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Page 7
His favorite haunt was Apache Pass, a convenient spot that was
favorable for concealment, where he lay in wait for weary
travelers who passed that way in search of water and a pleasant
camp ground. If attacked by a superior force, as sometimes
happened, he invariably retreated across the Sulphur Spring
valley into his stronghold in the Dragoon mountains.
Because of the many atrocities that were committed by the
Indians, white men were afraid to go into that country to settle.
Even as late as in the early eighties when that prince of
rascals, the wily Geronimo, made his bloody raids through
southern Arizona, the men who did venture in and located ranch
and mining claims, lived in daily peril of their lives which, in
not a few instances, were paid as a forfeit to their daring.
The Butterfield stage and all other overland travel to California
by the southern route before the railroads were built, went
through Apache Pass. Although it was the worst Indian infested
section in the southwest, travelers chose that dangerous route in
preference to any other for the sake of the water that they knew
could always be found there.
The reputation of Apache Pass, finally became so notoriously
bad because of the many murders committed that the Government,
late in the sixties, built and garrisoned Ft. Bowie for the
protection of travelers and settlers. The troops stationed at
the post endured much hardship and fought many bloody battles
before the Indians were conquered. Many soldiers were killed and
buried in a little graveyard near the fort. When the fort was
abandoned a few years ago, their bodies were disinterred and
removed to the National cemetery at Washington.
Railroad Pass is naturally a better wagon road than Apache Pass,
but is without water. It was named by Lieut. J. G. Parke in 1855
while engaged in surveying for the Pacific Railroad, because of
its easy grade and facility for railroad construction.
I timed my visit to correspond with the arrival at Bowie station
on the Southern Pacific Railroad, of a consignment of ranch goods
that had been shipped from St. Louis. I was met at the depot by
the ranch force, who immediately proceeded to initiate me as a
tenderfoot. I inquired of one of the cowboys how far it was to a
near-by mountain. He gave a quien sabe shrug of the shoulder and
answered me in Yankee fashion by asking how far I thought it was.
Estimating the distance as in a prairie country I replied, "Oh,
about a mile." He laughed and said that the mountain was fully
five miles distant by actual measurement. I had unwittingly
taken my first lesson in plainscraft and prudently refrained
thereafter from making another sure guess.
The deception was due to the rarefied atmosphere, which is
peculiar to the arid region. It not only deceives the eye as to
distance, but also as to motion. If the eye is steadily fixed
upon some distant inanimate object, it seems to move in the
tremulous light as if possessed of life, and it is not always
easy to be convinced to the contrary. However, by putting the
object under inspection in line with some further object, it can
readily be determined whether the object is animate or still by
its remaining on or moving off the line.
Another peculiarity of the country is that objects do not always
seem to stand square with the world. In approaching a mountain
and moving on an up grade the plane of incline is suddenly
reversed and gives the appearance and sensation of going
downhill. In some inexplicable manner sense and reason seem to
conflict and the discovery of the disturbed relation of things is
startling. You know very well that the mountain ahead is above
you, but it has the appearance of standing below you in a hollow;
and the water in the brook at your feet, which runs down the
mountain into the valley, seems to be running uphill. By turning
squarely about and looking backwards, the misplaced objects
become righted, and produces much the same sensation that a man
feels who is lost and suddenly finds himself again.
We immediately prepared to drive out to the ranch, which was ten
miles distant and reached by a road that skirted the Dos Cabezas
mountains. The new wagon was set up and put in running order and
lightly loaded with supplies. All of the preliminaries being
completed, the horses were harnessed and hooked to the wagon.
The driver mounted his seat, drew rein and cracked his whip, but
we didn't go. The horses were only accustomed to the saddle and
knew nothing about pulling in harness. Sam was a condemned
cavalry horse and Box was a native bronco, and being hitched to a
wagon was a new experience to both. The start was unpropitious,
but, acting on the old adage that "necessity is the mother of
invention," which truth is nowhere better exemplified than on the
frontier where conveniences are few and the most must be made of
everything, after some delay and considerable maneuvering we
finally got started.
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