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“After finding the Montgomery mine and prospecting a few days, Dr. Howard left us and went to Walker's camp on Lynx Creek, and as we had to have some tools to dig with, Beauchamp and Mahan, my other two partners, started for Weaver, leaving me to keep camp. The second day after they left me I had a hard chill and took a dose of quinine. I took too much, I suppose, for it set me to wandering, and the first that I recollect, I found myself at a camp two and a half miles up the creek where there were some placer miners, all strangers to me; but they gave me some supper and John Dennis, afterwards of Phoenix, and San Diego, divided his bed with me, although he was sick, as was his partner Van Duzen, and a young man named Jack Armstrong. We slept within a few feet of Armstrong, and the next morning he was dead. Armstrong had a pick, shovel, steel bar, and a twelve pound hammer, which I knew we should have use for, as we had concluded to build an arrastra and work the ore of the Montgomery in that way. I had no money to buy the tools,

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as I had given Beauchamp my purse when he started for Weaver, but I knew there were several dollars in some specimens of the Montgomery mine ore at the camp, so I started for home as soon as I had some coffee. I found Jack, (as we called Beauchamp) and Mahan there, they having returned the night before. We got to work and ground out fourteen dollars worth of gold on a flat rock, and I was back to the placer mine in time to help bury Armstrong. I got the tools which, with four drills that Mahan had secured by buying two small bars such as the Mexican placer miners use instead of a pick, and having them cut in two and made into drills, and the pick and shovel that we had brought with us, comprised our set of mining tools to open up a mine with.

“We moved our camp down the creek about a quarter of a mile near some large tanks at the head of the canyon, and Mahan and I started to build the arrastra while Beauchamp worked at the mine and came down to dinner. Every time he came down he packed a sack of ore on his back. There was no trail by which a horse could get up or down. Besides, our horses were very poor and weak, having only what grass they could get in the daytime, and being tied up at night to keep the Indians from getting them. Mahan had worked in the silver mines in Mexico and understood arrastras and amalgamating, so when he and Beauchamp came back from Weaver, they brought a lot of rawhide from Peeples' ranch and with the rawhide and ash poles, the arrastra was built. There were no nails or iron of any kind in it. It was necessary, however, to have some holes in the ash

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poles, and we had nothing to make them with. A man named Lambertson had some tools, and he lived eleven miles from where we were. Jack went down there one Sunday and borrowed a brace, some bits, and a small chisel, with which we made the frame, or woodwork, of our arrastra. As I was not able to work much, I undertook the following Sunday to return the borrowed tools, which led me into the first Indian scare that I ever had. I had left camp early and intended to return before night, but at Walnut Grove where Lambertson lived, there was an Indian scare. Lambertson, who was an experienced Indian fighter, advised me to wait until after dark to go home, which advice I followed, and did not leave his place until quite dark. The trail led along the banks, bars and flats of the Hassayampa for about eight miles, and in many places there was a dense growth of catsclaw brush through which, without a trail to follow, it is almost impossible to pass without tearing clothing and flesh. On one of the highest bars the trail ran abruptly to a deep cut which caused it to make a short turn to get around the cut and back on its regular course. The cut was ten or twelve feet deep, and fifty or sixty feet long, and catsclaw growing right up to it. When I got to within a short distance of this place, I imagined I could hear people talking, and I stopped to listen and locate the source. This took me some little time. Finally I remembered the place, and concluded it must be Indians camped in the cut for the night. I was in a fix. It was out of the question to turn back for I knew Beauchamp would be after me before morning. To try to go down and go up the

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river bed would expose me to the Indians, as the moon was just rising, and if I tried to go around through the catsclaw, I should have no clothes nor skin either, when I got home. It took me sometime to think over the situation, and all the time I could hear the voices in the cut. At first I was frightened, but the fright soon gave way to anger, and I determined to slip up to the edge of the, cut and turn my double barrelled shotgun loose among them, then use my Colt. So with great caution, I moved to the side of the cut, both barrels cocked and gun to shoulder. Right there I learned for the first time what it meant to be really frightened, for there arose out of the cut a lot of big hoot owls, right between me and the moon which was just rising over the mountains. I nearly fell to the ground and my knees were still trembling when I reached home. In fact, my knees are a little shaky until the present day.

