach 
 the new city. I have heard that as many as three 
 thousand gold seekers congregated at this find, but 
 nothing is now to be seen of the former town but 
 a few old deserted shacks and some Indian wickiups. 
 Gold is still occasionally found in small quantities 
 along the Gila River near this point, but the immense 
 placer deposits have long since disappeared, although 
 experts have been quoted as saying that the com- 
 pany brave enough to explore the fastnesses of the 
 mountains back of the Gila at this point will prob- 
 ably be rewarded by finding rich gold mines. 
 
 I will not dwell on the hardships of that desert 
 march from Yuma to Tucson, for which the rigors 
 of the Civil War had fortunately prepared most of 
 us, further than to say that it was many long, weary 
 days before w^e finally came in sight of the "Old 
 Pueblo." In Tucson I became, soon after our ar- 
 rival, twenty years old. I was a fairly hardy young- 
 ster, too. We camped in Tucson on a piece of 
 ground in the center of the town and soon after our 
 arrival were set to work making a clean, orderly 
 camp-park out of the wilderness of creosote bushes 
 and mesquite. I remember 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 on the site of Tucson's Military Plaza, 
 with an inelegant piece of iron chain dangling un- 
 comfortably from my left leg. Oh, I wasn't a saint 
 
Following the Argonauts 29 
 
 in those days any more than I am a particularly 
 bright candidate for wings and a harp now ! I gave 
 my superior officers fully as much trouble as the 
 rest of 'em ! 
 
 Tucson's Military Plaza, it may be mentioned 
 here, was, as stated, cleared by Company C, First 
 United States Cavalry, and that body of troops w&.s 
 the only lot of soldiery that ever camped on that 
 spot, which is now historic. In after years it was 
 known as Camp Lowell, and that name is still ap- 
 plied to a fort some seven miles east of Tucson. 
 
 Captain Dean had not come with us to Arizona, 
 having been taken ill in California and invalided 
 home. Lieutenant Vail, or, as he was entitled to be 
 called, Brevet-Major Vail, commanded Company C 
 in his absence, and he had under him as fearless a 
 set of men as could have been found anywhere in 
 the country in those days. Vail himself was the 
 highest type of officer — stern and unbending where 
 discipline was concerned, and eminently courageous. 
 Second Lieutenant Winters was a man of the same 
 stamp, and both men became well known in the Ter- 
 ritory within a few months after their arrival be- 
 cause of their numerous and successful forays 
 against marauding Indians. Vail is alive yet, or 
 was a short time ago. 
 
 After some weeks in Tucson, which was then a 
 typical w^estern town peopled by miners, assayers, 
 surveyors, tradespeople, a stray banker or two and, 
 last but not least by any means, gamblers, we were 
 
30 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 moved to old Camp Grant, which was situated sev- 
 eral hundred yards downstream from the point 
 where the Aravaipa Creek runs into^ the San Pedro. 
 Among others whom I remember as living in 
 Tucson or near neighborhood in 1866 were: 
 Henry Glassman, Green Rusk, 
 
 Tom Yerkes, Frank Hodge, 
 
 Lord & Williams, Alex. Levin, 
 
 Pete Kitchen, Bob Crandall, 
 
 — Tongue, — Wheat, 
 
 The Kelsey boys, Smith Turner, 
 
 Sandy McClatchy, "Old" Pike. 
 
 Glassman lived most of the time at Tubac. 
 Yerkes owned the Settlers Store in Tubac. Lord 
 and Williams owned the chief store in Tucson and 
 were agents for the United States Mail. Pete 
 Kitchen was at Potrero Ranch; but Pete, who was 
 more feared by the Indians than any white man in 
 the Territory, deserves a whole chapter to himself. 
 Tongue was a storekeeper. Green Rusk owned a 
 popular dance house. Hodge and Levin had a 
 saloon. Wheat owned a saloon and afterwards a 
 ranch near Florence. The remainder were mostly 
 gamblers, good fellows, every one of them. ''Old 
 Pike" especially was a character whose memory is 
 now fondly cherished by every pioneer who knew 
 him. He could win or lose with the same perpetual 
 joviality, but he generally won. The principal 
 gambling game in those days was Mexican monte, 
 played with forty cards. Poker was also played a 
 
Following the Argonauts 31 
 
 great deal. Keno, faro and roulette were not intro- 
 duced until later, and the same may be said of 
 pangingi, the Scandinavian game. 
 
 There were several tribes of Apaches wintering 
 at Camp Grant the winter we went there, if I remem- 
 ber correctly, among them being the Tontos and 
 Aravaipas. All of them, however, were under the 
 authority of one chief — Old Eskiminzin, one of the 
 "'jnost blood-thirsty and vindictive of all the old 
 Apache leaders. The Government fed these Apaches 
 well during the winter in return for pledges they 
 made to keep the peace. This was due to the altru- . 
 ism of some mistaken gentlemen in the councils of 
 authority in the East, who knew nothing of condi- 
 tions in the Territory and who wrongly believed 
 that the word of an Apache Indian would hold good. 
 We, who knew the Indian, understood differently, 
 but we were obliged to obey orders, even though 
 these were responsible in part for the many Indian 
 tragedies that followed. 
 
 The Apache was a curious character. By nature 
 a nomad, by temperament a fighter, and from birth 
 a hater of the white man, he saw nothing good in 
 the ways of civilization except that which fed him, 
 and he took that only as a means to an end. Often 
 an Indian chief would solemnly swear to keep the 
 peace with his 'Svhite brethren" for a period of 
 months, and the next day go forth on a marauding 
 expedition and kill as many of his beloved "breth- 
 ren" as he could lay his hands on. Every dead 
 
32 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 white man was a feather in some Apache's head- 
 dress, for so they regarded it. 
 
 One day Chief Eskiminzin appeared with a pro- 
 test from the tribes against the quahty of the rations 
 they were receiving. It was early spring and the 
 protest, as we well knew, was merely his way of 
 saying that the Indians were no longer dependent on 
 what the government offered but could now hunt 
 their own meat. Our commanding officer endeav- 
 ored to placate the old chief, who went back for a 
 conference with his men. Then he re-appeared, 
 threw down his rations, the others doing the same, 
 and in a few minutes the entire encampment of 
 Apaches was in the saddle. 
 
 Some little time after they had gone Lieutenant 
 Vail, suspecting trouble, sent a man dow'n the trail 
 to investigate. A few miles away was a ranch 
 owned by a man named Israels. The scout found 
 the ranch devastated, with Israels, his wife and fam- 
 ily brutally slain and all the stock driven off. He 
 reported to Vail, who headed an expedition of retal- 
 iation — the first I ever set forth on. We trailed the 
 Indians several days, finally coming up with them 
 and in a pitched battle killing many of them. 
 
 This was just a sample of the many similar inci- 
 dents that occurred from time to time throughout 
 the Territory. Invariably the Military attempted to 
 find the raiders, and sometimes they were successful. 
 But it seemed impossible to teach the Apaches their 
 lesson, and even now there are sometimes simmer- 
 
Following the Argonauts 33 
 
 ings of discontent among the surviving Apaches on 
 their reservation. They find it difficult to beheve 
 that their day and the day of the remainder of the 
 savage Indian race is gone forever. 
 
 It was during this stay at Fort Grant that Com- 
 pany C was ordered to escort the first Southern Pa- 
 cific survey from Apache Pass, which was a govern- 
 ment fort, to Sacaton, in the Pima Indian country. 
 The route abounded with hostile Apaches and was 
 considered extremely dangerous. I have mentioned 
 this as the ''first Southern Pacific survey," but this 
 does not mean that there were not before that other 
 surveys of a similar character, looking to the estab- 
 lishment of a transcontinental railroad route through 
 the Territory. As early as 1851 a survey was made 
 across Northern Arizona by Captain L. Sitgreaves, 
 approximating nearly the present 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 the Southern Pa- 
 cific survey. At that time, just before the Gadsden 
 treaty, the territory surveyed was in the republic of 
 Mexico. These surveys were all made by order of 
 the then Secretary of War, Jefferson Davis, who 
 aroused a storm of protest in the East against his 
 ''misguided attention to the desolate West." But 
 few statesmen and fewer of the outside public in 
 that day possessed the prophetic vision to perceive 
 the future greatness of what were termed the "arid 
 
34 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 wastes" of Arizona and California. This was shown 
 by the perfect hail of protest that swept to the White 
 House when the terms of the Gadsden Treaty, 
 drawn up by a man who as minister to a great minor 
 republic had had ample opportunities to study at his 
 leisure the nature of the country and the people with 
 whom he dealt, became known. 
 
 This Southern Pacific survey party was under the 
 superintendence of Chief Engineer lego — I believe 
 that is the way he spelled his name- — ^who was recog- 
 nized 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 that the railroad, as it was afterwards 
 built — it reached Tucson in 1880 — did not exactly 
 follow the line of this survey, not touching at Saca- 
 ton. It passed a few miles south of that point, near 
 the famous Casa Grande, where now is a consider- 
 able town. 
 
 Railroad and all other surveying then was an ex- 
 ceedingly hazardous job, especially in Arizona, 
 where so many Indian massacres had already oc- 
 curred and were still to occur. In fact, any kind of 
 a venture that involved traveling, even for a short 
 distance, whether it was a small prospecting or emi- 
 grant's outfit or whether it was a long "train on 
 hoofs," laden with goods of the utmost value, had to 
 be escorted by a squad of soldiers, and often by an 
 
Following the Argonauts 35 
 
 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 white man, and who would 
 go to any lengths to get food. 
 
 Looking back in the light of present day reason- 
 ing, I am bound to say that it would be wrong to 
 blame the Apaches for something their savage and 
 untutored natures could not help. Before the ''pale- 
 face" came to the Territory the Indian was lord of 
 all he surveyed, from the peaks of the mountains 
 down to the distant line of the silvery horizon. He 
 was monarch of the desert and could roam over his 
 demesne without interference save from hostile 
 tribes; and into his very being there was born nat- 
 urally a spirit of freedom which the white man with 
 all his weapons could never kill. He knew the best 
 hunting grounds, he knew where grew excellent 
 fodder for his horses, he knew where water ran the 
 3-ear around, and in the rainy season he knew where 
 the waterholes were to be found. In his wild life 
 there was only the religion of living, and the divinity 
 of Freedom. 
 
 When the white man came he, too, found the fer- 
 tile places, the running water and the hunting 
 grounds, and he confiscated them in the name of a 
 higher civilization of which the savage knew nothing 
 and desired to know less. Could the Indian then be 
 blamed for his overwhelming hatred of the white 
 man? His was the inferior, the barbaric race, to be 
 
36 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 sure, but could he be blamed for not believing so? 
 His was a fight against civilization, true, and it was 
 a losing fight as all such are bound to be, but the 
 Indian did not know what civilization was except 
 that it meant that he was to be robbed of his hunting 
 grounds and stripped of his heritage of freedom. 
 Therefore he fought tirelessly, savag-ely, demoniac- 
 ally, the inroads of the white man into his territory. 
 All that he knew, all that he wished to understand, 
 was that he had been free and happy before the 
 white man had come with his thunder-weapons, his 
 fire-water and his mad, mad passion for yellow gold. 
 The Indian could not understand or admit that the 
 White was the superior, all-conquering race, 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 re- 
 member many instances of this exact kind. 
 
ROUGH AND TUMBLE ON LAND AND SEA 
 
 "' 'Twas youth, my friend, and joy fulness 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, where we were 
 joined by K Company of my regiment 
 and C Company of the Thirty-Second Infantry. 
 Tubac, considered by some to be the oldest town in 
 Arizona, before the consummation of the Gadsden 
 Treaty was a mihtary post at which the repubhc of 
 Mexico regularly kept a small garrison. It was sit- 
 uated on the Santa Cruz River, which at this point 
 generally had considerable w^ater in it. This was 
 probably the reason for the establishment of the 
 town, for water has always been the controlling fac- 
 tor in a settlement's progress in Arizona. The river 
 is dry at Tubac now, however, except in unusually 
 rainy seasons, irrigation and cattle having robbed 
 the stream of its former volume. 
 
 At the time we were quartered there Tubac was 
 a place of no small importance, and after Tucson 
 and Prescott were discounted it was probably the 
 largest settlement in the Territory. Patagonia has 
 now taken the position formerly occupied by the old 
 adobe town as center of the rich mining zone of 
 Southern Arizona, and the glories of Tubac (if they 
 
38 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 can be given that name) are, like the glories of 
 Tombstone, gone. Unlike those of Tombstone, 
 however, they are probably gone forever. Tomb- 
 stone may yet rise from the ashes of her splendid 
 past to a future as one of the important towns of 
 the Southwest, if the stories of untold riches near by 
 her are to be believed. 
 
 A little to the east of Tubac and separating that 
 town from Patagonia is Mount Wrightson, one of 
 the highest mountains in Arizona. Nicknamed "Old 
 Baldy" after its famous namesake in California, this 
 mammoth pile of rock and copper was in the old 
 days a landmark for travelers, visible sometimes for 
 days ahead on the wagon trails. It presaged near 
 arrival in Tucson, for in a direct line Old Baldy 
 is probably not further than forty miles from the 
 Old Pueblo. 
 
 We camped at Tubac during the summer and part 
 of the winter of 1867 and I remember that while we 
 were there I cooked a reception banquet to Colonel 
 Richard C. McCormick, who was then and until 
 1869 Governor of the Territory of Arizona. I for- 
 get his business in Tubac, but it was either an elec- 
 tioneering trip or one of inspection after his appoint- 
 ment to the office of Governor in 1866. 
 
 In the early part of 1868 we moved to Fort 
 Buchanan, wihich before the war had been a military 
 post of considerable importance. It received its name 
 from the President before Lincoln and was garri- 
 soned by Confederates during the Civil War. We 
 
Rough and Tumble 39 
 
 re-built the fort and re-named it Fort Crittenden, in 
 honor of General Thomas L. Crittenden, a son of 
 the Hon. John J. Crittenden of Kentucky, who was 
 then in command of the military district embracing 
 that portion of the Territory south of the Gila River. 
 Crittenden was beautifully situated on the Sonoita, 
 about ten miles from where I now live and in the 
 midst of some of the most marvelously 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 a gar- 
 rison of the Ninth Cavalry is quartered. 
 
