Part 2

An interesting old-time scout is Captain John D. Burgess, who came to Arizona in 1873 to look after some mining interests for General Kautz and Colonel Biddle of the army, subsequently becoming a guide and scout for the government, and in 1882 was chief of Indian police at San Carlos. At the time the Kid started out on his career, Captain Burgess was working some mines of his own at Table Mountain, in the Galiura mountains. The officer in command of the troops sent out from San Carlos in pursuit of the Kid and his followers, knowing Burgess, immediately secured his services as guide and trailer. Following the Kid and his band, they trailed them through to Pantano, where they had crossed the railroad, and going up Davidson’s canyon, and passing E. L. Vail’s ranch had accommodated themselves to a bunch of his horses. Passing down the east side of the Santa Ritas, they killed Mike Grace, an old miner, near old Camp Crittenden. Here Captain Lawton, with a troop of the 4th Cavalry, heading them off and forcing them to turn back, they passed by Mountain Springs, near the present Vail station, and were run over the Rincon mountains, where they were so closely pursued that while in camp they lost all the horses they had stolen. They now headed for the reservation, which they succeeded in reaching before Lieutenant Carter Johnson, who was immediately behind, could overtake them, and here they surrendered, and in due course were tried and sent first to San Diego barracks, passing through Tucson on September 3rd, and subsequently, in February, 1888, were transferred to Fort Alcatraz, in the bay of San Francisco. Subsequently, the United States Supreme Court, having decided that the trial of an Indian devolved on the county in which the crime was committed, ordered that all Indians sentenced by other than the territorial courts should be returned to the Territory and tried by such courts. Under this order the Kid and several others were returned and tried by Judge Kibbey, at Globe, and on October 30, 1889, sentenced to imprisonment at Yuma, and were being taken there by Sheriff Reynolds and his Deputy, “Hunky-Dory” Holmes. They were being conveyed by stage over the Pinal mountains, via Riverside and Florence. In the stage were Reynolds, Holmes, a Mexican who was also being taken to Yuma, the Kid and seven other Indians, and Eugene Middleton the driver of the stage, making twelve in all.

Killing of Sheriff and Deputy and Escape of Kid

The Indians were handcuffed together, two and two, and had shackles on their ankles. They stopped over night at Riverside, about half-way between Globe and Florence. Leaving Riverside early on the morning of November 2nd, while passing up a heavy sand-wash, the pulling being quite heavy, in order to relieve the team, the two officers and six of the Indians got out to walk, the Indians probably having had their shackles loosened from at least one ankle to enable them to do so; the Kid and one of the Indians still remaining in the stage. Suddenly the six Indians that were walking seized the two officers, whom they overpowered and killed with their own guns. As soon as Middleton discovered what was taking place, drawing his own revolver and covering the Kid and the other Indian still in the stage, he kept them quiet until, on standing up to look back, he was shot through the face by one of the other Indians. In the meantime the Mexican, taking advantage of the opportunity, escaped. Middleton, although badly wounded, was not killed; the Indians, however, evidently thought he was dead. He was, however, sufficiently conscious to realize what was taking place and avoided disabusing their minds of their belief, and in due course was rescued and taken to Globe, where he finally fully recovered.

The eight Indians, now armed with a shot-gun, a Winchester rifle, and three revolvers, partly stripping Middleton and the two officers, hastened to get away. Stories of the manner of their relieving themselves of their shackles do not agree. One story is that, finding a blacksmith-shop near the mouth of the San Pedro river, they succeeded in cutting the shackles loose. Middleton’s statement is that, finding the keys in the pockets of the Sheriff, they easily freed themselves of their irons, and the plausibility of this is quite evident, as the officers must necessarily have had the keys with them. After their escape the Indians are supposed to have come along the west side of the Catalina mountains, and passed near the Half-way House, between Tucson and Fort Lowell, as their tracks were seen there crossing the road, going south.

Sword Presented to General Miles.

