by 1864-1898 Indian War Veterans: Memories of Army Life;Campaigns in the West
Combat at Salt River Canyon, 1872 (By an “Old Non-Com” of the Fifth U. S. Cavalry. From Winners of the West, November, 1924)
During the years 1872-73, General George Crook, commander of the Department of Arizona, organized a special campaign against the bands of hostile Apaches who were certainly raiding the little settlements scattered at wide intervals in a few of the watered valleys of Arizona. The force consisted of several detachments each generally consisting of two troops of cavalry, with some friendly Indian scouts. Each detachment had its own field of operations and I will merely give an account of one engagement with the hostiles by one detachment, of which my troop formed a part. It was commanded by Captain William H. Brown of the Fifth Cavalry, his force consisting of Troops L and M of the Fifth U. S. Cavalry and some friendly Indian scouts, being afterwards joined by Captain James Burns with his Troop G, Fifth Cavalry, and a number of Pima scouts under First Lieutenant Earl D. Thomas, Fifth Cavalry.
The objective of Captain Brown was an Apache stronghold known to be somewhere in the frowning canyons of Salt River. A friendly Apache scout who had once lived there agreed to act as guide, provided that the march was made at night, for in daylight, he said, the command would surely be seen, ambushed, and wiped out. He further stated that the Apaches could in that part of the country easily defend themselves against any available force, if forewarned. It must be remembered that in those days the entire army of the United States numbered about 23, 000, and was expected to control all the Indians from the Mexican line to the British line, besides garrisoning ocean forts.
The horses together with the pack train were left under guard. Each man had a blanket roll and in it plenty of cartridges to supplement those in his thimble belt, also a very little food, and of course a canteen of water. It was bitterly cold, and all night we marched in Indian file along the narrow, rocky trail. Shortly before daybreak [on December 28, 1872, ] a light was seen in front and two scouts were sent forward. They soon returned with the information that the light was made by a party of Apaches returning to their stronghold from a raid on the Pima Indians and the few white families living in the Gila Valley, and that they had left a number of weary mules and horses, stolen from thence, in a little canyon and [had] gone on. Captain Brown ordered Captain Burns with his troop to stay where the stolen horses were, so that if any more Apaches came up he could hold them and prevent the command being caught between two fires. The main body was halted and Second Lieutenant William J. Ross with the Indian guide and fifteen men followed the trail of the returning Apaches toward the stronghold, and in less than one-half a mile the guide signaled halt, and whispered “Apache.” Then he, together with Lieutenant Ross and two scouts, crept along to a turn in the trail, and looking around saw the Apache stronghold about thirty-five yards in front.
It was a long, wide, open cave, and a few yards in front of it was a rampart of huge blocks of stone, a natural fortification, but probably added to by the Apaches. Just at the outside of the cavern a fire was burning, and a band of Indians were dancing and singing around it, evidently celebrating their bloody raid through the Gila settlements. A few of the women were cooking a meal, and a number of Indians could be seen sitting in the cave and watching the dance.
The men were whispered forward by Lieutenant Ross and sent a volley into the dancers, several falling dead. The others at once rushed to the cave or manned the rampart, and in less than three minutes opened fire upon the soldiers, whom they could just get a glimpse of in the early dawn. At this moment, Second Lieutenant John G. Bourke with between forty or fifty men came at the double down the rocky trail just in time to save Ross and his handful of men from a counterattack, Captain Brown having rushed them forward the moment the first volley was fired. Lieutenants Bourke and Ross hastily posted their men so as to cut off retreat of the Apaches by either flank, and when Captain Brown came up with the rest of the men, they surrounded the Indians, the cave being under an unclimbable cliff. For about two hours an interminable fight was maintained, until broad daylight showed that the roof of the cave was all rock and would deflect bullets all over the cave.
The men therefore fired volley after volley at the roof, and the effects were soon seen. A number of Indians then made a determined charge, one party at the front, the other at the right flank, while still another party mounted the rampart and fired rapidly, evidently trying to help out the charges, which, however, were repulsed, with much loss to the Indians, and several of those on the rampart were also killed. The troops then commenced firing volleys into the cave, and at this time Captain Burns with his troop came up on the cliff, above the cave. It was impossible to get down to attack the Apaches below, so they started rolling rocks down upon them. The Indians, however, still continued defiant, singing and yelling. After some little time, it was plainly seen that the end was near. The death song had died away, and Captain Brown, after signaling Captain Burns to hold up rolling rocks, ordered a charge, and after it was over not a warrior was left alive except some mortally wounded. In this charge, however, one Apache did get away. He must have thrown himself flat upon the ground in the midst of the charge and wormed his way through, but when he considered himself safe, he could not resist leaping upon a high rock and giving a yell of defiance, which brought a shot from Blacksmith Cahill of the pack train, which killed the Indian. [It was] an 800-yard shot.
Between eighty and ninety Indians were killed in this fight. The boots of most of the men were well ventilated by this night march over this trail of sharp rocks. Many had bleeding feet and some could not wear their boots, but rode barefooted for several days. This is a fair sample of work done by this Fifth Cavalry during their three and one-half years in Arizona in the early seventies. I may add that our Pima allies all quit temporarily and departed to fast and mourn for their comrades killed in this fight.