 During part of 1868 I carried mail from where 
 Calabasas is now — it was then Fort Mason — to Fort 
 Crittenden, a proceeding emphatically not as simple 
 as it may sound. My way lay over a mountainous 
 part of what is now Santa Cruz county, a district 
 which at that time, on account of the excellent fod- 
 der and water, abounded with hostile Indians. 
 
 On one occasion that I well remember I had 
 reached the waterhole over which is now the first 
 railroad bridge north of Patagonia, about a half 
 mile 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 — and instantly I 
 ducked. A bullet whistled over my head, near 
 enough to give me a strong premonition that a 
 couple of inches closer would have meant my end. I 
 seized the bridle of my horse, leaped on his back, 
 
40 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 bent low over the saddle and rode for it. I escaped, 
 but it is positive in my mind today that if those 
 Apaches had been better accustomed to the use of 
 the white man's weapons I w^ould not now be alive 
 to tell the story. 
 
 I was a great gambler, even in those days. It 
 was the fashion, then, to gamble. Everybody except 
 the priests and parsons gambled, and there was a 
 scarcity of priests and parsons in the sixties. Men 
 would gamble their dust, and when that was gone 
 they would gamble their worldly possessions, and 
 when those had vanished they would gamble their 
 clothes, and if they lost their clothes there were 
 instances where some men even wient so far as to 
 gamble their wives ! And every one of us, each day, 
 gambled his life, so you see the whole life in the 
 Territory in the early days was one continuous 
 gamble. Nobody save gamblers came out there, be- 
 cause nobody but gamblers would take the chance. 
 
 As I have stated, I followed the natural trend. I 
 had a name, even in those days, of being one of the 
 most spirited gamblers in the regiment, and that 
 meant the countryside; and I confess it today with- 
 out shame, although it is some time now since I 
 raised an ante. I remember one occasion when my 
 talents for games of chance turned out rather 
 peculiarly. We had gone to Calabasas to get a load 
 of wheat from a store owned by a man named Rich- 
 ardson, who had been a Colonel in the volunteer 
 service. Richardson had as manager of the store 
 
Rough and Tumble 41 
 
 a fellow named Long, who \\^as well known for his 
 passion for gambling. After we had given our order 
 we sought about for some diversion to make the 
 time pass, and Long caught sight of the goatskin 
 chaperejos I was wearing. He stared at them en- 
 viously 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 his sixteen dollars and then 
 he bet me some whiskey against the lot, and again I 
 won. By the time I had beat him five or six times, 
 had won a good half of the store's contents, and 
 was proposing to play him for his share in the store 
 itself, he cried quits. We loaded our plunder on the 
 wagon. Near Bloxton, or where Bloxton now is, 
 four miles west of Patagonia, we managed to upset 
 the wagon, and half the whiskey and wheat never 
 was retrieved. We had the wherewithal to "fix 
 things" with the ofificers, however, and went unre- 
 proved, even making a tidy profit selling what stufif 
 we had left to the soldiers. 
 
 At that time the company maintained gardens on 
 a part of what afterwards was the Sanford Rancho, 
 and at one time during 1868 I was gardening there 
 with three others. The gardens were on a ranch 
 owned by William Morgan, a discharged sergeant 
 of our company. Morgan had one Mexican work- 
 
42 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 ing for him and there were four of us from the Fort 
 stationed there to cuhivate the gardens and keep him 
 company — more for the latter reason than the first, 
 I beheve. We took turn and turn about of one 
 month at the Fort and one month at the gardens, 
 which were about fourteen miles from the Fort. 
 
 One of us was Private White, of Company K. 
 He was a mighty fine young fellow, and we all liked 
 him. Early one morning the five of us were eating 
 breakfast in the cabin, an illustration of which is 
 given, and White went outside for something. Soon 
 afterward we heard several reports, but, figuring 
 that White had shot at some animal or other, we 
 did not even get up from our meal. Finally came 
 another shot, and then another, and Morgan got up 
 and peered from the door. He gave a cr}^ 
 
 ''Apaches!" he shouted. "They're all around! 
 Poor White " 
 
 It was nip-and-tuck then. For hours we kept up 
 a steady fire at the Indians, who circled the house 
 with blood-curdling whoops. We killed a number 
 of them before they finally took themselves off. 
 Then we went forth to look for White. We found 
 our comrade lying on his back a short distance away, 
 his eyes staring unseeingly to the sky. He was dead. 
 We carried him to the house and discussed the sit- 
 uation. 
 
 ''They'll come back," said Morgan, with convic- 
 tion. 
 
Rough and Tumble 43 
 
 "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 gar- 
 dens and I bethought myself of him. 
 
 ''There's the mule," I suggested. 
 
 My companions were silent. That mule was the 
 slowest creature in Arizona, I firmly believed. It 
 was as much as he could do to walk, let alone gallop. 
 
 "Somebody's got to go, or we'll all be killed," I 
 said. "Let's draw lots." 
 
 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 feel- 
 ings akin to horror. Surrounded with murderous 
 savages. With only a decrepit mule to ride and four- 
 teen miles to go, it seemed impossible that I could 
 get through safely. My companions said good-bye 
 to me as though I were a scafTold victim about to be 
 executed. But get through I did — how I do not 
 know — and the chillingly weird war-calls of the 
 Indians howling at me fromi the hills as I rode re- 
 turn to my ears even now with extraordinary vivid- 
 ness. 
 
 And, as Morgan had prophesied, the Apaches did 
 "come back." It was a month later, and I had been 
 transferred back to the Fort, when a nephew of 
 Colonel Dunkelberger and William J. Osborn of 
 
44 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 Tucson were riding near Morgan's ranch. Apaches 
 ambushed them, slew the Colonel's nephew, whose 
 name has slipped my memory, and wounded Osborn. 
 The latter, who was a person of considerable impor- 
 tance in the Territory, escaped to Morgan's ranch. 
 An expedition of retaliation was immediately organ- 
 ized at the Fort and the soldiers pursued the assas- 
 sins into Mexico, finally coming up with them and 
 killing a number. I did not accompany the troops 
 on this occasion, having been detailed to the Santa 
 Rita range to bring in lumber to be used in building 
 houses. 
 
 I returned from the Santa Ritas in July and found 
 an order had been received at the Fort from the War 
 Department that all men whose times had expired 
 or were shortly to expire should be congregated in 
 Tucson and from there marched to California for 
 their discharge. A few weeks later I went to the 
 Old Pueblo and, together with several hundred 
 others from all parts of the Territory, was mustered 
 out and started on the return march to Wilmington 
 where we arrived about October 1. On the twelfth 
 of October I was discharged. 
 
 After working as cook for a short time for a com- 
 pany that was constructing a railroad from Wil- 
 mington to Los Angeles, I moved to the latter place 
 and obtained employment in the Old Bella Union 
 Hotel as chef. John King was the proprietor of the 
 Bella Union. Until Christmas eve I stayed there, 
 and then Sergeant John Curtis, of my company, who 
 
Rough and Tumble 45 
 
 had been working as a saddler for Banning, a cap- 
 italist in Wilmington, came back to the kitchen and 
 said : 
 
 "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 there- 
 from a roll of bills that amounted to about $1,000, 
 divided the pile into two halves, laid them on the 
 table and indicated them with his forefinger. 
 
 ''John," he offered, "if you'll come with me you 
 can put one of those piles in your pocket. What do 
 you say?" 
 
 Inasmuch- as I had had previously little oppor- 
 tunity to really explore San Francisco, the idea ap- 
 pealed to me and we shook hands on the bargain. 
 Christmas morning, fine, cloudless and warm, found 
 us seated on the San Jose stage. San Jose then was 
 nearly as large a place as Tucson is now — about 
 twenty odd thousand, if I remember rightly. The 
 stage route carried us through the mission coun- 
 try now so widely exploited by the railroads. 
 Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo and Monterey were 
 all towns on the way, Monterey being probably the 
 largest. The country was very thinly occupied, 
 chiefly by Spanish haciendas that had been in the 
 country long before gold was discovered. The few 
 and powerful owners of these estates controlled 
 practically the entire beautiful State of California 
 prior to '49, and at the time I write of still retained 
 
46 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 a goodly portion of it. They grew rich and power- 
 ful, for their lands were either taken by right of con- 
 quest or by grants from the original Mexican gov- 
 ernment, and they paid no wages to their peons. 
 These Spaniards, with the priests, however, are to 
 be credited with whatever progress civilization made 
 in the early days of California. They built the first 
 passable roads, they completed rough surveys and 
 they first discovered the wonderful fertility of the 
 California soils. The towns they built were built 
 solidly, with an eye to the future ravages of earth- 
 quakes and of Time, which is something the modern 
 builder often does not do. There are in many of 
 their pueblos old houses built by the Spaniards in 
 the middle part of the eighteenth century which are 
 still used and occupied. 
 
 We arrived in San Francisco a few days after our 
 departure from Los Angeles, and before long the 
 city had done to us what she still does to so many — 
 had broken us on her fickle wheel of fortune. It 
 wasn't many days before we found ourselves, our 
 ''good time" a thing of the past, ''up against it." 
 
 "John," said Curtis, finally, "we're broke. We 
 can't get no work. What'U we do?" 
 
 I thought a minute and then suggested the only 
 alternative I could think of. "Let's get a blanket," 
 I offered. 
 
 "Getting a blanket" was the phrase commonly in 
 use when men meant to say that they intended to 
 enlist. Curtis met the idea with instant approval, if 
 
Rough and Tumble 47 
 
 not with acclamation, and, suiting the action to the 
 words, we obtained a hack and drove to the Pre- 
 sidio, where we underwent the examination for artil- 
 lerymen. Curtis passed easily and was accepted, but 
 I, owing to a wound in my ankle received during the 
 war, was refused. 
 
 Curtis obtained the customary three days' leave 
 before joining his company 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 
 paw^ning and selling his belongings. After the 
 three days were over we parted, Curtis to join his 
 regiment; and since then I have neither seen nor 
 heard of him. If he still chances to be living, my 
 best wishes go out to him in his old age. 
 
 For some time I hung around San Francisco try- 
 ing to obtain employment, without any luck. I was 
 not then as skillful a gambler as I became in after 
 years, and, in any case, I had no money with which 
 to gamble. It was, I found, one thing to sit down to 
 a monte deck at a table surrounded with people you 
 knew, where your credit was good, and another to 
 stake your money on a painted wheel in a great hall 
 where nobody cared whether you won or lost. 
 
 Trying to make my little stake last as long as pos- 
 sible, I roomed in a cheap 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, but had no luck until one day 
 as I was passing up Kearney street I saw a sign in 
 
48 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 one of the store windows calling for volunteers for 
 the Sloop-o'-War Jamestown. After reading the 
 notice a couple of times I decided to enlist, did so, 
 was sent to Mare Island Navy Yard and from there 
 boarded the Jamestown. 
 
 It was on that vessel that I performed an action 
 that I have not since regretted, however reprehen- 
 sible it may seem in the light of present-day ethics. 
 Smallpox broke out on board and I, fearful of con- 
 tracting the dread disease, planned to desert. This 
 would probably not have been possible today, when 
 the quarantine regulations are so strict, but in those 
 days port authorities were seldom on the alert to 
 prevent vessels with diseases anchoring with other 
 shipping, especially in Mexico, in the waters of 
 which country we were cruising. 
 
 When we reached Mazatlan I went ashore in the 
 ordinary course of my duties as ward-room steward 
 to do some marketing and take the officers' laundry 
 to be washed. Instead of bringing the marketing 
 back to the ship I sent it, together with a note telling 
 where the laundry would be found, and saying good- 
 bye forever to my shipmates. The note written and 
 dispatched, I quietly ''vamoosed," or, as I believe it 
 is popularly termed in the navy now, I 'Svent over 
 the hill." 
 
 My primary excuse for this action was, of course, 
 the outbreak of smallpox, which at that time and in 
 fact until very recently, was as greatly dreaded as 
 bubonic plagtie is now, and probably more. Vac- 
 
Rough and Tumble 49 
 
 cination, whatever may be its value in the prevention 
 of the disease, had not been discovered in the sense 
 that it is now understood and was not known at all 
 except in the centers of medical practice in the East. 
 
 Smallpox then was a mysterious disease, and cer- 
 tainly a plague. Whole populations had been wiped 
 out by it, doctors had announced that there was 
 practically no cure for it and that its contraction 
 meant almost certain death, and I may thus be ex- 
 cused for my fear of the sickness. I venture to state, 
 moreover, that if all the men aboard the Jamestown 
 had had the same opportunity that I was given to 
 desert, they would have done so in a body. 
 
 My second excuse, reader, if one is necessary, is 
 that in the days of the Jamestown and her sister 
 ships, navy life was very different from the navy life 
 of today, when I understand generous paymasters 
 are even giving the jackies ice-cream with their 
 meals. You may be entirely sure that we got noth- 
 ing of the kind. Our food was bad, our quarters 
 were w^orse, and the discipline was unbearably 
 severe. 
 
THROUGH MEXICO AND BACK TO ARI- 
 ZONA 
 
 ''Know thou the spell of the desert land, 
 
 Where Life and Love are free? 
 Knozv thou the lure the sky and sand 
 
 Hath for the man in met" 
 
 WHEN I deserted from the sloop-o'-war 
 Jamestown it was v/ith the no uncertain 
 knowledge that it was distinctly to my 
 best advantage to clear out of the city of Mazatlan 
 just as rapidly as I could, for the ships of the free 
 and (presumably) enlightened Republic had not yet 
 swerved altogether from the customs of the King's 
 Navee, one of which said customs was to hang de- 
 serters at the yard-arm. Sometimes they shot them, 
 but I do not remember that the gentlemen most con- 
 cerned had any choice in the matter. At any rate, 
 I know that it was with a distinct feeling of relief 
 that I covered the last few yards that brought me 
 out of the city of Mazatlan and into the open coun- 
 try. In theory, of course, the captain of the sloop- 
 o'-war Jamestown could not have sent a squad of 
 men after me with instructions to bring me back off 
 foreign soil dead or alive, but in practice that is just 
 what he would have done. Theory and practice 
 have a habit of differing, especially in the actions of 
 an irate skipper who sees one of his best w^ard-room 
 stewards vanishing from his jurisdiction. 
 
