lOlO 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June 26, igog. 
the camp there was a fire. I could see the light 
of it on some rocks across the marsh. Some 
of the Injuns were cookin’ and eatin’ our grub, 
of course, and others were just as sure watchin’ 
for me to slide out and try to make a get-away. 
I saw their plan all right. They were just goin’ 
to sit and watch, takin’ no chances, until I died 
or went thirst mad. I had a notion to kill my¬ 
self then. I started to do so, and then I thought 
that when daylight came I might get a chance 
to plunk one more of ’em, and that gave me 
strength to hang on a little longer in spite of 
my awful sufferin’. 
“I must have slept, or fainted, or somethin’ 
like that again. The firin’ of lots of guns, a 
fearful whoopin’ and yellin’ roused me up. I 
•got on to my good leg and looked out, leanin’ 
against the rocks. Up came an Injun over the 
ledge facin’ the camp. Day had broke enough 
for me to see that he was an Apache, and he 
was runnin’ for all he was worth. Two more 
Injuns came in sight behind and one fired at him 
and missed. T’m saved ! I’m sure saved! It’s 
a war party of Pimas or such like.’ I up with 
my rifle and plunked the Apache. Down he 
went, rolled over and tried to turn and use his 
bow, and then they had him. I got just a sight 
of another Apache turnin’ a bend in the eas’t 
wash above me and fired at him, but missed. 
The two fellers down below saw the way I was 
aimin’ though, and on they went, followed by 
three or four more that had come up from the 
camp. And then I didn’t see anythin’ more. I 
just wilted. When I got out of that faint I 
found myself down on the Agua Fria in the 
shade of a cottonwood, and about a hundred 
Indians around me, restin’ and smokin’, and 
some paintin’ their faces black. Then I knew 
that they were Maricopas or Pimas, for that’s 
the way those kind ’do when they kill an enemy 
—paint themselves black. 
“I was lyin’ on my own bed, all our camp 
■outfit was piled close by. A few feet off lay 
one of the party, also with a broken ieg, as I 
found out later. When they saw that I had 
come to, one of ’em brought more water. They 
had been a-drenchin’ me, and I drank some, also 
eatin’ a piece of tortilla he gave me. The fellow 
surprised me by talkin’ Spanish, which I savey 
a lot myself. ‘You’re all right,’ he told me. ‘We 
have sent for a doctor and pretty soon about 
noon he’ll come and fix your leg.’ 
‘“Who are you?’ I asked, ‘and how did it 
all happen ?’ 
■“‘We are Maricopas,’ said he. ‘Our village 
is over there on the Gila. Two days ago one 
Maricopa hunting found the trail of some 
Apaches, came home and told us. and we started 
out after them. Too late, though, to save your 
friend. Late yesterday we saw the smoke of 
the fire they built at your camp, and after dark 
we crept up close, hearing shooting, too. You 
killed three and wounded one. You are a fine 
shot. Yes, a fine brave shot, senor. Yes, and 
so, as close as we could get, we waited for day¬ 
light and then made the attack. All are dead 
except two, maybe three, who lay in the washes 
watchin’ you. They may go; we have sixteen 
scalps and none of our party were killed.’ 
“ ‘And my partner,’ I asked, ‘did you bury 
him ?’ 
“ ‘Si, senor, I myself dug the hole with one 
of your picks and put in the body and covered 
it with sand and many big rocks. Perhaps. I 
suggest, that if the senor has no use for it I 
may have the dead one’s saddle?’ 
“ ‘Yes, and the bridle and everything,’ I told 
him. 
“‘And the dead one’s gun—had he one? Yes, 
a many shooter? Well, my brother took it from 
one of the Apaches he killed.’ 
“ ‘He can keep it,’ I told him. He hurried 
away to carry my words. 
“They had sent a runner to the village and 
along about 2 o’clock there came a big crowd 
r 
YOUNG BUT INDEPENDENT. 
of men and women and children back with him. 
‘This is the doctor,’ the Spanish talker said, as 
a little old dried-up fellow bent over me. ‘He 
will fix you all right.’ 