The people of Arizona, having been finally and, it was felt, permanently relieved of this black incubus that had been hanging over them for the many years dating back to their early coming to the Territory, and General Miles having contributed so largely to the result, decided to do something marking their appreciation of the services rendered them, and this found expression in the presentation of a sword. Through a popular subscription a magnificent sword costing $1000 was procured through Tiffany & Company of New York, the blade being of the finest steel, beautifully etched, and the hilt of solid gold. The presentation took place on November 8th, 1887, at Levin’s Park, at the foot of Pennington street. It was originally intended that the ceremony should take place on September 4th, the anniversary of the surrender of Geronimo, but that day falling on a Sunday, it was fixed for Monday the 5th. General Miles, however, having been injured by the overturning of the carriage in which he was out riding at Santa Monica, California, on August 8th, the presentation was delayed until the date named. Many notables in our country, also the Governors of neighboring Mexican States, were invited to be present. A distinguishing feature in the very long procession leading to the Park was three hundred mounted Papagos, under their chief, Asuncion Ruiz, in all their barbaric splendor of feathers and paint. The Papagos had always been the consistent friends of the whites and the inveterate foes of the Apaches, so they were more than glad to participate in this event. In addition to the conventional combination usually found in parades, there were the 4th U. S. cavalry band and a platoon of United States artillery, William Zeckendorf, one of the very early pioneers, acting as grand marshal. One of the photographs suggesting this article is of this procession, evidently taken from the roof of one of the buildings on the west side of Main street, looking up Pennington street, and shows the parade the full length of the street, the head not having quite reached Main street. The presentation was made on a platform erected for the purpose in the Park. Royal A. Johnson was president of the day, I having the honor of acting as secretary, and Judge W. H. Barnes making the presentation address. One of my duties as secretary was to read the letters of regret from those who had been invited but were unable to be present. Among these I now recall letters from Secretary of War Wm. C. Endicott, Gen. Sherman, and R. G. Ingersoll. Among those present were Major Chaffee, subsequently Lieutenant General, and Lieutenant Wood, now Major General. The other of the two photographs is of General Miles and those on the platform with him, taken as the general was delivering his address accepting the sword. In the evening, following the presentation, there was a reception and ball at the San Xavier hotel, since burned down, near the station; this hotel at the time was kept by Wheeler and Perry.

Johnny Greenleaf Mistakes Scouts for Kid.

As illustrating the trying experiences that one might be subject to during these troublous times when the fear of the Kid was in the very air, I may relate one of a friend of mine, Johnny Greenleaf. Johnny was sinking a well on his ranch, some distance from the house, and had just ridden to where his two men were at work, one in the well and the other on top. Suddenly a number of Indians came in sight, approaching the well. Recognizing them as Apaches, he naturally assumed them to be the Kid and some of his followers, and obeying the instinct of human nature, that of self-preservation, cried out, “Here comes the Kid!” quickly mounted his horse and started to escape. He had gone but a short distance, however, till that chivalrous spirit which makes one sacrifice his own life rather than cowardly desert his comrade, asserted itself, and he immediately turned and rode back to his men, both of whom were now on top, realizing at the same time that there was absolutely nothing that he could do, neither he nor his men having a shooting-iron of any kind, all of their weapons having been left at the house. The Indians now approaching the well, Johnny asked them in English what they were hunting and where they were going. One of them, speaking English very poorly, in trying to make himself understood mentioned the Kid in such a way that Johnny understood him to say that he was the Apache Kid. This simply confirmed what Johnny had thought, but it so startled him that for a while he could barely speak; for if this were the Kid, there was little chance for the lives of either Johnny or his men. Finally, recovering his nerve and asking something else, the Indian succeeded in making it understood that they were scouts from San Carlos and were seeking the Kid. You can well imagine the relief of the three men when they realized that they were in no danger.

What Would You Do?

I think I hear one of my readers saying that Johnny’s attempt to escape was a cowardly thing to do. Yes? What would you have done, and what would I, under the same circumstances? Unless idiotic, or too frightened to mount the horse, we would have done just what Johnny did. Assuming that this had been the Kid, as Johnny firmly believed, his escape meant the loss of but two lives, instead of the loss of the same two and the sacrifice of a third--his own--if he remained. But no man knows just exactly what he would do under a certain trying condition until he has been subjected to the test of that very condition. He may think he does, but he doesn’t. But having gone less than 100 yards, Johnny’s mind has had time to react, and the chivalrous spirit asserts itself, and he turns and rides back--to what? To his death, he has every reason to believe. But having gotten the 100 yards away, would you or I have turned and ridden back to our own certain death? Is there not a possibility that were the world wide enough and the horse strong enough we might still be going? In your imagination don’t place the standard too high for the nerve you think you possess, if at the time you are absolutely in no danger.