Through Mexico to Arizona 51 
 
 Life now opened before me with such a vista of 
 possibiHties that I felt my breath taken away. Here 
 was I, a youth twenty-two years old, husky and 
 sound physically, free in a foreign country which I 
 felt an instant liking for, and no longer beholden to 
 the Stars and Stripes for which I was quite ready to 
 fight but not to serve in durance vile on a plague- 
 ship. My spirit bounded at the thought of the liberty 
 that was mine, and I struck northward out of Mazat- 
 lan with a light step and a lighter heart. At the edge 
 of the city I paused awhile on a bluff to gaze for the 
 last time on the Bay, on the waters of which rode 
 quietly at 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 no par- 
 ticular love for Mexico, but then I had no particular 
 love for the sea, either, and a good deal less for the 
 ships that sailed the sea. So I turned my back very 
 definitely on that part of my life and set my face 
 toward the north, where, had I known it, I was to 
 find my destiny beneath the cloudless turquoise skies 
 of Arizona. 
 
 When I left Mazatlan it was with the intention 
 of walking as far as I could before stopping, or until 
 the weight of the small bundle containing my 
 worldly possessions tired my shoulders. But it was 
 not to be so. Only two miles out of the city I came 
 upon a ranch owned by two Americans, the sight of 
 whom was very welcome to me just then. I had no 
 idea that I should find anv American ranchers in the 
 
52 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 near neighborhood, and considered myself in luck. 
 I found that one of the American's names was Col- 
 onel Elliot and I asked him for work. Elliot sized 
 me up, invited me in to rest up, and on talking with 
 him I found him to be an exceedingly congenial soul. 
 He was an old Confederate colonel — was Elliot, but 
 although we had served on opposite sides of the sad 
 war of a few years back, the common bond of na- 
 tionality that is always strongest beyond the con- 
 fines of one's own land prevented us from feeling 
 any aloofness toward each other on this account. 
 To me Colonel Elliot was an American, and a mighty 
 decent specimen of an American at that — a friend 
 in need. And to Colonel Elliot also I was an Amer- 
 ican, and one needing assistance. We seldom spoke 
 of our political differences, partly because our lives 
 speedily became too full and intimate to admit of 
 the petty exchange of divergent views, and partly 
 because I had been a boy during the Civil War and 
 my youthful brain had not been sufficiently mature 
 to assimilate the manifold prejudices, likes, dislikes 
 and opposing theories that w^ere the heritage of 
 nearly all those who lived during that bloody four 
 years' war. 
 
 I have said that Colonel Elliot was a friend in 
 need. There is an apt saying that a ''friend in need 
 is a friend indeed," and such was Colonel Elliot as 
 I soon found. For I had not been a week at the 
 ranch when I was struck down with smallpox, and 
 throughout that dangerous sickness, lasting several 
 
Through Mexico to Arizona 53 
 
 weeks, the old Colonel, careless of contagion, nursed 
 me like a woman, finally bringing me back to a 
 point where I once again had full possession of all 
 my youthful health and vigor. 
 
 I do not just now recall the length of time I 
 worked for Elliot and his partner, but the stay, if 
 not long, was most decidedly pleasant. I grew to 
 speak Spanish fluently, haunted the town of Mazat- 
 lan (from which the Jamestown had long since de- 
 parted), and made as good use generally of my tem- 
 porary employment as was possible. I tried hard to 
 master the patois of the peon as well as the flowery 
 and eloquent language of the aristocracy, for I knew 
 well that should I at any time seek employment as 
 overseer at a rancho either in Mexico or Arizona, a 
 knowledge of the former would be indispensable, 
 while a knowledge of the latter was at all times use- 
 ful in Mexico, especially in the cities, where the pos- 
 session of the cultured dialect marked one for spe- 
 cial favors and secured better attention at the stores. 
 
 The Mexicans I grew to understand and like more 
 and more the longer I knew 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 terms with which his splendid language 
 abounds. The peons also I came to know and un- 
 derstand. I found them a simple-minded, uncom- 
 plaining class, willingly accepting the burdens which 
 were laid on them by their masters, the rich land- 
 lords; and living, loving and playing very much as 
 
54 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 children. They were good-hearted — these Mexi- 
 cans, and hospitable to the last degree. This, indeed, 
 is a characteristic as truly of the Mexican of 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, and many the time some 
 lowly peon host of mine would insist on my occupy- 
 ing his rude bed whilst he and his family slept on 
 the roof! Such warm-hearted simplicity is very 
 agreeable, and it was a vast change from the world 
 of the Americans, especially of the West, where the 
 watchword was : ''Every man for himsel', and the 
 de'il tak' the hindmost." It may be remarked here 
 that the de'il often took the foremost, too ! 
 
 When I left the hospitable shelter of Colonel El- 
 liot's home I moved to Rosario, Sinaloa, where was 
 situated the famous Tajo mine which has made the 
 fortunes of the Bradbury family. It was owned 
 then by Don Luis Bradbury, senior, the same Brad- 
 bury wlhose son is now such a prominent figure in 
 the social and commercial life of San Francisco and 
 Los Angeles. I asked for work at the Bradbury 
 mine, obtained it, and started in shoveling refuse 
 like any other common laborer at the munificent 
 wage of ten dollars per week, which was a little less 
 than ten dollars more than the Mexican peons labor- 
 ing at the same work obtained. I had not been 
 working there long, however, when some sugges- 
 tions I made to the engineer obtained me recognition 
 and promotion, and at the end of a year, when I 
 
Through Mexico to Arizona 55 
 
 quit, I was earning $150 per month, or nearly four 
 times what my wage had been when I started. 
 
 And then — and then, I beheve it w^as the spell of 
 the Arizona plains that gripped the strings of my 
 soul again and caused them to play a different 
 tune. ... Or was it the prospect of an exciting 
 and more or less lawless life on the frontier that 
 beckoned with enticing lure? I do not know. But 
 I grew to think more and more of Arizona, the Ter- 
 ritory in which I had reached my majority and had 
 found my manhood; and more and more I discov- 
 ered myself longing to be back shaking hands with 
 my old friends and companions, and shaking, too, 
 dice with Life itself. So one day saw me once more 
 on my way to the wild and free Territory, although 
 this time my road did not lie wholly across a burn- 
 ing and uninhabited desert. 
 
 It is a hard enough proposition now to get to the 
 United States from Mazatlan, or any other point in 
 Mexico, when the Sud Pacifico and other railroads 
 are shattered in a dozen places and their schedules, 
 those that have them, are dependent on the magna- 
 nimity of the various tribes of bandits that infest the 
 routes; but at the time I wTite of it was harder. 
 
 To strike north overland was possible, though not 
 to be advised, for brigands infested the cedar forests 
 of Sinaloa and southern Sonora; and savage Yaquis, 
 quite as much to be feared as the Apaches of further 
 north, ravaged the desert and mountain country. I 
 solved the difficulty finally by going to Mazatlan 
 
56 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 and shipping from that port as a deck-hand on a 
 Dutch brigantine, which I remember because of its 
 exceptionally vile quarters and the particularly dirty 
 weather we ran up against on our passage up the 
 Gulf. The Gulf of California, especially the mouth 
 of it, has always had an evil reputation among 
 mariners, and with justness, but I firmly believe the 
 elements out-did themselves in ferocity on the trip 
 I refer to. 
 
 Guaymas reached, my troubles were not over, for 
 there was still the long Sonora desert to be crossed 
 before the haven of Hermosillo could be reached. 
 At last I made arrangements with a freighting outfit 
 and went along with them. I had had a little money 
 when I started, but both Mazatlan and Guaymas 
 happened to be chiefly filled with cantinas and 
 gambling-hells, and as I was not averse to frequent- 
 ing either of these places of first resort to the lonely 
 wanderer, my money-bag was considerably depleted 
 when at last I arrived in the beautiful capital of 
 Sonora. I was, in fact, if a few odd dollars are 
 excepted, broke, and work was a prime necessity. 
 Fortunately, jobs were at that time not very hard 
 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 will probably be remembered in Hermosillo by 
 old-timers now — in fact, I have my doubts that it is 
 not still standing. It was the chief stopping-house 
 
Through Mexico to Arizona 57 
 
 in Sonera at that time. I obtained employment from 
 Taft as a cook, but stayed with it only long enough 
 to procure myself a "grub-stake," after which I ''hit 
 the grit" for Tucson, crossing the border on the 
 Nogales trail a few days later. I arrived in Tucson 
 in the latter part of the year 1870, and obtained 
 work cooking for Charlie Brown and his family. 
 
 It was while I was employed as chef in the Brown 
 household that I made — and lost, of course, a for- 
 tune. No, it wasn't a very big fortune, but it was a 
 fortune certainly very curiously and originally made. 
 I made it by selling ham sandwiches ! 
 
 Charlie Brown owned a saloon not far from the 
 Old Church Plaza. It was called Congress Hall, 
 had been completed in 1868 and was one of the most 
 popular places in town. Charlie was fast becoming 
 a plutocrat. One night in the saloon I happened to 
 hear a man come in and complain because there 
 wasn't a restaurant in town that would serve him a 
 light snack at that time of night except at outrageous 
 prices. 
 
 ^'That's right," said another man near me, ''if 
 somebody would only have the sense to start a lunch- 
 counter here the way they have them in the East 
 he'd make all kinds of money." 
 
 The words suggested a scheme to me. The next 
 day I saw Brown and got his permission to serve a 
 light lunch of sandwiches and coffee in the saloon 
 after I had finished my work at the house. Just at 
 that time there was a big crowd in the town, the first 
 
58 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 cattle having arrived in charge of a hungry lot of 
 Texan cowpunchers, and everyone was making 
 money. I set up my little lunch counter, charged 
 seventy-five cents, or ''six-bits" in the language of 
 the West, for a lunch consisting of a cup of coffee 
 and a sandwich, and speedily had all the customers I 
 could handle. For forty consecutive nights I made a 
 clear profit of over fifty dollars each night. Those 
 sandwiches were a mint. And they were worth what 
 I charged for them, too, for bacon, ham, cofTee and 
 the other things were 'way up, the three mentioned 
 being fifty or sixty cents a pound for a very indiffer- 
 ent quality. 
 
 Sometimes I had a long line waiting to buy 
 lunches, and all the time I ran that lunch stand I 
 never had one "kick" at the prices or the grub 
 offered. Those cowboys were well supplied with 
 money, and they were more than willing to spend it. 
 Charlie Brown was making his fortune fast. 
 
 After I quit Brown's employ, John McGee — the 
 same man who now is secretary of the Arizona Pio- 
 neers' Historical Society and a well-known resident 
 of Tucson — hired myself and another man to do 
 assessment work on the old Salero mine, which had 
 been operated before the war. Our conveyance was 
 an old ambulance owned by Lord & Williams, who, 
 as I have said, kept the only store and the postoffice 
 in Tucson. The outfit was driven by "Old Bill" 
 Snififen, who will doubtless be remembered by many 
 Arizona pioneers. We picked up on the way "Old 
 
Through Mexico to Arizona 59 
 
 Man" Benedict, another familiar character, who kept 
 the stage station and ranch at Sahuarita, where the 
 Twin Buttes Railroad now has a station and branch 
 to some mines, and where a smelter is located. We 
 were paid ten dollars per day for our work and re- 
 turned safely to Tucson. 
 
 I spoke of Lord & Williams' store just now. 
 When in the city of Tucson recently I saw that Mr. 
 Corbett has his tin shop where the old store and post- 
 office was once. I recognized only two other build- 
 ings as having existed in pioneer days, although 
 there may be more. One was the old church of 
 San Augustine and the other was part of the Orn- 
 dorff Hotel, where Levin had his saloon. There 
 were more saloons than anything else in Tucson in 
 the old days, and the pueblo richly earned its repu- 
 tation, 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, the Territorial 
 capital had just been moved to Tucson from Pres- 
 cott. It was afterwards moved back again to Pres- 
 cott, and subsequently to the new to^v'n of Phoenix; 
 but more of that later. 
 
 After successfully concluding the assessment work 
 and returning to Tucson to be paid off by McGee I 
 decided to move again, and this time chose Wicken- 
 burg, a little place between Phoenix and Prescott, 
 
60 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 and one of the pioneer towns of the Territory. 
 West of Wickenburg on the Colorado River was 
 another settlement named Ehrenberg, after a man 
 who deserves a paragraph to himself. 
 
 Herman Ehrenberg was a civil engineer and sci- 
 entist of exceptional talents who engaged in mining 
 in the early days of Arizona following the occupa- 
 tion of the Territory by the Americans. He was of 
 German birth and, coming at an early age to the 
 United States, made his way to New Orleans, where 
 he enlisted in the New Orleans Grays when war 
 broke out betw^een Mexico and Texas. After serv- 
 ing in the battles of Goliad and Fanning' s Defeat he 
 returned to Germany and wrote and lectured for 
 some time on Texas and its resources. Soon after 
 the publication of his book on Texas he returned to 
 the United States and at St. Louis, in 1840, he 
 joined a party crossing to Oregon. From that Ter- 
 ritory he went to the Sandwich Islands and for some 
 years wandered among the islands of the Polyne- 
 sian Archipelago, returning to California in time to 
 join General Fremont in the latter's attempt to free 
 California from Mexican rule. After the Gadsden 
 Purchase he moved to Arizona, where, after years 
 of occupation in mining and other industries, he was 
 killed by a Digger Indian at Dos Palmas in South- 
 ern California. The town of Ehrenberg was named 
 after him.* 
 
 *This information relative to Ehrenberg is taken largely 
 from 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 he kept. 
 Wiser than mine is thy will; I dare 
 
 Not dust zvhere thy broom hath szvept. 
 
 — ^WOON. 
 
 I HAVE said that Wickenburg was a small place 
 half-way between Phoenix and Prescott, but 
 that is not quite right. Wickenburg was sit- 
 uated between Prescott and the valley of the Salt 
 River, in the fertile midst of which the foundation 
 stones of the future capital of Arizona had yet to 
 be laid. To be sure, there were a few shacks on the 
 site, and a few ranchers in the valley, but the city 
 of Phoenix had yet to blossom forth from the wil- 
 derness. I shall find occasion later to speak of the 
 birth of Phoenix, however. 
 
