210 THE STORY OF A BIRD LOVER 



valley, where they lingered for a time, to fatten 

 their small band of cattle and hogs. 



Of our more distant neighbors, the Apaches, 

 fourteen miles away across the range, at the San 

 Carlos Reservation, we were often reminded. 

 Mountains to them were no barrier, and forays on 

 unprotected ranches or camps were by no means 

 uncommon in those days. The attack was usually 

 made at early dawn, and came with such sudden 

 fury that there was little chance for escape. 

 The Indians at San Carlos were supposed to be 

 under strict surveillance, but now and again a 

 band escaped. Sometimes, too, numbers would 

 be permitted to go out to gather the mesquite bean 

 or the fruit of the saguaro. These rovers, called 

 good Indians on the reservation, became demons 

 the moment the white man was at their mercy. 



Shortly before our arrival the Prices had been 

 warned, by a scout sent on horseback, that the 

 Apaches were raiding and headed toward Mineral 

 Creek. Instantly they made ready; the mother 

 and three children were placed on one horse, the 

 grown daughter and two more children took the 

 only other horse, the men seized their rifles and 

 another child each, and so they started at night 

 across the mountains to Globe. Climbing the 

 steep, rough trail, over rocks and logs, along the 

 edges of precipices, they hurried. Suddenly 

 the mother looked behind her: a child was 