“A few weeks later we had turned our horses out on a creek known as Copper Creek, about three miles above our place, as there was good grass and plenty of water there. I went to look after them about once a week, but one day I did not find either Beauchamp's or my own horse. Instead I found where two men with shoes on had driven them off towards the west. I went home and reported; took some coffee, pinole and a tin cup to eat out of, and went back and took the trail. That night I followed them to a point between Skull and Kirkland Valleys, where I camped. The next morning I tracked them about three miles to where some Mexicans were placer mining in Kirkland Valley. There I lost the track among the tracks of the stock that the

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Mexicans had there. I could learn nothing from the Mexicans, so I gave up the hunt and returned to the mine. My horse was very hard to catch, and the other one would stay right with him, which accounted for the men not getting them, and saved us the horses, for we got them a month later at Peeples' ranch.

“About December 1st, 1863, we got our arrastra working, and Christmas eve following, we cleaned up $298.50, the result of one ton of ore—the first quartz gold taken out north of the Gila River in Arizona.

“When Beauchamp and Mahan went to Weaver after tools and provisions, there was but very little provisions to be had there, and Beauchamp gave the last of our money to a man he had known in California who had a pack train of mules. This man, Jose Juan, was anxious to go to Tucson for supplies, so Jack gave him the money with the understanding that when he returned from Tucson he would bring us provisions. When Jose Juan got to Tucson he could get no flour in the town, so he went on to Hermosillo in Sonora, to load his train. In the meantime our provisions had run low, and finally were all gone but red beans. Of these we happened to have a good supply. We might have got some provisions on credit, but we were expecting Jose Juan in every day from Tucson, and did not wish to leave our work and use our poor horses to make a three or four days trip. Consequently we stuck it out on beans straight until we had made our run of one ton of ore, not knowing at the time that Juan was obliged to go to Sonora to load his train.

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“With the gold that we had retorted in an old musket barrel, I started to meet a Mexican train that we heard was coming from New Mexico with provisions, with the governor and his escort and staff. I expected to go as far as Chino Valley (Del Rio), but met the outfit at Granite Creek, where Prescott now is, and it was a very agreeable surprise to me, I was awful hungry, although I had that day killed a chicken hawk and broiled it on the coals of my camp fire, one built on purpose for the occasion. That night I stayed with Uncle Joe Walker, who led the Walker party to Arizona, and had good grub for the first time in nearly one month. The next day I returned to the mine early, and we all had a big feed for Christmas dinner.

“In the latter part of November, two men, John Laughlin and Valentine, came to our camp and told us of a strike that had been made in the mountains east of the place where Lambertson lived, and as I could not work much, and Valentine and Laughlin pressed me to accompany them, I took a pair of blankets and a little flour and coffee, and went the following morning with them. We went to Lambertson's ranch, and Mrs. Lambertson told us that Lambertson and Gross, (he was the man who found the rich ore), had left there that morning to go to the mine with burros, to pack in ore which they proposed to work with an arrastra. We took the fresh trail and just at night reached their camp on Turkey Creek, which was near the new strike. There we camped near Lambertson and Gross, and the next morning there was several inches of snow on the ground. Lambertson and Gross gathered up their outfit and returned early in

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the day, but my party derided to stay one day more, thinking it would clear up. But it did not clear until the third day. We had with us two pair of blankets, and we made a shelter of one pair and all slept between the other pair. We stopped one end with pine boughs and built a big fire at our feet at the open end of the shelter. Our flour and coffee were out, and we were forced to go home without accomplishing anything. Laughlin lived on Groom Creek. He was partner with R. W. Groom, while Valentine had a camp near by on the same creek, so we concluded to go to that place. We had a hard job wallowing through the snow, but made it to the head of the Hassayampa about four o'clock, and there we found some men who told us of the finding of the Vulture mine. Valentine remarked that he would go down to the Hassayampa Sink, as we then called it, and ‘talk Dutch to Henry, and get an interest,’ which he did. Valentine was killed later at the nine-mile water hole near Tucson.

“About January 1st, 1864, Mahan went to Weaver and got his wife who had been staying there with her sister, and also brought quicksilver and powder. We had to use rifle powder which cost $1.50 per pound in small cans, and make our own fuse or, as it is called, ‘quibs.’

“On the thirteenth day of February, 1864; John Pennington came to our place, having traveled from where he and U. C. Barnett were camped about six miles up the creek, and found us at breakfast. He wanted help to follow Indians who had taken their last horse and started only a short time before he left his cabin. The Indians had taken a trail that led past our place

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and about one and a half miles to the east. Barnett followed on the trail and Pennington was to meet him at a prominent outcrop of quartzsite that the trail passed by. Beauchamp and I got ready while Pennington ate some breakfast, and with our sack of pinole, we started for the appointed rendezvous. When we got in sight of the big outcrop of rock, we could see Barnett about four hundred yards back of the outcrop waving his hat and crouching down, which meant for us to keep as quiet as possible.