 When I arrived in Wickenburg from Tucson — 
 and the journey was no mean affair, involving, as 
 it did, a ride over desert and mountains, both of 
 which were crowded with hostile Apaches — I went 
 to Work as stage driver for the company that oper- 
 ated stages out of Wickenburg to Ehrenberg, Pres- 
 cott and other places, including Florence which was 
 just then beginning to be a town. 
 
 Stage driving in Arizona in the pioneer days was 
 a dangerous, difficult, and consequently high-priced 
 
62 Arizona^'s Yesterday 
 
 job. The Indians were responsible for this in the 
 main, although white highwaymen became some- 
 what numerous later on. Sometimes there would be 
 a raid, the driver would be killed, and the stage 
 would not depart again for some days, the company 
 being unable to find a man to take the reins. The 
 stages were large and unwieldy, but strongly built. 
 They had to be big enough to hold off raiders should 
 they attack. Every stage usually carried, besides 
 the driver, two company men who went heavily 
 armed and belted around with numerous cartridges. 
 One sat beside the driver on the box-seat. In the 
 case of the longer stage trips two or three men 
 guarded the mail. Very few women traveled in 
 those days — in fact, there were not many white 
 women in the Territory and those who did travel 
 usually carried some masculine protector 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 w'ere some very bad stretches of road. 
 
 Apropos of what I have just said about stage 
 drivers being slain, and the difficulty sometimes ex- 
 perienced in getting men to take their places, I re- 
 member that on certain occasions I wiould take the 
 place of the mail driver from Tucson to Apache 
 Pass, north of where Douglas now is — the said mail 
 driver having been killed — get fifty dollars for the 
 trip and blow it all in before I started for fear I 
 might not otherwise get a chance to spend it. 
 
 The stage I drove for this Wickenburg company 
 
Stage Driver's Luck 63 
 
 was one that ran regular trips out of Wickenburg. 
 Several trips passed without much occurring worthy 
 of note; and then on one trip I fell off the box, injur- 
 ing my ankle. When I arrived back in Wickenburg 
 I was told by Manager Pierson of the company that 
 I would be relieved from driving the stage because 
 my foot was not strong enough to work the heavy 
 brakes, and would be given instead the buckboard 
 to drive to Florence and back on postoffice business. 
 
 The next trip the stage made out of Wickenburg, 
 therefore, I remained behind. A few miles from 
 town the stage was held up by an overwhelming 
 force of Apaches, the driver and all save two of the 
 passengers massacred, and the contents looted. A 
 woman named Moll Shepherd, going back East 
 with a large sum of money in her possession, and a 
 man named Kruger, escaped the Indians, hid in the 
 hills and were the only two who survived to tell the 
 story of what has gone down into history as the 
 famous ''W^ickenburg Stage Massacre." I shudder 
 now to think how nearly I might have been on the 
 box on that fatal trip. 
 
 I was not entirely to escape the Apaches, however. 
 On the first return trip from Florence to Wicken- 
 burg with the buckboard, while I was congratulating 
 myself and thanking my lucky stars for the accident 
 to my ankle. Apaches ''jumped" the buckboard and 
 gave me and my one passenger, Charlie Block of 
 Wickenburg, a severe tussle for it. We beat them 
 off in the end, owing to superior marksmanship, and 
 
64 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 arrived in Wickenburg unhurt. Block was part 
 owner of the Barnett and Block store in Wickenburg 
 and was a well-known man in that section. 
 
 After this incident I determined to quit driving 
 stages and buckboards and, casting about for some 
 newi line of endeavor, went for the first time into the 
 restaurant business for myself. The town needed 
 an establishment of the kind I put up, and as I had 
 always been a good cook I cleaned up handsomely, 
 especially as it was while I was running the restau- 
 rant that Miner started his notorious stampede, 
 when thousands of gold-mad men followed a will-o'- 
 the-wisp trail to fabulously rich diggings which 
 turned out to be entirely mythical. 
 
 It was astonishing how little was required in those 
 days to start a stampede. A stranger might come in 
 town with a ''poke" of gold dust. He would nat- 
 urally be asked where he had made the strike. As 
 a matter of fact, he probably had washed a dozen 
 different streams to get the poke-full, but under the 
 influence of liquor he might reply: ''Oh, over on 
 the San Carlos," or the San Pedro, or some other 
 stream. It did not require that he should state how 
 rich the streak was, or whether it had panned out. 
 All that was necessary to start a mad rush in the 
 direction he had designated was the sight of his gold 
 and the magic word "streak." Many were the trails 
 that led to death or bitter disappointment, in Ari- 
 zona's early days. 
 
 Most of the old prospectors did not see the results 
 
Stage Driver's Luck 65 
 
 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 
 found gold on a tributary of the Colorado and blew 
 into Arizona City, got drunk 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 disappeared 
 in the direction of his claim. He rushed to the reg- 
 istry ofiice to register his claim, which he had fool- 
 ishly forgotten to do the night before. He found it 
 already registered. Some unscrupulous rascal had 
 filched his secret, even to the exact location of his 
 claim, from the aged miner and had got ahead of 
 him in registering it. No claim is really legal until 
 it is registered, although in the mining camps of the 
 old days it was a formality often dispensed with, 
 since claim jumpers met a prompt and drastic pun- 
 ishment. 
 
 In many other instances the big mining men gob- 
 bled up the smaller ones, especially at a later period, 
 when most of the big mines were grouped under a 
 few large managements, with consequent great ad- 
 vantage over their smaller competitors. 
 
 Indeed, there is comparatively little incentive now 
 for a prospector to set out in Arizona, because if he 
 chances to stumble on a really rich prospect, and 
 attempts to work it himself, he is likely to be so 
 browbeaten that he is finally forced to sell out to 
 some large concern. There are only a few smelters 
 
66 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 in or near the State and these are controlled by large 
 mining companies. Very well; we will suppose a 
 hypothetical case : 
 
 A, being a prospector, finds a copper mine. He 
 says to himself: "Here's a good property; it ought 
 to make me rich. I won't sell it, I'll hold on to 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 build one; therefore it is per- 
 fectly obvious that he cannot crush his own ore. He 
 must, then, send it elsewhere to be smelted, and to 
 do this must sell his ore to the smelter. 
 
 In the meantime a certain big mining company 
 has investigated A's find and has seen that it is rich. 
 The company desires the property, as it desires all 
 other rich properties. It offers to buy the mine for 
 a sum far below its actual value. Naturally, the 
 finder refuses. 
 
 But he must smelt his ore. And to smelt it he 
 finds he is compelled to sell it to a smelter that is 
 controlled by the mining company whose offer he 
 has refused. He sends his ore to the smelter. Back 
 comes the quotation for his product, at a price ridic- 
 ulously low. "That's what we'll give you," says the 
 company, through its proxy the smelter, "take it or 
 leave it," or words to that effect. 
 
Stage Driver's Luck 67 
 
 Now, what can A do ? Nothing at all. He must 
 either sell his ore at an actual loss or sell his mine 
 to the company. Naturally, he does the latter, and 
 at a figure he finds considerably lower than the first 
 offer. The large concern has him where it wanted 
 him and it snufTs out his dreams of wealth and pros- 
 perity 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 in the paths of the various ex- 
 citements. I have been always wise enough to see 
 that the men who made rapid fortunes in gold were 
 not the men who stampeded head-over-heels to the 
 diggings, but the men who stayed behind and 
 opened up some kind of business which the gold- 
 seekers would patronize. These were the reapers of 
 the harvest, and there was little risk in their game, 
 although the stakes were high. 
 
 I have said that I never owned a mining share. 
 Well, I never did; but once I came close to owning 
 a part share in what is now the richest copper mine 
 on earth — a mine that, with the Anaconda in Mon- 
 tana, almost determines 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 a man named George Stevens 
 at Eureka Springs, west of Fort Thomas in the 
 
68 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 Apache country, a trading station for freighters. 
 We were owners of the trading station, which was 
 some distance south of where the copper cities of 
 Globe and Miami are now situated. We made very 
 good money at the station and Stevens and I decided 
 to have some repairs and additions built to the store. 
 We looked around for a mason and finally hired 
 one named George Warren, a competent man whose 
 only fault was a fondness for the cup that cheers. 
 
 Warren was also a prospector of some note and 
 had made several rich strikes. It was known that, 
 while he had never found a bonanza, wherever he 
 announced ''pay dirt" there ''pay dirt" invariably 
 was to be found. In other words, he had a reputa- 
 tion for reliability that was valuable to him and of 
 which he was intensely vain. He was a man with 
 "hunches," and hunches curiously enough, that 
 almost always made good. 
 
 These hunches w^ere more or less frequent with 
 Warren. They usually came when he was broke 
 for, like all prospectors, Warren found it highly 
 inconvenient ever to be the possessor of a large sum 
 of money for any length of time. He had been 
 known to say to a friend : "I've got a hunch !" dis- 
 appear, and in a week or two, return with a liberal 
 amount of dust. Between hunches he worked at his 
 trade. 
 
 When he had completed his work on the store at 
 Eureka Springs for myself and Stevens, Warren 
 drew me aside one night and, very confidentially, in- 
 
Stage Driver's Luck 69 
 
 formed me that he had a hunch. "You're wel- 
 come to it, George," I said, and, something calhng 
 me away at that moment, I did not hear of him 
 again until I returned from New Fort Grant, 
 whither I had gone with a 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, had asked for a grub-stake, and, on being 
 given one, had departed in a southerly direction with 
 the information that he expected to make a find over 
 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 sys- 
 tem of his must have got tarnished bv this time, 
 then!" 
 
 You see, copper at that time was worth next to 
 nothing. There was no big smelter in the Territory 
 and it was almost impossible to sell the ore. So it 
 was natural enough that neither myself nor Stevens 
 should feel particularly jubilant over Warren's 
 strike. One day I thought to ask Warren 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 mine today, reader, is one of the 
 greatest copper properties in the world. It is worth 
 
70 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 about a billion dollars. The syndicate that owns it 
 owns as w^ell a good slice of Arizona. 
 
 ''Syndicate?" I hear you ask. ''Why, what about 
 Warren, the man who found the 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 with 
 the infallible hunch, died years back in squalid 
 misery, driven there by drink and the memory of 
 many empty discoveries. The syndicate that ob- 
 tained the mine from Warren gave him a pension 
 amply sufficient for his needs, I believe. It is but fair 
 to state that had the mine been retained by Warren 
 the probabilities are it would never have been devel- 
 oped, for Warren, like other old prospectors, was a 
 genius at finding 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 and Douglas. If I 
 had gone in with Stevens in grub-staking poor War- 
 ren would I, too, I wonder, have sold my share for 
 some foolish trifle or recklesssly gambled it away? 
 I w^onder! Probably, I should. 
 
A FRONTIER BUSINESS MAN 
 
 ''The chip of chisel, hum of sazv, 
 
 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 a typical Phoenix 
 man — commented in a superior tone on the 
 size of the town. 
 
 ''Why," he said, as if it clinched the argument, 
 'Thoenix would make ten Patagonias." 
 
 ''And then some," I assented, "but, sonny, I built 
 the third house in Phoenix. Did you know that? 
 And I burnt Indian grain fields in the Salt River 
 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 house in Phoenix. 
 
 After I had started the Wickenburg restaurant 
 came rumors that a new city was to be started in the 
 fertile Salt River Valley, between Sacaton and Pres- 
 cott, some forty or fifty miles north of the former 
 place. Stories came that men had tilled the land of 
 
72 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 the valley and had found that it would grow almost 
 anything, as, indeed, it has since been found that 
 any land in Arizona will do, providing the water is 
 obtained to irrigate it. One of Arizona's most won- 
 derful phenomena is the sudden greening of the 
 sandy stretches after a heavy rain. One day every- 
 thing is 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 no promise of any 
 relief. Then, in the night, thunder-clouds roll up 
 from the painted hills, a tropical deluge resembling 
 a cloud-burst falls, and in the morning — lo ! where 
 was yellow sand parched from months of drought, 
 is now sprouting green grass! It is a marvelous 
 transformation — a miracle never to be forgotten by 
 one who has seen it. 
 
 How^ever, irrigation is absolutely necessary to till 
 the soil in most districts of Arizona, though in some 
 sections of the State dry farming has been success- 
 fully resorted to. It has been said that Arizona has 
 more rivers and less wiater than any state in the 
 Union, and this is true. Many of these are rivers 
 only in the rainy season, which in the desert gen- 
 erally comes about the middle of July and lasts until 
 early fall. Others are what is known as ''sinking 
 rivers," flowing above ground for parts of their 
 courses, and as frequently sinking below the sand, 
 to reappear further along. The Sonoita, upon which 
 Patagonia is situated, is one of these ''disappearing 
 rivers," the water coming up out of the sand about 
 
A Frontier Business Man 73 
 
 half a mile from the main street. The big rivers, 
 the Colorado, the Salt, the upper Gila and the San 
 Pedro, run the year around, and there are several 
 smaller streams in the more fertile districts that do 
 the same thing. 
 
 The larger part of the Arizona ''desert" is not 
 barren sand, but fertile silt and adobe, needing only 
 water to make of it the best possible soil for farming 
 purposes. Favored by a mild winter climate the 
 Salt River Valley can be made to produce crops of 
 some kind each month in the year — fruits in the fall, 
 vegetables in the winter season, grains in spring and 
 alfalfa, the principal crop, throughout the summer. 
 A succession of crops may oftentimes be grown dur- 
 ing the year on one farm, so that irrigated lands in 
 Arizona yield several times the produce obtainable 
 in the Eastern states. Alfalfa may be cut six or 
 seven times a year with a yield of as much as ten 
 tons to the acre. The finest Egyptian cotton, free 
 from the boll weevil scourge, may also be growin 
 successfully and is fast becoming one of the staple 
 products of the State. Potatoes, strawberries, pears, 
 peaches and melons, from temperate climates; and 
 citrus fruits, sorghum grains and date palms from 
 subtropical regions, give some idea of the range of 
 crops possible here. Many farmers from the East- 
 ern and Southern states and from California, find- 
 ing this out, began to take up land, dig irrigating 
 ditches and make homes in Arizona. 
 
