Читать книгу General Crook and the Fighting Apaches - Edwin L. Sabin - Страница 12

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These were the principal band of the Cho-kon-en Apaches who were called Chiricahua (“Great Mountain”) Apaches because of the Chiricahua Mountains amidst which they lived. But Cho-kon-en was their own name.

The pleasant-faced Cochise was the head chief. He was about fifty-five years old. The captain Go-yath-lay or “One-who-yawns” was the war chief. He was forty years old. The Mexicans whom he had fought had given him the name Geronimo (Her-on-i-mo), which is Spanish for Jerome.

There were other bands of Chiricahuas, under other chiefs—Na-na and Chihuahua (Chi-wah-wah) and Loco, and so forth. Na-na was the oldest of all; he was nearly eighty, and had been wounded many times in battle—yes, as many as fifteen times. Chihuahua was stout and good-natured. Loco was thin and quite bow-legged.

In the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico, which were the south end of the Chiricahua Range, were the Nedni Apaches, under old Chief Juh, or “Whoa.” Chief Cochise and Chief Juh frequently went to war together against the Mexicans.

Northeastward, or in western New Mexico lived the Chi-hen-ne—the Ojo Caliente (Oho Cal-i-en-te) or Warm Spring Apaches, under Chief Victorio. With Chief Victorio’s people the Cochise people had long been as brothers.

The woman who had charge of Jimmie was Nah-da-ste. She was a sister of Geronimo. Her husband had been killed in battle with the Mexicans. The warrior who had captured Jimmie was Geronimo’s younger brother Porico, or “White Horse.”

Nah-che, Jimmie’s chi-kis-n, was the youngest son of Chief Cochise. Geronimo the war chief liked him very much. His name meant “meddlesome,” for he had been a mischievous baby. In about three years, or when he was seventeen, if he had proved himself worthy in the hunt and on the long trail, he would be admitted into the councils as a warrior.

The same with another boy, Chato. He was called Chato, or “Flat-nose,” because he had been kicked in the face by a mule.

Taza, Nah-che’s elder brother, already was a warrior and would be head chief, probably, after Cochise his father died. But that was not certain; head chiefs were elected and not born.

As for the red-headed, one-eyed blue-eyed boy——

“His name is Red-head,” said Nah-che. “He is not one of us. He is part Mexican and part American. He was captured a long time ago by some of our men, but he lives with the White Mountains now, in the north. The White Mountains are at peace, on their land where the new American fort is being built.”

Jimmie rapidly learned Apache, although many of the Chiricahuas spoke Spanish. He soon had lost his shirt, and went about with only a rag around his waist. Everybody in the Cochise camp was kind to him. He was an Apache boy, now. The Apaches never whipped their children, nor punished them in any way except by scolding.

The little children were made to help in the fields where corn and squash and beans and melons were raised; and went with their mothers to gather seeds and berries and acorns and mescal—for the Apaches ate curious things.

The girls played with dolls, and at housekeeping and tended to the babies, of which there were many. The boys of nine and ten, Jimmie’s age, and over, worked some, but they were encouraged to use the bow and arrow, and throw the lance, and practice at war and at the hunt, so as to train them as warriors and to strengthen their muscles.

The war game was the best sport. Some of the boys pretended to be Mexicans. The others remained Apaches. The “Mexicans” were given a head-start, into the brush and timber, and the “Apaches” set out to find their trail and to surprise them.

Although the “Mexicans” did everything they might think of, to conceal their tracks and to get away, they always were discovered. Then by running and sneaking and crawling flat with grass and cactus tied to their heads the “Apaches” proceeded to ambush the “Mexicans.” Then the “Apaches” yelled and shot fast with light arrows, and the “Mexicans” were killed or captured.

Turkeys were caught by running after them up hill and down until they were so tired that they could not fly, and were killed by a blow from a club on the neck. Rabbits were chased, too, and surrounded by a circle of boys armed with bows and clubs; and they, too, were killed.

All these sports made the Apache boys fleet of foot and quick of eye and arm, and very strong in lungs and legs.

The Apaches had curious customs as well as curious food.

“You must never ask a Tinneh (‘Tinneh’ was the Apache’s own title; it meant ‘man’) his name,” explained Nah-che. “Only somebody else may speak it. If he spoke it, he would have bad luck.”

And——

“You must never speak of the bear or the mule or the snake or the lightning unless you say Ostin Shosh (Old Man Bear), or Ostin Mule or Ostin Snake or Ostin lightning. It is not well to talk about them or the owl. They are medicine.”

And——

“After you are married you must not look upon the face of your wife’s mother. You must avoid meeting her or speaking to her. You must hide your face or turn your back, or you will be disrespectful.”

And——

“You must not eat fish meat, or the meat of the pig. They are bad.”

And——

“When anyone dies we give away everything of his that we don’t burn. If that was not done, then there might be persons of bad hearts who would wish a relative to die so that they would get his property.”

And——

“When I go on the trail as a warrior, for the first four times I must not touch my lips to water. I must drink through a hollow reed, or I will spoil the luck of the whole party. And I must not scratch my head with my fingers. I must use a scratch stick.”

War parties went out frequently, sometimes under Geronimo, sometimes under Cochise also. The warriors marched on foot, as a rule, because then they could climb and hide better. On foot an Apache could travel forty to seventy-five miles at a stretch, which was as much as a horse could do. No white man could equal an Apache, in covering rough country and desert country.