“ ‘Fix nothin’, I thought. ‘What does he know 
about settin’ legs?’ But you bet he did. First 
he washed and washed the wound with water 
he steeped some roots in, and then he set the 
bone, put on some cane splints and a lot of 
bandages. Yes, sir, he did a fine job of it, and 
then went to work on the other fellow with a 
broken leg. 
“Meantime such a goin’ on as there was over 
the Apache killin’. The women singin’ and 
shoutin’ like crazy people and buildin’ fires and 
cookin’ and feedin’ the war party, all except 
them that had killed one of the enemy. They 
sat apart from the crowd by themselves lookin’ 
on. Some women brought me jerky and tor¬ 
tillas, but nary a bite to the fellow beside me. 
‘What’s the matter with you people?’ I asked 
the Spanish talker. ‘Ain’t you goin’ to give him 
somethin’ besides water?’ 
“ ‘No, he may not eat,’ he tells me. ‘He has 
killed an enemy. He dare not touch food for 
three days, else the spirit of the dead one enter 
into his body with it and poison him.’ 
“‘Then how about me?’ I said. ‘You give me 
food. I’m eatin’ it. Why won’t I get poisoned, 
too?’ 
“ ‘Oh, white men are different,’ he replied. 
‘They must have some kind of power we haven’t 
got. Spirits never seem to affect ’em.’ 
“The whole outfit camped there that night and 
the next mornin’ moved into their village, takin’ 
me and the other wounded one along on stretch¬ 
ers lashed to two burros. And there I stayed 
until I got well, kindly treated and cared for. 
Then, givin’ away everythin’ except one burro, 
some beddin’ and my weapons, I pulled into 
Phoenix and wrote the Wickenburg storekeeper 
all about it. ‘Come back,’ he writes me, ‘and 
get another stake. You’ll make it next time.’ 
“Not on your life. His grub was unlucky. I 
got an outfit in Phoenix and went away south 
into the mountains borderin’ the line.’’ 
So ended the old man’s tale, and pretty soon 
his white head began to droop, his eyes to lose 
the fire the spirits had temporarily kindled in 
them, and he went to his camp and to bed. At 
daylight I heard him moving about and invited 
him to breakfast with me. “Why not tarry here 
awhile?’’ I asked him. “I have grub a-plenty 
which you are welcome to and a rest will do 
you good.’’ 
“Much obliged, you’re sure generous, but I 
must go. I’ve had a hunch for a long time that 
I will find somethin’ worth while up Silver King 
way. If I do make a strike I’ll let you know.’’ 
And so, having eaten and smoked and thank¬ 
fully accepted a few additions to his commis¬ 
sary, he put on his meager packs and rode away 
up the trail out of my sight, probably forever. 
Poor, worn-out, lonely old man of the desert. 
-Afterward I visited the Old-Timer and told 
him about my guest of the night. 
“Oh,” said he, “so old man Miller camped 
with you. did he. Yes, I know him well. He’s 
a queer fellow and some bug-housed since the 
.\paches killed his partner—I don’t know how 
many years ago.’’ 
“He told me the story,” I said. “It was a sad 
one. The old man certainly had a deep friend¬ 
ship ?or his companion.” 
“That he did. I’ve seen him cry when telling 
how the Apaches butchered Sharpe. Many’s the 
one of ’em the old man has killed since to make 
up for it, but he don’t say nothing about that.” 
“How does he live, where does he get supplies 
to keep him going?” I asked. 
The Old-Tiiner smiled. “Would you believe 
it.” he replied, “the old fellow has some placer 
ground somewhere, but just where no one has 
ever been able to learn. He always carries a 
couple of ounces of dust and pays for what he 
wants. Lots of people have tried to get the 
secret of it out of him, in all sorts of ways, too, 
by soft soap, and licker, and presents, and watch¬ 
ing him for months, but it’s no go. I don’t be¬ 
lieve he would tell anyone about it even on his 
dying, bed.” 