 Fifteen or twenty pioneers had gone to the Salt 
 
74 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 River Valley while I was at Wickenburg and there 
 had taken up quarter sections on which they raised, 
 chiefly, barle}^ wheat, corn and hay. A little fruit 
 was also experimented in. Some of the men who 
 were on the ground at the beginning I remember to 
 have been Dennis and Murphy, Tom Gray, Jack 
 Walters, Johnny George, George Monroe, Joe Fugit, 
 Jack Swilling, Patterson, the Parkers, the Sorrels, 
 the Fenters and a few others whose names I do not 
 recall. A towEnsite had been laid out, streets sur- 
 veyed, and before long it became known that the 
 Territory had a new city, the name of which was 
 Phoenix. 
 
 The story of the way in. which the name "Phoe- 
 nix" was given to the city that in future days was 
 to become the metropolis of the State, is interesting. 
 When the Miner excitement was over I decided to 
 move to the new Salt River townsite, and soon after 
 my arrival there attended a meeting of citizens gath- 
 ered together to name the new city. Practically 
 every settler in the Valley was at this meeting, 
 which was destined to become historic. 
 
 Among those present was a Frenchman named 
 Barrel Dupper, or Du Perrd, as his name has some- 
 times been written, who was a highly educated man 
 and had lived in Arizona for a number of years. 
 When the question of naming the townsite came up 
 several suggestions were offered, among them being 
 "Salt City," ''Aricropolis," and others. Dupper 
 rose to his feet and suggested that the city be called 
 
A Frontier Business Man 75 
 
 Phoenix, because, he explained, the Phoenix was a 
 bird of beautiful plumage and exceptional voice, 
 which lived for five hundred years and then, after 
 chanting its death-song, prepared a charnel-house 
 for itself and was cremated, after which a new and 
 glorified bird arose from the ashes to live a magnifi- 
 cent existence forever. When Dupper finished his 
 suggestion and explanation the meeting voted 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 com- 
 menced the building of a restaurant, which I named 
 the Capital Restaurant. The capital was then at 
 Prescott, having been moved from Tucson, but my 
 name evidently must have been prophetic, for the 
 capital city of Arizona is now none other than Phoe- 
 nix, which at the present day probably has the larg- 
 est population in the State — over twenty thousand. 
 
 Soon I gained other interests in Phoenix besides 
 the restaurant. The Capital made me much money, 
 and I invested what I did not spend in ''having a 
 good time," in various other enterprises. I went 
 into the butcher business with Steel & Coplin. I 
 built the first bakery in Phoenix. I staked two men 
 to a ranch north of the city, from which I later on 
 proceeded to flood the Territory with sweet potatoes. 
 I was the first man, by the way, to grow sweet pota- 
 toes in Arizona. I built a saloon and dance hall, 
 and in this, naturally, was my quickest turnover. 
 
 I am not an apologist, least of all for myself, and 
 
76 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 as this is the true story of a hfe I beHeve to have 
 been exceptionally varied I think that in it should 
 be related the things I did which might be consid- 
 ered "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 largest liquor dealer in the Territory, 
 as well as one of the shrewdest hands at cards. 
 Although I employed men to do the work, often 
 players would insist on my dealing the monte deck 
 or laying down the faro lay-out for them. I played 
 for big stakes, too — bigger stakes than people play 
 for nowadays in the West. Many times I have sat 
 down with the equivalent of thousands of dollars in 
 chips and played them all away, only to regain them 
 again without thinking it anything particularly 
 unusual. As games go, I was considered "lucky" 
 for a gambler. Though not superstitious, I believed 
 in this luck of mine, and this is probably the 
 reason that it held good for so long. If of late 
 various things, chiefly the mining depression, have 
 made my fortunes all to the bad, I am no man to 
 whine at 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 entire Territory, who did not drink 
 liquor, and lots of it. In fact, it may be said that 
 the entire fabric of the Territory was constructed 
 on liquor. The pioneers were most of them whiskey 
 
THE OLD WARD HOMESTEAD, WHERE CADY KEPT STORE 
 DURING THE BUILDING OF THE SANTA FE RAILROAD 
 
A Frontier Business Man 17 
 
 fiends, as were the gamblers. By this I am not de- 
 fending the Hquor traffic. I have sold more liquor 
 than any man in Arizona over the bar in my life- 
 time, but I voted dry at the last election and I adhere 
 to the belief that a whiskey-less Arizona will be the 
 best for our children and our children's children. 
 
 During my residence in Phoenix Barrel D'Upper, 
 the man who had christened the town, became one 
 of my best friends. He kept the post and trading 
 store at Desert Station, at which place was the 
 only water to be found between Phoenix and Wick- 
 enburg, if I remember correctly. The station made 
 him wealthy. Dupper was originally Count Du 
 Perre, and came of a noted aristocratic French 
 family. His forefathers were, I believe, prominent 
 in the court of Louis XIV. When a young man he 
 committed some foolhardy act in France and was 
 banished by his people, w'lo sent him a monthly 
 remittance on condition that he get as far away from 
 his home as he could, and stay there. To fulfill the 
 terms of this agreement Du Perre came to Arizona 
 among the early pioneers and soon proved that he 
 had the stuff of a real man in him. He learned 
 English and Americanized his name to Dupper. He 
 engaged in various enterprises and finally started 
 Desert Station, where he made his fortune. 
 
 He was a curious character as he became older. 
 Sometimes he would stay away from Phoenix for 
 several months and then one day he would appear 
 with a few thousand dollars, more or less, spend 
 
78 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 every cent of it in treating the boys in my house and 
 "blow back" home again generally in my debt. He 
 used to sing La Marseillaise — it was the only song 
 he knew — and after the first few drinks would sol- 
 emnly mount a table, sing a few verses of the mag- 
 nificent revolutionary song, call on me to do like- 
 wise, and then "treat the house." Often he did this 
 several times each night, and as "treating the house" 
 invariably cost at least thirty dollars and he was an 
 inveterate gambler, it will be seen that in one way or 
 another I managed to secure considerable of old 
 Dupper's fortune. His partiality to the Marseillaise 
 leads me to the belief that he was banished for par- 
 ticipation in one of the French revolutions; but this 
 I cannot state positively. 
 
 On one occasion I remember that I was visiting 
 with Dupper and we made a trip together some- 
 where, Dupper leaving his cook in charge. When 
 we returned nobody noticed us and I happened to 
 look through a window before entering the house. 
 Hastily I beckoned to Dupper. 
 
 The Frenchman's cook was sitting on his bed 
 with a pile of money — the day's takings — in front 
 of him. He was dividing the pile into two halves. 
 Taking one bill off the pile he would lay it to one 
 side and say : 
 
 "This is for Dupper." 
 
 Then he'd take the next bill, lay it in another spot, 
 and say: 
 
 "And this is for me." 
 
A Frontier Business Man 79 
 
 We watched him through the window unnoticed 
 until he came to the last ten-dollar bill. It was odd. 
 The cook deliberated a few moments and finally put 
 the bill on top of the pile he had reserved for him- 
 self. Then Dupper, whose face had been a study in 
 emotions, could keep still no longer. 
 
 ''Hey, there!" he yelled, "p^^y ^^i^' — P^^Y ^^i^- 
 Divvy up that ten spot !" 
 
 What happened afterwards to that cook I don't 
 remember. But Dupper was a good sport. 
 
VENTURES AND ADVENTURES 
 
 Hush! What brooding stillness is hanging over all? 
 Whafs this talk in zMspers, 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 Laii/s an 
 
 ''Also-Ran!" — Woon. 
 
 READER, have you ever seen the look in a 
 man's eyes after he has been condemned by 
 that Court of Last Appeal — his fellows-men ? 
 I have, many times. It is a look without a shadow 
 of hope left, a look of dread at the 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 the inseparables, the Frontier 
 and Judge Lynch. If a white man killed a Mexican 
 or Indian nothing was done, except perhaps to hold 
 a farce of a trial with the killer in the end turned 
 loose; and if a white man killed another white man 
 there was seldom much outcry, unless the case was 
 cold-blooded murder or the killer was already unpop- 
 ular. But let a Mexican or an Indian lift one finger 
 against a white man and the whole strength of the 
 Whites was against him in a moment; he was 
 hounded to his hole, dragged forth, tried by a com- 
 
Ventures and Adventures 81 
 
 mittee of citizens over whom Judge Lynch sat with 
 awful solemnity, and was forthwith hung. 
 
 More or less of this was in some degree necessary. 
 The killing of an Apache was accounted a good day's 
 work, since it probably meant that the murderer of 
 several white men had gone to his doom. To kill a 
 Mexican only meant that another "bad hombre" had 
 gone to his just deserts.' 
 
 And most of the Mexicans in Arizona in the early 
 days were ''bad hombres" — there is no doubt about 
 that. It was they who gave the Mexican such a bad 
 name on the frontier, and it was they who first 
 earned the title "greaser." They were a murderous, 
 treacherous lot of rascals. 
 
 In the Wickenburg stage massacre, for instance, 
 it was known that several Mexicans were involved — 
 wood-choppers. One of these Mexicans was hunted 
 for weeks and was caught soon after I arrived in 
 Phoenix. I was running my dance hall when a 
 committee of citizens met in a mass-meeting and 
 decided that the law was too slow in its working 
 and gave the Mexican too great an opportunity to 
 escape. The meeting then resolved itself into a 
 hanging committee, broke open the jail, seized the 
 prisoner from the arms of the sheriff and hung him 
 to the rafters just inside the jail door. That done, 
 they returned to their homes and occupations satis- 
 fied that at least one "Greaser" had not evaded the 
 full penalty of his crimes. 
 
 Soon after a Mexican arrived in town with a 
 
82 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 string of cows to sell. Somebody recognized the 
 
 cows as ones that had belonged to a rancher named 
 
 Patterson. The Mexican was arrested by citizens 
 
 and a horseman sent out to investigate. Patterson 
 
 was found killed. At once, and with little ceremony, 
 
 the Mexican with the cattle w^as "strung up" to the 
 
 cross of a gatepost, his body being left to sway in 
 
 the wind until somebody came along with sufficient 
 
 decency to cut it down. 
 
 Talking about lynchings, reminds me of an inci^ 
 
 dent that had almost slipped my mind. Before 1 
 
 went to Wickenberg from Tucson I became partners 
 
 with a man named Robert Swope in a bar and 
 
 gambling lay-out in a little place named Adamsville, 
 
 a few miles below w^here Florence now is on the 
 
 Gila River. Swope was tending bar one night when 
 
 an American shot him dead and got awa)^ The 
 
 murderer was soon afterward captured in Tucson 
 
 and lynched in company with tw^o Mexicans who 
 
 were concerned in the murder of a pawnbroker 
 
 there. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 In Phoenix I married my first wife, whose given 
 name was Ruficia. Soon afterwards I moved to 
 Tucson, where, after being awarded one child, I had 
 domestic trouble which ended in the courts. My wife 
 finally returned to Phoenix and, being free again, 
 married a man named Murphy. After this experi- 
 ence I determined to take no further chances with 
 matrimony. However, I needed a helpmate, so I 
 
Ventures and Adventures 83 
 
 solved the difficulty by marrying Paola Ortega by 
 contract for five years. Contract marriages were 
 universally recognized and indulged in in the West 
 of the early days. My relations with Paola were 
 eminently satisfactory until the expiration of the 
 contract, when she went her way and I mine. 
 
 Before I leave the subject of Phoenix it will be 
 well to mention that when I left I sold all my prop- 
 erty there, consisting of some twenty-two lots, all 
 in the heart of the city, for practically a song. Six 
 of these lots were situated where now is a big 
 planing mill. Several lots I sold to a German for a 
 span of mules. The German is alive today and lives 
 in Phoenix a Wealthy man, simply because he had 
 the foresight and acumen to do what I did not do — 
 hang on to his real estate. If I had kept those 
 twenty-two lots until now, without doing more than 
 simply pay my taxes on them, my fortune today 
 would be comfortably up in the six figures. How- 
 ever, 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 saloon and 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 
 the liquor business. My hall was modeled after 
 those on the Barbary Coast. It cost ''four-bits" and 
 drinks to dance, and the dances lasted only a few 
 minutes. At one time I had thirteen Mexican girls 
 
84 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 dancing in the hall, and this number w'as increased 
 on special days until the floor was crowded. 1 
 always did good business — so good, in fact, that 
 jealousy aroused in the minds of my rivals finally 
 forced me out. Since then, as I have said, with the 
 single Florence exception, I have not been in the 
 dance-hall business, excepting that I now have at 
 some expense put a ball-room into my hotel at Pata- 
 gonia, in which are held at times social dances which 
 most of the young folk of the county attend, the 
 liquor element being entirely absent, of course.* 
 
 Besides paying a heavy license for the privilege 
 of selling liquor in my Tucson dance hall, I was 
 compelled every morning, in addition, to pay over 
 $5 as a license for the dance-hall and $1.50 col- 
 lector's fees, which, if not paid out every morning as 
 regularly as clockwork, wtould have threatened my 
 business. I did not complain of this tax; it was a 
 fair one considering the volume of trade I did. But 
 my patronage grew and grew until there came a day 
 when ''Cady's Place," as it was known, was making 
 more money for its owner than any similar estab- 
 lishment in Arizona. The saloon-keepers in Tucson 
 became inordinately jealous and determined to put 
 an end to my ''luck," as they called it. Accordingly, 
 nine months after I had opened my place these gen- 
 tlemen used their influence quietly with the Legis- 
 lature and ''jobbed" me. The license was raised for 
 
 *Since this was written the State has abolished the sale 
 of liquor from within its boundaries. 
 
Ventures and Adventures 85 
 
 dance halls at one bound to $25 per night. This was 
 a heavier tax than even my business would stand, so 
 I set about at once looking for somebody on whom 
 to unload the property. I claim originality, 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, 'T'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 
 you stay 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 around town. I spent that two 
 hundred dollars to such good purpose that that night 
 the hall was crowded to the doors. The prospective 
 purchaser looked on with blinking eyes at the 
 thought of the profits that must accrue to the owner. 
 Would he buy the place? Would he? Well, say — 
 he was so anxious to buy it that he wanted to pass 
 over the cash when he saw me counting up my 
 takings in the small hours of the morning. The 
 takings were, I remember, $417. But I told him 
 not to be in a hurry, to go home and sleep over the 
 proposition and come back the next day. 
 
