When it comes time to move the family campsite, it will most likely be Dos-teh-seh who makes the decision, whether to avoid danger or because she simply wants to visit relatives. The ability to find food is of utmost concern. Dos-teh-seh is always on the hunt for agave, which is the staff of life to the Apache. The versatile plant can be eaten, made into rope, or pounded into a pulp to produce soap. She also collects wild berries, mesquite beans, walnuts, and cactus that can be eaten raw or fermented to make drinks. These are placed in baskets woven from cottonwood twigs which have been lined with pitch to make them waterproof. And whether gathering firewood or searching for acorns, Dos-teh-seh never travels alone. Wild animals, the rare enemy, and the threat of injury by falling in this harsh terrain are hard facts of Apache life. Male or female, no one goes far without company.
Case in point: if an Apache woman is captured alive, the Mexican government will pay a bounty of 150 pesos. This “Fifth Law” went into effect on May 25, 1849. The price for a male Apache scalp is 200 pesos. The price for a captured male warrior is 250 pesos. It is a maxim of Apache life that the world is their enemy, and only other Apache can be trusted.
For this reason, during this short interlude at home, Cochise teaches Taza not just how to behave but also the location of the best trails, sources of water, and even places to hide. He shows his son how to craft his lance from the straight stalk of the spiny evergreen sotol plant and how to make a hunting bow from a mulberry tree branch, using the sinew of a deer’s leg to fashion the drawstring. They also hunt together. Deer, pronghorn antelope, rabbit, and even mountain lion are primary sources of food, but rats and squirrels will suffice when other game is scarce.
Taza is growing to his father’s height of five foot eleven, but he carries an extra twenty-five pounds of muscle like his grandfather, the giant chief Mangas Coloradas, who stands six foot six. Despite his bloodline, there is no certainty Taza will become a chief. The Apache have more than one chief at any given time, and they are ruthless in their democracy, promoting a man if he is a true leader but also ignoring him and robbing him of authority if he fails in battle.
So though he is devoted and loving while at home, Cochise is cruel when raiding. It is not enough to steal cattle and burn homes—or even murder. Sometimes, as when revenge is taken against a Mexican who has shot an Apache, or when interrogation is necessary to extract vital information, Cochise makes a point of asserting authority by killing his enemies slowly. Some are placed atop an anthill, where their bodies are then smothered in honey. Others are tied upside down to a tree branch until their head is just two feet off the ground. Cochise is fond of building a very small fire under these prisoners, just enough to slowly burn their scalp and fry their brains. Sometimes, if Apache women are present, Cochise allows them to skin the victim alive. This is the fate of many a Mexican who has blundered into Apache Pass.
Another favorite method of torture is more insidious: A one-inch incision is made at the base of the prisoner’s leg. The first layer of skin is then peeled away, all the way up the legs and back to the top of the head. Most men scream during this ordeal, which makes Cochise despise them. The Apache are trained to suffer in silence and expect the same from their prisoners. Screaming and begging are signs of weakness.
So it is that there are two sides of Cochise. And while the sanctuary here at Apache Pass allows him the luxury of relaxation, he cannot be soft when it is time to plunder. The slightest slip or strategic blunder will lead to his demotion from the position of tribal chief. He must use all of his authority to protect himself and his band.
Because if he falls into Mexican hands, he will surely be killed.
Cochise will not allow that to happen.
* * *
Of all the reasons Cochise enjoys life here at Apache Pass, the most sublime is a cool freshwater spring gushing forth from a shaded rock. The flow pours forth in a torrent, producing the stream that waters the valley below, keeping it green all year round. The Mexicans like to describe the Apache as a dirty people, but that is because they only encounter the Chiricahua after they have ridden hundreds of miles on horseback. But here, where water is plentiful, Cochise and the other Chiricahua can scrub away the trail dust. The powerful apache chief is known for his scrupulous personal appearance, unlike many Indians and whites at the time.