Stoicism of Indian

The following incident shows something of the character of these Ishmaelites of the desert. On one occasion five of them had been tried at Florence for the killing of someone in the Superstition mountains, and sentenced to be hanged. The night previous to the day of the hanging, while in their cells, with the death-watch outside, three of them, to avoid the ignominy of death by hanging, committed suicide by self-strangulation. This they could do only by each putting a cord around his neck and deliberately choking himself to death. The three were found dead in the morning when the guards entered their cells.

Of course it is not possible to recall the names of all of the many whose lives were a sacrifice to the safety and prosperity of the great commonwealth that was to follow, but I have in mind that on June 7, 1886, Thos. Hunt, a prospector, was killed near Harshaw, and on June 9 of the same year Henry Baston was killed near Arivaca. On September 22, 1888, W. B. Horton, post trader at San Carlos, was killed by one of the Indians on the reservation. But in this case punishment was swift, as the Indian police almost immediately killed the murderer while he was attempting to escape from the reservation.

“Walapai” Clark and the Kid

One of our early frontier characters was E. A. Clark, familiarly known as “Walapai”, having gained the title years ago when in the government service as chief of the Hualapai scouts. Clark was a giant in stature, measuring six feet three, absolutely fearless and in those olden times equally tireless. Coming to the Territory in ’69, his life and experiences here would fill a volume of intensely interesting reading, but in this limited article I can mention only a few of his closing Indian experiences, the culminating one--the one of the greatest service to the Territory--resulting in the death of that outlaw and terror of the border, this same Apache Kid. Clark’s first experience with the Kid was on June 3, 1887, two days after his shooting of Al Sieber. At the time, Clark was living at his ranch, the Oak Grove, in the Galiura mountains, about twelve miles east of the San Pedro river, but was absent, his two partners, John Scanlan and William Diehl, being at home. The Kid and his followers coming across the country from San Carlos, stole fifteen horses from William Atchley, then came on to Clark’s place, three miles further on. At the time, Diehl was about 150 yards from the house, cutting some poles for a corral, when Scanlan, who was in the house, heard three shots, and, seizing his gun, ran out, and as he did so saw three Indians coming towards the house, and firing at them, they immediately sought shelter. When Scanlan fired at the Indians one of them lost a big sombrero which he was wearing, and which, probably very much to his regret, he was unable to recover. They then rounded up a number of Scanlan’s horses, not far away, and seemingly tried to get Scanlan to come out to protect his horses, and thus enable them to get a shot at him; but being unable to do this, they left, taking the horses with them. As soon as they had gone, Scanlan went to where Diehl was and found him dead, the Indians having shot him.

Clark Vows Vengeance

Clark, returning home a day or two later and finding his partner dead, vowed vengeance on the Kid, and this, several years later, he found opportunity to gratify. A few months later, Clark and Scanlan having occasion to be away, left a young engineer, J. A. Mercer, at the house, with a caution to be on the lookout for the Indians. Soon after, Mercer discovered three of them crawling up towards the house, but was in time to seize a rifle and fire at them, and as he did so they broke and ran. However, they took five of Clark’s horses in exchange for three of their own, which they killed before leaving.

For several years Clark impatiently bided his time. To him the mills of the gods were, indeed, grinding slowly, but they were grinding, and the time was approaching when the grist should be delivered. In the meantime the Kid was continuing to lengthen his trail of blood. Now here, now there, the wily outlaw was ever at his work. A murder here today, he is heard of one hundred miles away tomorrow, leaving a trail behind him marked by where he had changed his mount by the stealing of a new one at some ranch, leaving his old one dead, in exchange. This was his practice, killing the animal he might leave by stabbing in the side, thus avoiding the sacrifice of any of his ammunition, which he could ill afford to lose. Being an outlaw with his own people, he found it difficult to replenish his belt.