 After he had gone the collector came around, took 
 his $26.50 and departed. On his heels came my 
 man. 
 
86 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 "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 in over 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 lugu- 
 brious countenance. 
 
 "Well," I greeted him, "how much did you make 
 last night?" 
 
 "Took in ninety-six dollars," he answered, sadly. 
 "Cady, why didn't you tell me about that $25 tax?" 
 
 "Tell you about it?" I repeated, as if astonished. 
 "Why, didn't I ask you if you had investigated the 
 thing fully ? Did I ask you to go into the deal blind- 
 fold? It wiasn'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 about for some other and more prosaic 
 occupation to indulge in. Thanks to the deal 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 were paid. Finally I 
 
Ventures and Adventures 87 
 
 decided that I would go into business again and 
 bought a 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 my restless 
 spirit longed for expression in some new environ- 
 ment. About this time Paola, my contract-wife, 
 w^ho was everything that a wife should be in my 
 opinion, became a little homesick and spoke often of 
 the home she had left at Sauxal, a small gulf-coast 
 port in Lower California. Accordingly, one morn- 
 ing, I took it into my head to take her home on a 
 visit to see her people, and, the thought being always 
 father to the action with me, I traded my grocery 
 store for a buckboard and team and some money, 
 and set forth in this conveyance for Yuma. This 
 was a trip not considered so very dangerous, except 
 for the lack of water, for the Indians along the route 
 were mostly peaceable and partly civilized. Only 
 for a short distance out of Tucson did the Apache 
 hold suzerainty, and this only when sufficient Papa- 
 gos, whose territory it really was, could not be mus- 
 tered together in force to drive them off. The 
 Papago Indians hated the Apaches quite as much as 
 the white man did, for the Papago lacked the 
 stamina and fighting qualities of the Apache and in 
 other characteristics was an entirely different type 
 of Indian. I have reason to believe that the Apaches 
 were not originally natives of Arizona, but were an 
 offshoot of one of the more ferocious tribes further 
 
88 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 north. This I think because, for one thing, the 
 facial characteristics of the other Arizona Indians — 
 the Pimas, Papagos, Yumas, Maricopas, and others 
 — are very similar to each other but totally different 
 from those of the various Apache tribes, as was the 
 language they spoke. The Papagos, Pimas, Yumas, 
 Maricopas and other peaceable Indian peoples were 
 of a settled nature and had lived in their respective 
 territories for ages before the white man came to 
 the West. The Apache, on the other hand, was a 
 nomad, with no definite country to call his own and 
 recognizing no boundary lines of other tribes. It 
 was owing to Apache depredations on the Papagos 
 and Pimas that the latter were so willingly enlisted 
 on the side of the White man in the latter's fight 
 for civilization. 
 
 Reaching Yuma without any event to record that I 
 remember, we took one of the Colorado River boats 
 to the mouth of the Colorado, where transfers were 
 made to the deep-sea ships plying between the Colo- 
 rado Gulf and San Francisco. One of these steam- 
 ers, which were creditable to the times, we took to 
 La Paz. At La Paz Paola was fortunate enough to 
 meet her padrina, or godfather, who furnished us 
 with mules and horses with which we reached 
 Sauxal, Paola's home. There we stayed with her 
 family for some time. 
 
 While staying at Sauxal I went to a fiesta in the 
 Arroyo San Luis and there began playing cooncan 
 with an old rancher who was accounted one of the 
 
Ventures and Adventures 89 
 
 most wealthy inhabitants of the country. I won 
 from him two thousand oranges, five gallons of 
 wine, seventeen buckskins and two hundred heifers. 
 The heifers I presented to Paola and the buckskins 
 I gave to her brothers to make leggings out of. The 
 wine and oranges I took to La Paz and sold, netting 
 a neat little sum thereby. 
 
 Sixty miles from La Paz was El Triunfo, one of 
 the best producing silver mines in Lower California, 
 managed by a man named Blake. Obeying an im- 
 pulse I one day went out to the mine and secured a 
 job, working at it for some time, and among other 
 things starting a small store which was patronized 
 by the company's workmen. Growing tired of this 
 occupation, I returned to Sauxal, fetched Paola and 
 with her returned to Yuma, or Arizona City, where 
 I started a small chicken ranch a few miles up the 
 river. Coyotes and wolves killed my poultry, how- 
 ever, and sores occasioned by ranch work broke out 
 on my hands, so I sold the chicken ranch and moved 
 to Arizona City, opening a restaurant on the main 
 street. In this cafe I made a specialty of pickled 
 feet — not pig's feet, but bull's feet, for which deli- 
 cacy I claim the original creation. It was some 
 dish, too! They sold like hot-cakes. 
 
 While I was in Lower California I witnessed a 
 sight that is well worth speaking of. It was a Mex- 
 ican funeral, and the queerest one I ever saw; or 
 expect to see, though I have read of Chinese funer- 
 als that perhaps approach it in peculiarity. It was 
 
90 ■ Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 while on my way back to Sauxal from La Paz that 
 I met the cortege. The corpse was that of a wealthy 
 rancher's wife, and the coffin was strung on two long 
 poles borne by four men. Accompanying the coffin 
 alongside of those carrying it were about two hun- 
 dred horsemen. The bearers kept up a jog-trot, 
 never once faltering on the way, each horseman 
 taking his turn on the poles. When it became a 
 man's turn to act as bearer nobody told him, but he 
 slipped off 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, While the 
 man whose place he had taken caught his horse. 
 Never once in a carry of 150 miles did that coffin 
 stop, and never once did that jog-trot falter. The 
 cortege followers ate at the various ranches they 
 passed, nobody thinking of refusing them food. The 
 150 mile journey to San Luis was 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, Southern California, and one day I went 
 there with a wagon and bought a load of apples, 
 which, with one man to accompany me, I hauled all 
 the way to Tucson. That wagon-load of apples was 
 the first fruit to arrive in the Territory and it was 
 hailed with acclaim. I sold the lot for one thousand 
 dollars, making a profit well over fifty per cent. 
 Then with the wagon I returned to Yuma. 
 
 On the way, as I was nearing Yuma, I stopped at 
 
Ventures and Adventures 91 
 
 Canyon Station, which a man named Ed. Lumley 
 kept. Just as we drove up an old priest came out 
 of Lumley's house crying something aloud. We 
 hastened up and he motioned inside. Within wfe 
 saw poor Lumley dead, with both his hands slashed 
 off and his body bearing other marks of mutilation. 
 It turned out that two Mexicans to whom Lumley 
 had given shelter had killed him because he refused 
 to tell them where he kept his money. The Mex- 
 icans were afterwards caught in California, taken 
 to Maricopa county and there, after trial by the usual 
 method, received the just penalty for their crime. 
 From Yuma I moved to Florence, Arizona, where 
 I built a dance-hall and saloon, which I sold almost 
 immediately to an Italian named Gendani. Then I 
 moved back to Tucson, my old stamping-ground. 
 
INDIAN WARFARE 
 
 When strong men fought and loved and lost, 
 And might zvas right throughout the land; 
 
 When life zvas zvine and zmne zvas life, 
 
 And God looked dozvn on endless strife; 
 
 Where murder, lust and hate zvere rife, 
 What footprints Time left in the sand! 
 
 — WOON. 
 
 IN THE seventies and early eighties the hostility 
 of the various Apache Indian tribes was at its 
 height, and there was scarcely a man in the 
 Territory who had not at some time felt the dread 
 of these implacable enemies. 
 
 By frequent raids on emigrants' wagons and on 
 freighting outfits, the Indians had succeeded in arm- 
 ing themselves fairly successfully with the rifle of 
 the white man; and they kept themselves in ammu- 
 nition by raids on lonely ranches and by "jumping" 
 or ambushing prospectors and lone travelers. If a 
 man was outnumbered by Apaches he often shot 
 himself, for he knew that if captured he w<ould prob- 
 ably be tortured by one of the fiendish methods made 
 use of by these Indians. If he had a woman with 
 him it was an act of kindness to shoot her, too, for 
 to her, also, even if the element of torture were 
 absent, captivity with the Indians would invariably 
 be an even sadder fate. 
 
Indian Warfare 93 
 
 Sometimes bands of whites would take the place 
 of the soldiers and revenge themselves on Apache 
 raiders. There was the raid on the Wooster ranch, 
 for instance. This ranch was near Tubac. Wooster 
 lived alone on the ranch with his wife and one hired 
 man. One morning Apaches sw*ooped down on the 
 place, killed Wooster and carried off his wife. As 
 she has never been heard of since it has always been 
 supposed that she was killed. This outrage resulted 
 in the famous ''Camp Grant Massacre," the tale of 
 which echoed all over the world, together with indig- 
 nant protests from centers of culture in the East 
 that the whites of Arizona were ''more savage" than 
 the savages themselves. I leave it to the reader to 
 judge whether this was a fact. 
 
 The Wooster raid and slaughter was merely the 
 culminating tragedy of a series of murders, robberies 
 and depredations carried on by the Apaches for 
 years. Soldiers would follow the raiders, kill a few 
 of them in retaliation, and a few days later another 
 outrage would be perpetrated. The Apaches were 
 absolutely fearless in the warfare they carried on 
 for possession of what they, rightly or wrongly, 
 considered their invaded territory. The Apache 
 with the greatest number of murders to his name 
 was most highly thought of by his tribe. 
 
 When the Wooster raid occurred I was in Tucson. 
 Everybody in Tucson knew Wooster and liked him. 
 There was general mourning and a cry for instant 
 revenge when his murder was heard of. For a long 
 
94 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 time it had been believed that the Indians wintering 
 on the government reservation at Camp Grant, at 
 the expense of Uncle Sam, were the authors of the 
 numerous raids in the vicinity of Tucson, though 
 until that time it had been hard to convince the 
 authorities that such was the case. This time, how- 
 ever, it became obvious that something had to be 
 done. 
 
 The white men of Tucson held a meeting, at 
 which I was present. Sidney R. De Long, first 
 Mayor of Tucson, was also there. After the meet- 
 ing had been called to order De Long rose and said : 
 
 "Boys, this thing has got to be stopped. The 
 military won't believe us when we tell them that 
 their charity to the Indians is our undoing — that the 
 government's wards are a pack of murderers and 
 cattle thieves. What shall we do?" 
 
 "Let the military go hang, and the government, 
 too !" growled one man, "Old Bill" Oury, a consid- 
 erable figure in the life of early Tucson, and an 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 their own medicine. Maybe after a 
 few dozen of 'em are killed they'll learn some respect 
 for the white man." 
 
 Nobody vetoed the suggestion. 
 
 The following day six white men — myself, De 
 Long and fierce old Bill Oury among them, rode out 
 
Indian Warfare 95 
 
 of Tucson bound for Tubac. With us we had three 
 Papago Indian trailers. Arrived at the Wooster 
 ranch the Papagos were set to work and followed a 
 trail that led plain as daylight to the Indian camp at 
 Fort Grant. A cry escaped all of us at this justifica- 
 tion of our suspicions. 
 
 "That settles it!" ground out Oury, between his 
 set teeth. 'Tt's them Injuns or us. And — it won't 
 be us." 
 
 We returned to Tucson, rounded up a party con- 
 sisting of about fifty Papagos, forty-five Mexicans 
 and ourselves, and set out for Camp Grant. We 
 reached the fort at break of day, or just before, and 
 before the startled Apaches could fully awaken to 
 what was happening, or the near-by soldiers gather 
 their wits together, eighty-seven Aravaipa Apaches 
 had been slain as they lay. The Papagos accounted 
 for most of the dead, but we six white men and our 
 Mexican friends did our part. It was bloody work; 
 but it was justice, and on the frontier then the whites 
 made their own justice. 
 
 All of us were arrested, as a matter of course, and 
 when word reached General Sherman at Washing- 
 ton from the commander of the military forces at 
 Fort Grant, an order was issued that all of us were 
 to be tried for murder. We suffered no qualms, for 
 we knew that according to frontier standards what 
 we had done was right, and would inevitably have 
 been done some time or another by somebody. We 
 were tried in Judge Titus' Territorial Court, but, to 
 
96 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 the dismay of the military and General Sherman, 
 who of course knew nothing of the events that had 
 preceded the massacre, not a man in the jury could 
 be found who would hang us. The Territory was 
 searched for citizens impartial enough to adjudge 
 the slaying of a hostile Apache as murder, but none 
 could be found. The trial turned out a farce and 
 we were all acquitted, to receive the greatest demon- 
 stration outside the courtroom that men on trial 
 for their lives ever received in Arizona, I think. 
 One thing that made our acquittal more than certain 
 was the fact, brought out at the trial, that the dress 
 of Mrs. Wooster and a pair of moccasins belonging 
 to her husband were found on the bodies of Indians 
 whom we killed. Lieutenant Whitman, who was in 
 command at Fort Grant, and on whom the responsi- 
 bility for the conduct of the Indians wintering there 
 chiefly rested, was soon after relieved from duty 
 and transferred to another post. General George 
 Crook arrived to take his place late in 1871. The 
 massacre had occurred on the last day of April of 
 that year. 
 
 Other raids occurred. Al Peck, an old and valued 
 friend of mine, had several experiences with the 
 Apaches, which culminated in the Peck raid of April 
 27, 1886, when Apaches jumped his ranch, killed his 
 wife and a man named Charles Owens and carried 
 off Peck's niece. Apparently satisfied with this, 
 they turned Peck loose, after burning the ranch 
 house. The unfortunate man's step-niece was found 
 
Indian Warfare 97 
 
 some six weeks later by Mexican cowpunchers in 
 the Cocoapi Mountains in Old Mexico. 
 
 The famous massacre of the Samaniego freight 
 teams and the destruction of his outfit at Cedar 
 Springs, between Fort Thomas and Wilcox, was 
 witnessed by Charles Beck, another friend of mine. 
 Beck had come in with a quantity of fruit and was 
 unloading it when he heard a fusilade of shots 
 around a bend in the road. A moment later a boy 
 came by helter-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's outfits there must be at 
 least a hundred Indians in the neighborhood. Un- 
 hitching his horse, he jumped on its back and rode 
 for dear life in the direction of Eureka Springs. 
 Indians sighted him as he swept into the open and 
 followed, firing as they rode. By luck, however, 
 and the fact that his horse was fresher than those of 
 his pursuers, Beck got safely away. 
 