The parties were sent out mainly against the Mexicans of Mexico, to get plunder, although the Chiricahuas had no love for the Americans, either, Nah-che explained again.

He was sitting, pulling the hairs from his chin and cheeks with a pair of bone tweezers. It was unmanly for a warrior to have any hair on his face, and Nah-che expected to be a warrior after he had made four war-trails. Four was the lucky number, with the Apaches.

“We hate the Mexicans. They are bad,” said Nah-che. “They kill our women and children, and pay for scalps. With the Americans it is like this:

“When they first came into our country we were friendly to them. We saw that they were different from the Mexicans, and they had been at war with the Mexicans, too. They shot one of us, and offered to pay a little something, which was not punishment enough. Still we did not stay at war with them. Cochise made a camp near the American wagon-road at Apache Pass, where Camp Bowie is now, and traded, and sold wood. One time a Mexican woman and her baby were stolen by some bad Indians from an American, and the Chiricahua were asked to return them. We did not have them, or know anything about them, but Cochise and Mangas Coloradas of the Mimbreño Apaches and some other chiefs went with a white flag to meet a young American war chief at Apache Pass, and talk.

“When they got there the American chief surrounded them with his soldiers and told them that they would be kept shut in a tent until they sent and got the baby and woman. They decided they would rather be killed than be kept prisoners. So they drew their knives, and Cochise cut a hole through the back of the tent, and there was a fight. Several were killed. But Cochise and Mangas Coloradas escaped. Cochise was wounded in the knee by a gun knife (bayonet). The Americans hung his brother and five others, by the neck, and Cochise hung an American by the neck; and he and Mangas Coloradas called all their warriors and nearly captured the Americans. The young American captain had acted very foolish.

“After two or three years Mangas Coloradas (this was Spanish for ‘Red Sleeves’) grew tired of fighting. He was badly wounded, and he sent word that he would like to treat for peace. The Americans told him to come in with his people. Cochise had married his sister, and we and the Mimbreños often helped each other, and now Cochise advised him not to trust the word of the Americans. But Mangas Coloradas went to an American fort in New Mexico.

“Then they seized him and put him into a little house with only one window, high up. The soldiers scowled at him; so that when he was put into the little house he said to himself: ‘This is my end. I shall never again hunt through the valleys and mountains of my people.’ And that was so. This night while he was asleep somebody from outside threw a big rock down on his chest—or else a soldier guard punched him with a hot knife on the end of a gun. We do not know. Anyway, he was much frightened. He ran about, trying to climb out and fight with his hands and then the soldiers shot him many times, and he died.

“Now you see that the Chiricahua cannot be friends with the Americans any more than with the Mexicans, and it is so with other Tinneh. The Warm Springs are friendly, because Chief Victorio thinks that is wise; and the Sierra Blanca (White Mountains) have agreed not to fight. But they have not lost chiefs and brothers like we have.”

This was the way the Chiricahua Apaches thought. But of course there were two sides to the quarrel. Joe Felmer and Pete Kitchen and other pioneers had claimed that old Mangas Coloradas had been a regular bandit who never intended to stay at peace. He had tortured and killed men and women and children, and was determined to drive all the Americans out of the country. Once he had been captured by miners and tied up and whipped, which had made him worse.

He had lived to be seventy years old, and although even Pete Kitchen did not wholly approve of the manner with which he had been disposed of, it was a great relief to have him out of the way. Maybe he might have been educated to stay at peace, and maybe not.

But now that the Chiricahuas hated the Americans and Mexicans both, Jimmie saw little chance of escape.

Maria the Mexican boy had settled down to be an Apache. All his folks had been killed, and he said that he might as well live with the Apaches. He had plenty to eat and little to do; and he thought that he would marry an Apache girl, when he was old enough, and stay Apache.

The Red-head boy who lived with the White Mountain Apaches came in once or twice, to visit, while out hunting or just scouting around. He could not speak English. His father had been Irish and his mother Mexican, and Spanish had been the only language used in his home. Since the Apaches had captured him eight or nine years ago he had learned Apache, too.

“Are you going to stay Apache, Red-head?” asked Jimmie.

“Yes,” answered Red-head, in Apache. “I’ll stay with the White Mountains, but I don’t like the Chiricahua. It is no use for them to fight the Americans. Besides, they killed my father and mother. Are you going to be a Chiricahua, Boy-who-sleeps?”

Jimmie shook his head.

“No. I am American. I don’t want to be anything but American. I’m a white boy.”

“That is good,” approved Red-head. He was a snappy, energetic boy, built low to the ground, and with his red hair and freckled face and one bright blue eye looked very nervy. “I like the Americans. Some day I’ll be a scout with the American soldiers. The White Mountain Apaches are good Apaches. Chief Pedro is wise. He knows that it is no use to fight the Americans. It is better to live at peace with them, and raise corn, and hunt, and be given food and clothes. That is easier than fighting and starving and losing warriors. The Americans are too many, and are well armed. The Chiricahua have bad hearts and will all be killed. You ought to leave them.”

“I can’t,” replied Jimmie. “I don’t know where to go.”

“Well,” said Red-head, winking with his one shrewd blue eye, “wait and maybe I’ll help you. But don’t tell anybody about my talk with you.”