Memories of Lieutenants Hudson and Tyler (By Peter Lacher, formerly sergeant, Troop D, Fourth U. S. Cavalry. From Winners of the West, January 15, 1926)
I, a sergeant, Corporal Henry R. Davis, Privates Peter Carrigan, W. K. Davis, E. Edwards, and Private Maple of Company D, Fourth Cavalry, on detached service at Fort Clark[, Texas, ] were assigned to Company I and rode with Captain Napoleon B. McLaughlen in that memorable charge through the camp of the Kickapoo Indians at Santa Rosa, Mexico, May 19th [, 1873]. I regret to say that the only man to lose his life in the fight was one of my four men, Private Peter Carrigan. He was mortally wounded on May 19, and passed away at Fort Clark, May 23rd.
When I read the name of First Lieutenant Charles L. Hudson, Company I, [in a recent issue of Winners of the West, ] it reminded me of a very sad affair that happened December 31, 1873. On September 29, 1872, I saw Lieutenant Hudson lead Company I through a camp of Comanche and Kiowa Indians on the north fork of the Red River. Although his horse plunged into a mire, his charge was a success. First Sergeant Billy Wilson kept the company in line until Lieutenant Hudson got out of the mud, unhurt. There were over 200 Indians killed in two hours, 163 prisoners taken, and over 1, 000 horses captured. Our casualties were one man killed, two mortally wounded, and one slightly wounded.
On the 19th of May, 1873, I rode with Lieutenant Hudson at the left of Company I in that memorable charge upon the camp of Kickapoo and Lipan Indians at Santa Rosa, Mexico. Later in the year, Lieutenant Hudson, with thirty-five men, was ordered to take up a position made vacant by the promotion of Second Lieutenant Frederick D. Grant of Company F, who went on the staff of General Sheridan at Chicago. His duty was to guard surveyors on the Grand Trunk Railroad to Mexico. While on that duty, Lieutenant Hudson intercepted a band of thieving Indians who were making a raid in that vicinity. In the skirmish that followed, fifteen Indians were killed and thirty-five horses captured, which he brought into Fort Clark at about Christmas time, 1873, where he also found that he had a roommate. This roommate was a new second lieutenant right from West Point. His name was Augustus C. Tyler, a grandson of President John Tyler.
On December 31st, Lieut
enant Hudson was still congratulating himself on the fact of having gone through three sharp Indian fights in thirteen months without being hurt. Hudson was dressed in his bright uniform, all ready for muster and monthly inspection. As he was putting on his belt, Lieutenant Tyler, who had picked up a Winchester carbine which Hudson had carried with him while in the field, asked, “How does this thing work?” It worked. The charge went off. The ball struck Hudson under one arm pit and came out under the other.
A trio of infantry non-commissioned officers wearing fatigue uniforms and campaign hats, probably in the early 1890s. Editor’s collection
Lieutenant Hudson fought his last battle with death and surrendered five days later [on January 5, 1874]. After receiving due military honors at Fort Clark, his body was sent to San Antonio for burial. At his request, the thirty-five men that were with him in his last Indian fight escorted his body to the grave. Poor Lieutenant Tyler was heartbroken over the mishap, and his bright hopes for the future were dimmed, and perhaps his whole career was wrecked. I cannot say, as I left the service two months later. Such is life. [Tyler resigned from the Regular Army on July 1, 1878.]
A Personal Bout with Apaches (By George O. Eaton, formerly second lieutenant, Fifth U. S. Cavalry. From Winners of the West, September, 1938)
The following manuscript was written by George Oscar Eaton some months before his death on September 12, 1930, at Fort Myers, Florida, at the age of eighty-two. Eaton served in the Fifteenth Maine Infantry in the closing year of the Civil War, was appointed to West Point by [U. S. Senator] James G. Blaine, and was graduated in the class of 1873. He was assigned to the Fifth Cavalry, and shortly after his arrival in Arizona took part in an engagement at Sunset Pass (November 1, 1874) wherein his able handling of a detachment, and the heroic conduct of a sergeant, resulted in the rescue of the seriously wounded commander of the expedition, First Lieutenant Charles King, later a widely known novelist. An expedition in the same region, November 17 to December 5, led by the young officer, is known as “Eaton’s Scout.” It was shortly after this that the incident described in the manuscript took place. In March, 1875, Second Lieutenant Eaton was given the difficult assignment of moving the Mojaves, Yumas, and Tontos from Camp Verde to the San Carlos Reservation—with a fight between the tribes as a complication on the way. At the beginning of the 1876 [Sioux] campaign, Eaton was accidently shot during a stampede of the regiment’s herds, and shortly afterward [sic—in 1883] retired from the army, achieving considerable note as a civil engineer. He was the original [model] of “Jack Truscott” in The Colonel’s Daughter and other stories by [later Brigadier] General Charles King.
In the first paragraph, “you” refers to General King, to whom the original manuscript was addressed.