 Thirteen men were killed at this Cedar Springs 
 massacre and thousands of dollars' worth of freight 
 was carried off or destroyed. The raid was unex- 
 pected owing to the fact that the Samaniego brothers 
 had contracts with the government and the stuff in 
 their outfit was intended for the very Indians con- 
 cerned in the ambuscade. One of the Samaniegos 
 was slain at this massacre. 
 
 Then there was the Tumacacori raid, at Barnett's 
 ranch in the Tumacacori Mountains, when Charlie 
 
98 Arizona^'s Yesterday 
 
 Murray and Tom Shaw were killed. Old Man 
 Frenchy, as he was called, suffered the severe loss 
 of his freight and teams when the Indians burned 
 them up across the Cienega. Many other raids 
 occurred, particulars of which are not to hand, but 
 those I have related will serve as samples of the 
 work of the Indians and will show just how it was 
 the Apaches gained the name they did of being veri- 
 table fiends in human form. 
 
 After the expiration of my contract with Paola 
 Ortega I remained in a state of single blessedness 
 for some time, and then married Gregoria Sosa, 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 in October, 
 1890, I married my present wife, whose maiden 
 name was Donna Paz Paderes, and who belongs to 
 an old line of Spanish aristocracy in Mexico. We 
 are now living together in the peace and contentment 
 of old age, well occupied in bringing up and pro- 
 viding for our family of two children, Mary, who 
 will be twenty years old on February 25, 1915, and 
 Charlie, who will be sixteen on the same date. Both 
 our children, by the grace of God, have been spared 
 us after severe illnesses. 
 
 ;j< ^; ^ i|; 
 
 To make hundreds of implacable enemies at one 
 stroke is something any man would very naturally 
 
Indian Warfare 99 
 
 hesitate to do, but I did just that about a year after 
 I commenced working for D. A. Sanford, one of the 
 biggest ranchers betw^een the railroad and the bor- 
 der. The explanation of this lies in one word — 
 sheep. 
 
 If there was one man whom cattlemen hated with 
 a fierce, unreasoning hatred, it was the man who ran 
 sheep over the open range — a proceeding perfectly 
 legal, but one which threatened the grazing of the 
 cattle inasmuch as where sheep had grazed it was 
 impossible for cattle to feed for some weeks, or until 
 the grass had had time to grow again. Sheep crop 
 almost to the ground and feed in great herds, close 
 together, and the range after a herd of sheep has 
 passed over it looks as if somebody had gone over 
 it with a .law^nmower. 
 
 In 1881 I closed out the old Sanford ranch stock 
 and was informed by my employer that he had fore- 
 closed a mortgage on 13,000 head of sheep owned 
 by Tully, Ochoa and De Long of Tucson. This firm 
 was the biggest at that time in the Territory and the 
 De Long of the company was one of the six men 
 who led the Papagos in the Camp Grant Massacre. 
 He died in Tucson recently 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 the railroad in 1880, which cheapened 
 things so much that the large stock held by the com- 
 pany was sold at prices below what it had cost, 
 necessitating bankruptcy. 
 
100 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 I was not surprised to hear that Sanford intended 
 to run sheep, though I wiU admit that the informa- 
 tion was scarcely welcome. Sheep, however, at that 
 time were much scarcer than cattle and fetched, con- 
 sequently, much higher prices. My employer, D. A. 
 Sanford, who now lives in Washington, D. C, was 
 one of the shrewdest business men in the Territory, 
 and wlas, as well, one of the best-natured of men. 
 His business acumen is testified to by the fact that 
 he is now sufficiently wealthy to count his pile in the 
 seven figures. 
 
 Mr. Sanford's wishes being my own in the mat- 
 ter, of course, I did as I was told, closed out the 
 cattle stock and set the sheep grazing on the range. 
 The cattlemen were angry and sent me an ultimatum 
 to the effect that 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 would 
 take his orders and nobody else's, and that until he 
 told me to take the sheep off the range they'd stay 
 precisely where they were. 
 
 My reply angered the cattlemen more and before 
 long I became subject to many annoyances. Sheep 
 w'ere found dead, stock was driven off, my ranch 
 hands were shot at, and several times I myself nar- 
 rowly escaped death at the hands of the enraged 
 cattlemen. I determined not to give in until I 
 received orders to that effect from Mr. Sanford, but 
 I will admit that it was with a feeling of distinct 
 relief that I hailed those orders when they came 
 
Indian Warfare 101 
 
 three years later. For one thing, before the sheep 
 business came up, most of the cattlemen who were 
 now my enemies had been my close friends, and it 
 hurt me to lose their esteem. I am glad to say, how- 
 ever, that most of these cattlemen and cowboys, who, 
 when I ran sheep, would cheerfully have been re- 
 sponsible for my funeral, are my very good friends 
 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 side had the best 
 argument. 
 
 In spite of the opposition of the cattlemen I made 
 the sheep business a paying one for Mr. Sanford, 
 clearing about $17,000 at the end of three years. 
 When that period had elapsed I had brought shear- 
 ers to Sanford Station to shear the sheep, but was 
 stopped in my intention with the news that Sanford 
 had sold the lot to Pusch and Zellweger of Tucson. 
 I paid off the men I had hired, satisfied them, and 
 thus closed my last deal in the sheep business. One 
 of the men, Jesus Mabot, I hired to go to the Rodeo 
 with me, while the Chinese gardener hired another 
 named Fernando. 
 
 Then occurred that curious succession of fatalities 
 among the Chinamen in the neighborhood that 
 puzzled us all for years and ended by its being im- 
 possible to obtain a Chinaman to fill the last man's 
 place. 
 
DEPUTY SHERIFF, CATTLEMAN AND 
 FARMER 
 
 You kin haroe yore Turner sunsets, — he never 
 
 painted one 
 Like th' Santa Rita Mountains at th' settin' o' th' 
 
 sun ! 
 You kin have yore Eastern cornfields, zmth th' crops 
 
 that never change. 
 Me — I've ail Arizona, and, best o' all, the Range! 
 
 — WOON. 
 
 ABOUT this time Sheriff Bob Paul reigned in 
 Tucson and made me one of his deputies. 
 I had numerous adventures in that capacity, 
 but remember only one as being worth recording 
 here. 
 
 One of the toughest characters in the West at 
 that time, a man feared throughout the Territory, 
 was Pat Cannon. He had a score of killings to his 
 credit, and, finally, when Paul became sheriff a war- 
 rant was issued for his arrest on a charge of mur- 
 der. After he had the warrant Paul came to me. 
 
 "Cady," he said, '*'you know Pat Cannon, don't 
 you?" 
 
 *T worked with him once," I answered. 
 
 *'Well," returned Paul, ''here's a warrant for his 
 arrest on a murder charge. Go get him." 
 
 I obtained a carryall and an Italian boy as driver, 
 
Sheriff^ Cattleman and Farmer 103 
 
 in Tucson, and started for Camp Grant. Arrived 
 there I was informed that it was beheved Cannon 
 was at Smithy's wood camp, several miles away. 
 We went on to Smithy's wood camp. Sure enough, 
 Pat was there — very much so. He was the first man 
 I spotted as I drove into the camp. Cannon was 
 sitting at the door of his shack, two revolvers belted 
 on him and his rifle standing up by the door at his 
 side, within easy reach. I knew that Pat didn'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'U 
 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-shooter and whirled around, aim- 
 ing 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 me the steel bracelets, which I 
 snapped on Cannon, whose face bore an expression 
 seemingly a mixture of intense astonishment and 
 disgust. Finally, when I had him safely in the 
 carryall, he spat out a huge chew of tobacco and 
 swore. 
 
 He said nothing to me for awhile, and then he 
 remarked, in an injured way : 
 
104 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 '*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 fol- 
 lowing scene: 
 
 Above, the perfect, all-embracing blue of the Ari- 
 zona sky; set flaming in the middle of it the sun, a 
 glorious blazing orb whose beauty one may dare to 
 gaze upon only through smoked glasses; beneath, 
 the Range, which, far from being a desert, is cov- 
 ered with a growth of grass which grows thicker 
 and greener as the rivers' banks are reached. 
 
 All around, Arizona — the painted hills, looking 
 as though someone had carefully swept them early 
 in the morning with a broom; the valleys studded 
 with mesquite trees and greasewood and dotted here 
 and there with brown specks which even the un- 
 initiated will know are cattle, and the river, one of 
 Arizona's minor streams, a few yards across and only 
 a couple of feet deep, but swift-rushing, pebble- 
 strew'd and clear as crystal. 
 
 Last, but not least, a heterogeneous mob of cow- 
 boys and vaqueros, with their horses champing at 
 the bit and eager to be off on their work. In the 
 foreground a rough, unpainted corral, where are 
 
Sheriff, Cattleman and Farmer 105 
 
 more ponies — wicked-looking, intelligent little beg- 
 gars, but quick turning as though they owned but 
 two legs instead of four, and hence priceless for the 
 work of the roundup. In the distance, some of them 
 quietly and impudently grazing quite close at hand, 
 are the cattle, the object of the day's gathering. 
 
 Cowboys from perhaps a dozen or more ranches 
 are gathered here, for this is the commencement of 
 the Rodeo' — the roundup of cattle that takes place 
 semi-annually. Even ranches whose cattle are not 
 grazed on this particular range have representatives 
 here, for often there are strays with brands that 
 show them to have traveled many scores of miles. 
 The business of the cowboys* is to round up and 
 corral the cattle and pick out their own brands from 
 the herd. They then see that the unbranded calves 
 belonging, to cows of their brand are properly 
 marked with the hot iron and with the ear-slit, 
 check up the number of yearlings for the benefit of 
 their employers, and take charge of such of the cat- 
 tle it is considered advisable to drive back to the 
 home ranch. 
 
 So much sentimental nonsense has been talked of 
 the cruelty of branding and slitting calves that it is 
 worth while here, perhaps, to state positively that 
 the branding irons do not penetrate the skin and 
 serve simply to burn the roots of the hair so that 
 
 *The term "cowpuncher" is not com,mon in Arizona as 
 in Montana, but the Arizona cowboys are sometim,es 
 called "vaqueros." 
 
106 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 the bald marks will show to which ranch the calf 
 belongs. There is little pain to the calf attached to 
 the operation, and one rarely if ever even sees a 
 calf licking its brand after it has been applied; and, 
 as is well known, the cow's remedy for an injury, 
 like that of a dog, is always to lick it. As to the 
 ear-slitting, used by most ranches as a check on 
 their brands, it may be said that if the human ear 
 is somewhat callous to pain — as it is — the cow's ear 
 is even more so. One may slice a cow's ear in half 
 in a certain way and she will feel only slight pain, 
 not sufficient to make her 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 unbounded astonishment of the cattlemen 
 of Arizona a few years ago when some altruistic 
 society of Boston came forward with a brilliant idea 
 that was to 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 
 tag on it to tell the name of the owner. Or, if that 
 wasn't feasible, they thought that a simple ring and 
 tag put through the cow's ear-lobe would prove 
 eminently satisfactory ! The feelings of the cow- 
 boys, when told that they would be required to dis- 
 mount from their horses, walk up to each cow in 
 turn and politely examine her tag, perhaps with the 
 aid of spectacles, may be better imagined than de- 
 scribed. It is sufficient to say that the New England 
 
Sheriff, Cattleman and Farmer 107 
 
 society's idea never got further than Massachusetts, 
 if it was, indeed, used there, which is doubtful. 
 
 The brand is absolutely necessary as long as there 
 is an open range, and the abolishment of the open 
 range will mean the abandonment of the cow-ranch. 
 At the time I am speaking of the whole of the Ter- 
 ritory of Arizona was one vast open range, over 
 the grassy portions of which cattle belonging to 
 hundreds of different ranches roamed at will. Most 
 of the big ranches employed a few cowboys the year 
 around to keep the fences in repair and to prevent 
 cows from straying too far from the home range. 
 The home range was generally anywhere within a 
 twenty-mile radius of the ranch house. 
 
 The ear-slit was first found necessary because of 
 the activities of the rustlers. There were two kinds 
 of these gentry — the kind that owned ranches and 
 passed themselves off as honest ranchers, and the 
 open outlaws, who drove off cattle by first stam- 
 peding them in the Indian manner, rushed them 
 across the international line and then sold them to 
 none too scrupulous Mexican ranchers. Of the two 
 it is difficult to say which was the most dangerous 
 or the most reviled by the honest cattlemen. 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 the activities of 
 dishonest cattlemen who owned considerably more 
 
108 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 calves than they had cows, as a rule. The difficulty 
 was to prove that these calves had been stolen. 
 
 It was no difficult thing to steal cattle success- 
 fully, providing the rustler exercised ordinaiy cau- 
 tion. The method most in favor among the rustlers 
 w^s as follows : For some weeks the rustler would 
 ride the range, noting where cows with unbranded 
 calves were grazing. Then, w^hen he had ascertained 
 that no cowboys from neighboring ranches were 
 riding that w^ay, he would drive these cows and 
 their calves into one of the secluded and natural 
 corrals with which the range abounds, rope the 
 calves, brand them with his own brand, hobble and 
 sometimes kill the mother cows to prevent them fol- 
 lowing their offspring, and drive the latter to his 
 home corral, where in the course of a few weeks 
 they would forget their mothers and be successfully 
 weaned. They would then be turned out to graze 
 on the Range. Sometimes when the rustler did not 
 kill the mother cow the calf proved not to have been 
 successfully weaned, and went back to its mother — 
 the worst possible advertisement of the rustler's 
 dirty work. Generally, therefore, the mother cow 
 was killed, and little trace left of the crime, for the 
 coyotes speedily cleaned flesh, brand and all from 
 the bones of the slain animal. The motto of most of 
 these rustlers was : "A dead cow tells no tales !" 
 