“When we got to Barnett, who had not moved from the place where we first saw him, he told us that he had seen a smoke on the opposite side of the big ledge before we came in sight, and supposed the Indians had made a camp there. It had been threatening to storm for some time, and by this time it was snowing pretty hard. We at once set out to see what was behind the bluff, making as little noise as possible. When we got to the south end there they were in a little gulch among the thickest kind of brush. We opened fire on them, but our guns were covered with the snow that was falling as hard and fast as it could, and we never knew what effect our shots had, only we got an old butcher knife, a lance, and bow with a quiver of arrows. The Indians had killed the horse and were cutting the flesh off the bones when we came upon them.

“We all returned to the mine, nearly frozen. That storm lasted five days, and our house, which was built of rocks and covered with dirt, leaked like a sieve, and continued to leak for sometime after the storm. We continued work and took

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out a little gold right along, the ore running by sorting about 300 pounds per ton.

“One day in March a brother-in-law of Mahan, who lived at Weaver, came to the mine and brought us a letter from a man named James More, who was a partner of A. H. Peeples in a lot of beef steers which they were holding on Peeples' ranch, now known as Peeples' Valley. The letter was asking one of us to go to the ranch with two horses. A few days before this the Apaches had run off all the horses at the ranch, and King S. Woolsey and Peeples had organized a party to follow the Indians, and had taken all of the horses that were left around Weaver except two of the poorest which had been left at the ranch to drive and corral the cattle with. These cattle were easy to drive or handle on horseback, but would run from a man on foot, and the morning that the letter was written, the Indians had gotten the two poor horses from the place where they were staked while the men were eating breakfast. As soon as I could catch the horses I saddled and got to the ranch in time to corral the cattle that evening. I had been at the ranch three days when a man came in from Los Angeles, Sandy Hampton, a big Scotchman. I had met Hampton in Los Angeles when he worked for the Sansevein Wine Company. Hampton had a horse and mule, and More hired him to stay at the ranch so that I could go home. Hampton's horse was sore footed, and there were a lot of old shoes that had been pulled off of the horses when they were turned out on the soft meadow land of the ranch, so I undertook to shoe the horse before I left. As the horse was rather large, I had trouble to

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get shoes out of the lot to fit him, but by using one that had corks on it, I made out to get the shoes on all around.

“Hampton himself had neither boots nor shoes. He had rags on his feet. I did not think much about the fact as I was nearly bare footed myself, but more than thirty years after I learned from a man who had traveled from Los Angeles with Hampton that they had met a man going out of the country shoeless and walking, and Hampton, having a horse to ride, took off his boots and told the man to try them on, and if he could wear them to keep them. He kept them.

“I returned to the mine after shoeing the horse, and, as we were in a bad place to stand off the Indians, we concluded to work what ore we had and quit the work for a while.

“William Kirkland and his companions were working a placer mine about twelve miles below us, and Kirkland had his family there with him. As there were quite a number of men and some good dogs there, Mahan concluded to take his wife there until we got ready to quit work. I will say that the Indians had been doing a lot of bad work in different places, and that the Mexican who brought the letter from More asking for help, had a fight with them and broke a leg for one of them, between Peeples' Ranch and the Montgomery mine, when he brought the letter. Our nearest neighbors to the north were two and a half miles away, and eleven miles south to Lambertson's, which was a mile from the Kirkland claim. Peeples' ranch was sixteen miles to the southwest. That was not a good place to have a woman to take care of.

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“About the last days of March we got our arrastra cleaned up and cached what tools we had, and Beauchamp went prospecting while I went to the Kirkland claim where Mrs. Mahan was cooking for the men who were working the placers. The night that I got to Kirkland's, William Dennison, one of the partners of the claim, who, with another man, returned from Peeples' ranch where they had been after a beef, brought the news that Sandy Hampton had been murdered by a Mexican two nights before. The news had been carried to Weaver by a Mexican boy whom More had employed to stay on the ranch and help Sandy with the cattle, and a crazy white man named Jackson, whom the Mexican came near killing when he killed Hampton. The crazy man wandered from camp to camp and never was molested by the Apaches, and that day had dropped in at Peeples' ranch. The Mexican came to the ranch from toward Weaver just at dark. Hampton gave him supper and told him to stay all night. The house was a small one roomed adobe with a fireplace in one end. Hampton was sitting before the fire after supper, with his chin in his hands. Jackson was sitting in the corner of the fireplace farthest from the door, and the boy was sitting in the corner between the fireplace and the door. The strange Mexican was behind Hampton. All of a sudden he drew a long knife from under his sarape and plunged it into the side of Hampton's neck, killing him instantly I suppose, for he fell with his face in the ashes at the corner of the fireplace and never struggled. Jackson jumped for the door, and as he passed the Mexican he was stabbed in the back, but got out, and