Inevitably, in a place as dry as the desert, where a traveler can go weeks without finding a drop of water, the Apache Spring, as it is known, is not a secret. But that knowledge was limited to just Mexicans and Indians until 1849, when a pair of guides suggested that a party of white settlers bound for the California gold fields lead their wagon train through Apache Pass. “The road was tolerable good, until we reached the pass, which was indeed a romantic one,” wrote settler Robert Eccleston, part of a group from New York who passed through on October 24, 1849. Like most whites traveling from the East Coast, Eccleston prefers to call himself an “emigrant” rather than a settler, as if he is leaving one country and entering another. “The road was overshadowed by handsome trees, among which I noticed the pecan, the ash, oak, and willow.”
Apache Pass, spring 2019
Eccleston published his diary shortly after his arrival on the West Coast. Overland to California on the Southwestern Trail revealed the secret of Apache Pass and its clear running waters. Soon the route became the preferred southern passage for white travelers. Unlike his treatment of Mexican trespassers, Cochise is bemused by the white man and allows the infrequent wagon trains to pass through his territory.
But less than five years after Robert Eccleston exposed the oasis at Apache Pass, there is talk of a southern transcontinental railroad that would travel directly through this Apache sanctuary. Despite the fact that this land is owned by Mexico and controlled by the Chiricahuas, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers has sent a survey team to explore this possibility. Led by Second Lieutenant John G. Parke, they camp in Apache Pass early in March 1854, shortly before Cochise returns home from his winter raids. Parke chooses a campsite on a small rise at the very center of the valley, allowing him and his team a complete view of the circle of peaks ringing the pass. Having no idea that Parke is grading the land in order to run a railroad through the center of their most prized hideaway, the Apache basically leave Parke and his men alone, even selling them mules.
* * *
As Cochise and Dos-teh-seh enjoy life together before he once again rides south into Sonora, troubling events are taking place thousands of miles away in Washington. A treaty is being voted on in the U.S. Senate. The pact is between Mexico and the United States. The “Gadsden Purchase,” as it is known, will secure Apache Pass and the lands a hundred miles to the south and west from Mexico for $10 million. Secretary of War Jefferson Davis is one of the leading proponents, hoping that a new rail line to California will ensure the expansion of slavery into the western territories of the southern United States.
Cochise will never meet Jefferson Davis. And the Chiricahua chief knows nothing about the politics of slavery now roiling the United States of America. But when the Gadsden Purchase takes effect on June 8, 1854, the lives of Cochise and the Apache people will be forever changed.
Apache Pass is now part of the United States of America. It is only a matter of time before American soldiers are sent to police these lands and, in the process, confront Cochise and the Chiricahua.
When that day comes, the U.S. Army will meet an enemy unlike any other in American history. For Cochise will never surrender and never be defeated.
Ever.
Chapter Eleven
DECEMBER 19, 1860
PEASE RIVER, TEXAS
DAWN
Texas Ranger Sullivan Ross is terrified.
Yesterday at sunset, the twenty-two-year-old captain received word that the Comanche band he has been hunting is located on the north Texas plains, at the confluence of the Pease River and a tributary called Mule Creek. Rather than wait until morning to begin his march, Ross has pushed his contingent of twe
nty Rangers along with a squad of twenty-one U.S. Army dragoons through the night, hoping to launch an ambush at first light. Captain Ross is well aware that his young age has some believing he is incapable of halting the Comanche rampage. In moments, Ross’s mettle will be tested, for his goal is nothing less than a complete annihilation of this rogue band.
Captain Ross and his combined force have been tasked with tracking down a notorious Comanche chief named Peta Nocona, who is thought to be responsible for several recent raids on white towns, as well as the slaying and scalping of a pregnant woman. Nocona is thought to have five hundred warriors, and the band has sparked terror throughout north Texas. Hundreds of white settlers have been murdered or kidnapped by the Comanche, whose methods of torture are as brutal as anything ever seen on the North American continent. If Peta Nocona is cornered, no mercy will be shown.