Kid Nears End of His Trail of Blood

But at last the end of his career of robbery and bloodshed is approaching. The opportunity that Clark has been waiting all these years is nigh at hand. The Apache Kid’s race is about run. Clark had been away from home, and when returning, on February 4, 1894, passing by the house of Emmerson, a neighbor, about a mile from his own home, he noticed the tracks of three Indians about the house, and going inside, found they had robbed it of its contents. Going on home, he found his partner, Scanlan, whom the Indians had not disturbed, and said to him, “Scanlan, your old friend the Kid has been around again.”

Soon after, Clark, taking his gun, went out of the house for the purpose of “scouting the country around” and seeing whether he might get sight of the Indians. Going to the top of a peak near by, where he could overlook the surrounding country without unduly exposing himself, he awaited events, not realizing what an approaching one should mean to himself, and to an old enemy on whom he had vowed vengeance for the death of his old-time partner, and that this event would mark an era in a life ever filled with its dangers, not one of which had ever been shirked, but always bravely met. The opportunity for which he had waited, and in his way--a way probably familiar only to the “old scout”--had prayed for, was but a few short hours away. The language of his prayers, except for its fervency, may not have been up to the orthodox standard, but he knew what he wanted, and in asking for it used the language with which he was familiar--the language of the desert and the mountain, the camp-fire and the trail.

Closing Act in Great Drama

Clark had been there for probably twenty minutes, when, looking off across an intervening canyon, he noticed three Indians approaching his horse where it was grazing, about 1500 yards away. The Indians not having discovered Clark, who, knowing it would be impossible to get across the canyon in time to save his horse, raised the sights of his gun, and fired at them, not expecting, however, to hit any one of them at that distance, but hoping to frighten them away from his horse. On firing, Clark immediately ducked into the canyon, out of sight of the Indians, who were evidently frightened by the shot. Waiting there until dusk, he cautiously crawled towards his horse for the purpose of taking him to the house, and was within about seventy-five yards of him, it being too dark to see an object distinctly at any distance, when he saw two Indians approaching the horse, and only a few steps from the animal and about 50 yards from where Clark was. Owing to the darkness it was impossible to more than distinguish the two Indians, who were but a few feet apart, one ahead of the other. These were subsequently found to be the Kid and his squaw, the squaw in front and nearest to Clark, but owing to the darkness it was impossible to distinguish one from the other. Clark instantly raised his gun and fired at the one nearest to him, but, being unable to see the sights, could only take a quick aim along the barrel. By his long experience with a gun he knew the danger of overshooting in the dark, and made allowance accordingly. As Clark fired there came a simultaneous report from the Kid’s rifle and an outcry from the squaw, and from the character of this outcry, Clark knew that he had made the mistake of firing at the wrong Indian. The ball from the Kid’s gun whistled alarmingly close to Clark’s head, but fortunately did no harm. Following the shots, the two Indians immediately dropped to the ground, and as fast as the old scout could work his rifle he “pumped the lead” into where they had dropped, firing several shots. The Indian, however, fired but the one shot. Clark then made a run for his horse, but the animal being frightened, he was unable to catch him.

Not knowing how many of the Indians there might be about, Clark immediately set out for Mammoth, on the San Pedro, where he procured a small posse, and was back at the scene of the shooting by morning, finding the squaw dead a short distance from where she had been shot. Following the Kid’s trail, they found that he had hopped on one foot to where he had left his horse, one of his legs evidently being broken. Scouts from San Carlos, following his trail, found some bloody rags where he had built a little fire, and probably dressed his wounds.

Kid’s Career Ended

Thus ended the murderous career of the Kid, the terror of the Southwest. Clark had undoubtedly hit him with one or more of his shots. Where or how soon after he may have died, no white man knows, Clark being the last one to see him, as the two shots simultaneously rang out on the silence of that night. Had it been the Kid instead of the squaw, Clark would have earned the large reward that was offered for him dead or alive. Tom Horn, an old scout, who spoke the Apache language like a native, came from Denver subsequently, hoping that by some chance the Kid might still be living somewhere and that he might earn the reward. The mother and the sister, however, both assured him that the Kid was dead, but beyond this would say nothing.

It would seem that there could be no more fitting ending to this little sketch than its dedication to the memory of those old-timers, makers of early-day history, the old pioneers. Each well played his individual part in that great border drama. On them the curtain has rung down for the last time. To them the succeeding generations owe much.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.