 Another method of the rustlers was to adopt a 
 brand much like that of a big ranch near by, and 
 to over-brand the cattle. For instance, a big ranch 
 
CADY AND HIS THIRD FAMILY, 1915 
 
Sheriff, Cattleman and Farmer 109 
 
 with thousands of cattle owns the brand Cross-Bar 
 (X — ). The rustler adopts the brand Cross L 
 (XL) and by the addition of a vertical mark to 
 the bar in the first brand completely changes the 
 brand. It was always a puzzle for the ranchers 
 to find brands that would not be easily changed. 
 Rustlers engaged in this work invariably took grave 
 chances, for a good puncher could tell a changed 
 brand in an instant, and often knew every cow be- 
 longing to his ranch by sight, without looking at 
 the brand. When one of these expert cowboys 
 found a suspicious brand- he lost no time hunting 
 up proof, and if he found that there had actually 
 been dirty work, the rustler responsible, if wise, 
 would skip the country without leaving note of his 
 destination, for in the days of which I speak the 
 penalty for cow-stealing was almost always death, 
 except when the sheriff happened to be on the spot. 
 Since the sheriff was invariably heart and soul a 
 cattleman himself, he generally took care that he 
 wasn't anywhere in the neighborhood when a cattle 
 thief met his just deserts. Even now this rule holds 
 effect in the cattle lands. Only two years ago a 
 prominent rancher in this country — the Sonoita 
 Range — shot and killed a Mexican who with a part- 
 ner had been caught red-handed in the act of steal- 
 ing cattle. 
 
 With the gradual disappearance of the open range, 
 cattle stealing has practically stopped, although one 
 still hears at times of cases of the kind, isolated. 
 
110 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 but bearing traces of the same old methods. Stam- 
 peding is, of course, now done away with. 
 
 During the years I worked for D. A. Sanford I 
 had more or less trouble all the time with cattle 
 thieves, but succeeded fairly well in either detecting 
 the guilty ones or in getting back the stolen cattle. 
 I meted out swift and sure justice to rustlers, and 
 before long it became rumored 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 the Vail interests for Sanford, and 
 the Sanford brand was changed to the Dipper, 
 which, afterwards, following the closing out of the 
 Sanford stock, was again altered to the Ninety- 
 Seven (97) brand. Cattle with the 97 brand on 
 them still roam the range about the Sonoita. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 It was to a rodeo similar to the one which I have 
 attempted to describe that Jesus Mabot and I de- 
 parted following the incident of the selling of the 
 sheep. We were gone a week. When we returned 
 I put up my horse and was seeing that he had some 
 feed when a shout from Jesus, whom I had sent to 
 find the Chinese gardener to tell him we needed 
 something to eat, 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 at the Chinaman, who was 
 
Sheriff, Cattleman and Farmer 111 
 
 lying face downward near the fence, quite dead. 
 By the smell and the general lay-out, I reckoned he 
 had been dead some three days. 
 
 I told Mabot to stay with him and, jumping on 
 my horse, rode to Crittenden, where I obtained a 
 coroner and a jury that would sit on the Chinaman's 
 death. The next morning the jury found that he 
 had been killed 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 horse outside the Italian Brothers' 
 saloon, noticed a man I thought looked familiar 
 sitting on the bench outside. As I came up he pulled 
 his hat over his face so that I could not see it. I 
 went inside, ordered a drink, and looked in the mir- 
 ror. It gave a perfect reflection of the man outside, 
 and I saw that he w^as the Mexican Fernando, whom 
 the Chinese gardener had hired when I had engaged 
 Mabot. I had my suspicions right then as to who 
 had killed the Chinaman, but, having nothing by 
 which to prove them, I was forced to let the matter 
 drop. 
 
 Two or three years after this I hired as vaquero 
 a Mexican named Neclecto, who after a year quit 
 work and went for a visit to Nogales. Neclecto 
 bought his provisions from the Chinaman who kept 
 the store I had built on the ranch, and so, as we 
 were responsible for the debt, when Bob Bloxton, 
 son-in-law of San ford, came to pay the Mexican 
 off, he did so in the Chinaman's store. 
 
112 Arizona^s Yesterday 
 
 The next morning Neclecto accompanied Bloxton 
 to the train, and, looking back. Bob saw the Mex- 
 ican and another man ride off in the direction of the 
 ranch. After it happened Neclecto owned up that 
 he had been in the Chinaman's that night drinking, 
 but insisted that he had left without any trouble 
 with the yellow-skinned storekeeper. But from that 
 day onward the Chinaman was never seen again. 
 
 Bloxton persuaded me to return to the ranch 
 from Nogales and we visited the Chinaman's house, 
 where we found the floor dug up as though some- 
 body had been hunting treasure. My wife found 
 a $10 goldpiece hidden in a crack between the 'dobe 
 bricks and later my son, John, unearthed twelve 
 Mexican dollars beneath some manure in the hen- 
 coop. Whether this had belonged to the Chinaman, 
 Louey, who had disappeared, or to another China- 
 man who had been staying with him, we could not 
 determine. At any rate, we found no trace of Louey 
 or his body. 
 
 Even this was not to be the end of the strange 
 series of fatalities to Chinamen on the Sanford 
 ranch. In 1897 I quit the Sanford foremanship 
 after working for my employer seventeen years, and 
 turned the ranch over to Amos Bloxton, another 
 son-in-law of Sanford. I rented agricultural land 
 from Sanford and fell to farming. Near my place 
 Crazy John, a Chinaman, had his gardens, where 
 he made 'dobe bricks besides growing produce. 
 
 We were living then in the old store building and 
 
Sheriff^ Cattleman and Farmer 113 
 
 the Chinaman was making bricks about a quarter 
 of a mile away with a Mexican whom he employed. 
 One day we found him dead and the Mexican gone. 
 After that, as was natural, we could never persuade 
 a Chinaman to live anywhere near the place. I later 
 built a house of the bricks the Chinaman was 
 making when he met his death. The Mexican 
 escaped to Sonora, came back when he thought the 
 affair had blown over and went to w^ork for the 
 railroad at Sonoita. There he had a fracas with the 
 section foreman, stabbed him and made off into the 
 hills. Sheriff Wakefield from Tucson came down 
 to get the man and shot him dead near Greaterville, 
 which ended the incident. 
 
 In the preceding I have mentioned the railroad. 
 This w^as the Benson-Hermosillo road, built by the 
 Santa Fe and later sold to the Southern Pacific, 
 which extended the line to San Bias in Coahuila, 
 and which is now in process of extending it further 
 to the city of Tepic. I was one of those who helped 
 survey the original line from Benson to Nogales — 
 I think the date was 1883. 
 
 In future times I venture to state that this road 
 will be one of the best-paying properties of the 
 Southern Pacific Company, which has had the cour- 
 age and foresight to open up the immensely rich 
 empire of Western Mexico. The west coast of 
 Mexico is yet in the baby stage of its development. 
 The revolutions have hindered progress there con- 
 siderably, but when peace comes at last and those 
 
114 ' Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 now shouldering arms for this and that faction in 
 the Republic return to the peaceful vocations they 
 owned before the war began, there is no doubt that 
 the world will stand astonished at the riches of this, 
 at present, undeveloped country. There are por- 
 tions of the West Coast that have never been sur- 
 veyed, that are inhabited to this day with peaceful 
 Indians who have seldom seen a white face. The 
 country is scattered with the ruins of wonderful 
 temples and cathedrals and, doubtless, much of the 
 old Aztec treasure still lies buried for some enter- 
 prising fortune-seeker to unearth. There are also 
 immense forests of cedar and mahogany and other 
 hard woods to be cut; and extensive areas of land 
 suitable for sugar planting and other farming to be 
 brought under cultivation. When all this is opened 
 up the West Coast cannot help taking its place as 
 a wonderfully rich and productive region. 
 
IN AGE THE CRICKET CHIRPS AND 
 BRINGS— 
 
 A faltering step on life's highway, 
 
 A grip on the bottom rung; 
 A fezv 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 ns draw the slower mounts. 
 
 And onr 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 Hve with me. 
 Frank was a splendid fellow and we were fast 
 friends. 
 
 One day during the Rodeo we were out where 
 the vaqueros were working and on our return found 
 our home, a 'dobe house, burned down, and all our 
 belongings with it, including considerable pro- 
 visions. My loss was slight, for in those days I 
 owned a prejudice against acquiring any more 
 worldly goods than I could with comfort pack on 
 
116 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 my back; but Frank lost a trunk containing several 
 perfectly good suits of clothes and various other 
 more or less valuable articles which he set great 
 store by, besides over a hundred dollars in green- 
 backs. We hunted among the ruins, of course, but 
 not a vestige of anything savable did we find. 
 
 Three days later, however, Sanford himself ar- 
 rived and took one look at the 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 containing several hundred dollars in 
 greenbacks, and from the earth beneath the charred 
 ruins of the chest of drawers he did likewise. Then 
 he stood up and 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 lose any- 
 thing, was the only man whose money had been 
 saved. Which only goes to prove the proverbial 
 luck of the rich man. 
 
 Not long after this experience I moved to Critten- 
 den, where I farmed awhile, running buggy trips to 
 the mines in the neighborhood as a side line. 
 
 One day a man named Wheeler, of Wheeler & 
 Perry, a Tucson merchandise establishment, came to 
 Crittenden and I drove him out to Duquesne. On 
 the way Wheeler caught sight of a large fir-pine tree 
 growing on the slope of a hill. He pointed to it 
 and said: 
 
 "Say, John, Fd give something to have that tree 
 in my house at Christmas." 
 
In Age the Cricket Chirps 117 
 
 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?" 
 
 'Td give five dollars," he said. 
 
 "Done!" I said. "You give me five dollars and 
 count that tree yours for Christmas!" And we 
 shook hands on it. 
 
 A few days later I rigged up a wagon, took along 
 three Mexicans with axes, and cut a load of Christ- 
 mas trees — I think there were some three hundred in 
 the load. Then I drove the wagon to Tucson and 
 after delivering Wheeler his especial tree and receiv- 
 ing the stipulated five dollars for it, commenced 
 peddling the rest on the streets. 
 
 And, say! Those Christmas trees sold like wild- 
 fire. Everybody w^anted one. I sold them for as 
 low as six-bits and as high as five dollars, and before 
 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 above expenses, just one thou- 
 sand dollars. 
 
 This, you will have to admit, was some profit 
 for a load of Christmas trees. Sad to relate, how- 
 ever, a year later when I tried to repeat the per- 
 formance, I found about forty other fellows ahead 
 of me loaded to the guards with Christmas trees of 
 all kinds and sizes. For a time Christmas trees were 
 
118 Arizona's Yesterday 
 
 cheaper than mesquite brush as the overstocked 
 crowd endeavored to unload on an oversupphed 
 town. I escaped with my outfit and my Hfe but 
 no profits — that time. 
 
 On December 15, 1900, I moved to Patagonia, 
 which had just been born on the wave of the copper 
 boom. I rented a house, which I ran successfully 
 for one year, and then started the building of the 
 first wing of the Patagonia Hotel, which I still own 
 and run, together with a dance-hall, skating rink 
 and restaurant. Since that first wing was built the 
 hotel has changed considerably in appearance, for 
 whenever I got far enough ahead to justify it, I 
 built additions. I think I may say that now the 
 hotel is one of the best structures of its kind in the 
 county. I am considering the advisability of more 
 additions, including a large skating rink and dance- 
 hall, but the copper situation does not justify me in 
 the outlay at present. 
 
 I am entirely satisfied with my location, however. 
 Patagonia is not a large place, but it is full of con- 
 genial friends and will one day, when the copper 
 industry again finds its feet, be a large town. It is 
 in the very heart of the richest mining zone in the 
 world, if the assayers are to be believed. Some of 
 the mining properties, now nearly all temporarily 
 closed down, are wforld-famous — I quote for ex- 
 ample the Three R., the World's Fair, the Flux, the 
 
In Age the Cricket Chirps 119 
 
 Santa Cruz, the Hardshell, the Harshaw, the Her- 
 mosa, the Montezuma, the Mansfield and the 
 Mowry. 
 
 This last, nine miles from Patagonia, was a pro- 
 ducer long before the Civil War. Lead and silver 
 mined at the Mowry were transported to Galveston 
 to be made into bullets for the war — imagine being 
 hit with a silver bullet! In 1857 Sylvester Mowry, 
 owner of the Mowry mine and one of the earliest 
 pioneers of Arizona, was chosen delegate to Con- 
 gress by petition of the people, but was not admitted 
 to his seat. Mowry was subsequently banished from 
 Arizona by Commander Carleton and his mine con- 
 fiscated for reasons which were never quite clear. 
 
 My purpose in writing these memoirs is two-fold : 
 First, I desired that my children should have a rec- 
 ord which could be referred to by them after I am 
 gone; and, secondly, that the State of Arizona, my 
 adopted home, should be the richer for the posses- 
 sion of the facts I have at my disposal. 
 
 I want the reader to understand that even though 
 the process of evolution has taken a life-time, I can- 
 not cease wondering at the marvelous development 
 of the Territory and, later, State of Arizona. When 
 I glance back over the vista of years and see the 
 old, and then open my eyes to survey the new, it 
 is almost as though a Verne or a Haggard sketch 
 had come to life. 
 
120 Arizona^'s Yesterday 
 
 Who, in an uneventful stop-over at Geronimo, 
 Graham county, would believe that these same old 
 Indians v^ho sit so peacefully mouthing their ci- 
 garros at the trading store v^ere the terrible Apaches 
 of former days — the same avenging demons who 
 murdered emigrants, fought the modernly-equipped 
 soldier \vith bow and arrow, robbed and looted right 
 and left and finally were forced to give in to their 
 greatest enemy, Civilization. And who shall begin 
 to conjecture the thoughts that now and again pass 
 through the brains of these old Apache relics, living 
 now so quietly on the bounty of a none-too-generous 
 government ? What dreams of settlement massacres, 
 of stage robberies, of desperate fights, they may con- 
 jure up until the wheezy arrival of the Arizona 
 Eastern locomotive disperses their visions with the 
 blast of sordid actuality ! 
 
 For the Arizona that I knew back in the Frontier 
 days was the embodiment of 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; of the hardy prospector and 
 the old cattleman, who must gaze a little sadly back 
 along the trail as they near the end of it, at thought 
 of the days that 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, that I 
 have lived, really lived, and I am content. 
 
 THE END.