Positioning his men atop a ridgeline looking down on the Comanche, the captain cannot help but recall his last encounter with the Indians. Two years ago, at a battle called Wichita Village, in the midst of an epic five-hour fight, Ross and three of his Texas Rangers were surrounded by more than two dozen warriors. The captain was shot through the shoulder with an arrow, then took a rifle bullet to his chest from close range. As a Comanche warrior stepped forward to take his scalp, suddenly U.S. soldiers appeared and shot the Indian dead, saving Ross’s life.
But his trauma was not over. For five days, the then twenty-year-old Ross lay in the shade of a small tree, too wracked with pain to be moved. His wounds became infected, and he cried out for his men to shoot him. Finally, Ross was deemed strong enough to be placed in a litter and carried to safety. News of the captain’s exploits made the newspapers in the new settlement at Dallas, and he was hailed as a hero. But rather than remain in Texas to bask in celebrity, the traumatized Ross wanted nothing more to do with fighting Comanche. He fled east to the safety of Alabama to attend college.
Born in Iowa but raised in Texas, Sullivan Ross eventually changed his mind and returned to settle his score with the Comanche. Three months ago, Governor Sam Houston commanded the young Ranger captain to assemble a team of mounted volunteers to protect white settlers and to destroy the Comanche population. “You are strictly ordered to regard all Indians this side of the Red River as open enemies of Texas,” reads Houston’s written order. That effectively authorizes Ross to slaughter any Native American captured between Louisiana and the Pacific Ocean.
Sullivan Ross has faith in his Texas Rangers, knowing that these men are expert horsemen and brave under fire. They travel light, long-barreled Colt .45-caliber “Peacemaker” pistols tucked snug in their holsters. Rifles lie across the pommels of their saddles, with some men preferring the breech-loading Sharps, while others carry the brand-new lever-action Henry rifle, capable of firing sixteen rounds without reloading. The Rangers wear no uniforms but all seem to dress alike, protecting their heads from the burning sun with large-brimmed felt hats and wearing thick pants and boots as a buffer against rocks and thorns. Almost to a man, a chaw of tobacco is tucked between cheek and gum.1
But the small Ranger band is no match for the Comanche. So help has been requested from the U.S. Army at nearby Camp Cooper. The twenty-one troopers on horseback will not even the odds, but their presence is most welcome.
The mounted soldiers represent a new breed of Indian-fighter known as “cavalry.” Ross takes comfort in knowing these men are second only to the Texas Rangers as a fighting force. This was not always so. Until five years ago, the U.S. Army’s horseback forces were known as dragoons. Using tactics borrowed from similar European units, they rode into battle but dismounted and fought on foot like the infantry—a style of combat well-suited to the smaller battlefields of Europe but foolish on the wide-open plains of Texas, where mobility is often the key to victory.
Comically, the dragoons wore a uniform based on a design favored by French soldiers: orange caps, blue and orange jackets, and white pantaloons. As one Texas Ranger dryly noted, the only danger a dragoon presented to a Comanche was if the funny uniforms and abominable horsemanship caused the Indian to laugh himself to death.
In 1855, Secretary of War Jefferson Davis created a new type of horse soldier. The West Point graduate and commander of troops in the Mexican War was convinced that America’s westward expansion depended upon military mobility—and that meant the horse. Davis authorized the creation of an elite fighting force that would soon roam the prairies of the American West as skillfully as any Indian tribe, riding into battle and remaining in the saddle to fight.