Not very long after you left Camp Verde to take your Indian bullet-broken arm to northern climes, I sought recreation by a few days trip to department headquarters at Fort Whipple, Arizona, three miles from Prescott. Attended by my orderly and mounted on a good horse, I speedily passed over the forty miles. It being late in the afternoon upon my reaching there, I decided not to dismount until I had formally reported my presence to General Crook. As I rode across the parade ground, I noticed that everything was very quiet and the only soldier to be seen was a sentry on a distant post. I dismounted and knocked at the general’s door.
“I am indeed glad to see you,” he said grasping my hand, “for I am greatly in need of getting a message through to the commanding officer at Camp Beale Springs. A bad Indian outbreak between here and the San Francisco mountains has called out all the infantry and cavalry from this post, and with the Wallapais (Hualapais, perhaps) at Camp Beale Springs reported restless, it is vital that I get orders to the commanding officer there.”
He said he disliked to order me to go as “it would be impossible to get enough men together to furnish me with even a half-way decent escort.”
I said, “I’ll go, and perhaps I will not need any escort.”
He said, “Do you mean to chance it all alone? There is much chance for Indians to pick up a single man.”
I said, “Yes, true, but a single man not traveling over usual trails and quietly going through a more or less wooded country, might slip through without encountering any Indians.”
“Just what have you in mind?” he asked.
I explained, “The locations of the traveled train between Camp Beale Springs and this point, over which the paymaster comes with heavy escort of soldiers, has long been a source of unspoken query to me. I have been over it, and also stood at both ends and gazed across and wondered.
“As you know, general, the trip from here to Camp Beale Springs is a long wearisome journey of a full day over a comparatively level country. But the trail followed as a whole, is in the shape of a gigantic oxbow, with the two ends represented by Camp Beale Springs and Whipple Barracks. From your front window we can look across the open end of the oxbow and see the general location of Camp Beale Springs and it is surely not more than one-third of the distance across to it than it is around the traveled trail. Now there likely is a reason why the long distance trail was first used, but I have often wondered if the fates would not permit me the opportunity of attempting to get straight across from one point of the oxbow to the other—and it seems this is my opportunity, with your permission.”
“I am of course glad to give it,” he said, “and all good luck go with you. As to the country you will pass over, I have no idea, but if it is a rough and almost impassible country you are not likely to encounter Indians there. I am glad indeed that you do not propose to go the regular trail because Indians surely would be lying in wait to pick up any unfortunate settlers who unsuspectingly came along.”
At daylight next morning before any movement in camp, I started with Winchester rifle and a belt full of cartridges, a canteen of water, and a far from fresh horse to brave the uncertainties. To aid me in pursuing a straight line was the landmark of Cross Mountain, far away to the north, so named because of snow lying in deep ravines on its side taking the form of a cross of white against a dark background.
In ten minutes time I was traversing a wild but level open glade with scattered trees and no underbrush to impede the horse’s fast walk. Things were going well for perhaps a half hour, when in front of and to right angles of my course appeared a very black streak of ground seemingly hardly three or a few more inches high. That I knew by Arizona experience was the very top line of a dreaded box canyon. This section of Arizona is covered by a sheet of lava perhaps 300 feet deep. In the ages that have passed since this lava cooled, earthquakes had split this sheet like glass from top to bottom here and there (mostly here), leaving the vertically torn apart sides fifty to a hundred feet across at the top. These cracks might extend for miles. Strange to say, these box canyons, as they were called, were mostly parallel with each other, so that if one was laboriously crossed, a few yards further progress might bring the traveler to a place where he could gaze at the distant bottom of a duplicate to that just painfully negotiated.
There was no way to get across the first box canon I met save to lead my horse either up or down the ridge in search of some place, perhaps a mile or so out of my way, where the side wall had for some reason partly broken down, at least sufficiently so to enable me to lead my horse down to the bottom without damage to him or myself. Once in the bottom, I must follow along in similar fashion to find a place where I could scramble out. This I did, and only lost about two miles, but I had hardly resumed my general direction when I met another box canyon. This part of my journey is covered by saying I had to cross a regular series of such canyons, all of which used up hours of time and lots of physical and mental energy. But after a while I felt I was safely through that formation, and I tried to think that with distant Cross Mountain still showing white in the midday sun, that while I had surely found the answer to my problem of why the trail went around instead of across the oxbow, yet at least I had not been molested in my investigation.
&nbs
p; But just then a serious discovery was made. The forenoon’s hot sun poured down through the scattered trees upon us, and there was not a breath of air stirring. My horse and then myself were a reek of perspiration and we both suffered for lack of water. My canteen had become very hot but the water was wet—while it lasted. From time to time I took a small mouthful from the canteen, moistened the inside of my mouth, and then spirited it directly into the nostrils of my horse. He shied from it at first, but soon got so he did not flinch in the least and it kept the dust out of his nostrils, which had begun to dry when perspiration ceased. We were in a bad way from thirst, but had reached a more level country, although the trees were very few now, and here and there small isolated and ragged buttes stuck up. There would be several of these buttes in sight at one time, perhaps a quarter mile or more away in front of me. Of course it was a part of my business to scan them very closely to see if any Indians might be lurking about them.