U.S. Cavalryman shooting Apache sheepherders in a canyon
Thus was born the American cavalry. The term “dragoon” is still used interchangeably to describe mounted soldiers, but the cavalry is an entirely different force. Officers and enlisted men are handpicked for their courage, leadership, and skill on horseback, and their primary role is the protection of American settlers. Many were born and raised in southern states and in the European nations of Ireland and Germany. Cavalry units live in solitary forts out on the plains, far from creature comforts, coming to know the landscape just as completely as the Comanche and Texas Rangers. Their horses are colored according to company: browns, grays, bays—for easy distinction in battle. Officers even wear an ostrich feather in their caps to denote their status. As Jefferson Davis is fond of noting, a cavalry unit costs three times as much to maintain as infantry but is ten times more effective.2
So it is that even though Sullivan Ross’s Texas Rangers and the men of Second Cavalry will be outnumbered more than ten to one as they attack the Comanche settlement here at Pease River, there is every hope that surprise and professionalism can win the day.
Yet as Ross studies the Comanche encampment, he is surprised. The captain sees tepees being dismantled, and horses laden with buffalo meat and hides, as if the Comanche are in the process of relocating. If that is the case, Ross’s inclinations were correct, and he was smart to ride through the night. But the captain notices no warriors, only women, children, and old men wearing buffalo robes to stave off the cold. And rather than five hundred warriors, he counts just fifteen in the camp.
Nevertheless, Captain Ross has come to kill. His final orders make his intentions quite clear.
“I promise a pistol and a holster to the first man to bring back a Comanche scalp.”
* * *
First Sergeant John Spangler guides the Second Cavalry into position to block any Comanche escape, as Captain Ross and his men charge into the camp. The Comanche women, as adept on horseback as their men, immediately mount the only available horses and gallop across Mule Creek. But their mounts are too heavy from their cargos of meat and hides, and the soldiers catch them quickly. Each woman is shot dead. “Killed every one of them, almost in a pile,” Texas Ranger Charles Goodnight will later write in his official report.
An older Comanche man throws a young girl onto the back of a horse and attempts to flee, but Ross shoots the girl dead. As she falls off the horse, the old man topples to the ground with her. Captain Ross fires again, hitting the older Indian in the arm but not killing him. Dismounting, Ross fires two more times, and still the old Comanche will not die. Instead, the aging warrior clings to a mesquite bush and chants his death song. Rather than fire again, Ross allows his Mexican servant to shoot the Indian in the head, whereupon two Rangers take the man’s scalp and cut it in two, so that each might have half.
As the ambush comes to a quick ending, the Rangers and cavalry walk through the camp, scalping all the dead. Two troopers keep a tight hold on a Comanche woman clutching a young daughter who has been spared. She is filthy, her hair matted and sun-bronzed skin covered in dirt. The woman’s hands are greasy from stripping meat from buffalo hides. At the sight of the Comanche dead she begins moaning and wailing in grief. As the Rangers set the tepees ablaze, their horses literally trotting over the corpses sprawled awkwardly on the ground, her face becomes a mask of pain.
For Captain Sullivan Ross, this ambush
has been a frustrating failure. Clearly, Peta Nocona and his warriors are off hunting and raiding. His men have slaughtered women doing manual labor and preparing for the hard winter ahead, tasks the Comanche fighters consider beneath the dignity of a man.
Even as the Rangers and cavalry loot the encampment, taking any souvenirs and foodstuffs they can find, it is clear that this wailing woman and her daughter are the only Indian survivors. The fact that they have spared the woman is something of a mystery, for all the other squaws were killed without a chance to surrender. She will be interrogated about the whereabouts of Peta Nocona, but beyond that, her fate is uncertain. The same is true for the Indian child. There is a good chance that mother and daughter will be separated.
In time, Sergeant Spangler notices something unique about the woman: she has blue eyes. A closer look at her face shows freckles, and that the parts of her body not exposed to the sun are pale white.
The squaw is questioned about her ethnicity. She speaks only Comanche and broken Spanish, so Captain Ross’s Mexican servant does much of the interrogating. Two shocking facts soon come to light.
This woman is the wife of the feared Peta Nocona and mother of his children. She is known among the Comanche as Naduah—“Someone Found”—and her eighteen-month-old daughter is Topsannah, meaning “Prairie Flower.”
Killing Crazy Horse Page 9