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he and the boy made their way to Weaver as fast as they could and gave the alarm. Men started at once for the ranch and a search was commenced as soon as it was daylight for the Mexican, but they could not track him, although he had taken Hampton's horse and saddle. The trouble was that the Mexican had saddled the horse and taken the trail toward Weaver, and the party from Weaver had obliterated the tracks when they rode and walked over the trail in the dark. The next day after the news came of the killing of Hampton, I, with G. H. Vickrey and two others, went from the Kirkland claim to Weaver, which is about fourteen miles by trail. We passed the graves of a man named Mellen, who was partner with Lehigh in copper claims in Copper Basin, and two companions, who were prospecting on the Hassayampa, also the new made graves of four Mexicans and a Frenchman near Weaver. All of these graves were quite fresh. Arriving at Weaver we learned that there was no trace of the murderer.

“I took our horses out to find some place where I could stake them on good grass, intending to stay with them all night and bring them in with me in the morning. I went out about two miles southwest of Weaver, and, finding a good place, I took my saddle off. While tying my horses I noticed that I was on a trail which appeared to lead from Weaver and Antelope Creek toward the sink of the Hassayampa. I examined the trail closely and found that the last tracks which had passed over the trail led toward the Hassayampa and were made by the horse that I had put the shoes on for Sandy Hampton sometime

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before at Peeples' ranch. I recognized it by the one corked shoe, while the other three were plain shoes. I at once determined to follow the tracks to the Hassayampa if necessary. I saddled up and took all of the stock back to Weaver, and told some of the people what I had found. I asked for one or two volunteers to go with me on the trail. The men said it had been too long; that we could never overtake the Mexican, and, besides, that the stock was all poor and not fit for a long trip, perhaps clear into Sonora, as it was evident that Sonora was where the Mexican was heading for, at that time there being no other places in Arizona except Tucson and Gila City, now Yuma.

“I inquired about the road and learned from a man who knew the country that there was but one road through the Hassayampa Canyon, where the railroad bridge now crosses, and about two miles below the Tucson road left the river and turned east, while the other road followed the river bottom. I realized that if I could get the tracks at or near the forks of the road, I should be sure that my man would go directly to one of the two places. I bought a few pounds of pinole, some pinoche, and a little coffee, and with a quart cup and canteen, started for the Hassayampa, but took the main road as it was quite dark and I had to depend on picking up the trail the next morning. I passed Henry Wickenburg's camp before day, and about nine o'clock in the morning I came to the forks of the road. Here I was bothered a good deal, as both roads had been traveled by wagons and ox carts. I had about made up my mind to take the Tucson road as being the most likely one

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for my man to take, when I noticed a trail that went over a point of a mesa that the wagon road passed around. I went and examined this trail, and there was my corked shoe sure enough. Now I was sure the Tucson road was the one for me.

“I slept the most of that day and gave my horse a chance to fill up on good gramma grass. Getting to the Pima Villages, I found there a mule which had been left in care of Mr. White, who had a flour mill there, and White wished to send the mule to Re Allen, its owner, in Tucson. I had White inquire of the Indians if they had seen the Mexican, (who was easy to describe on account of the big buckskin horse), but he had not been seen, so I concluded he had passed through the Indian villages in the night. I took Allen's mule and left my horse with the Indians, and that evening pushed on toward Tucson and the next day reached what was known as ‘Soldier's Grave,’ a road station established by the old Butterfield Stage Company. The man at the station had seen nothing of the Mexican with the buckskin horse, but told me that someone had been to the well and got water two nights before, and had gone toward Tucson; that the horse tracks were larger than most riding horses.

“I rested my mule nearly all day and took the road about four in the afternoon; made Bluewater station that night about twelve o'clock and lay down until daylight. That was another one of the old Butterfield stations, and there about the same thing had happened as at Soldier's Grave, only I had gained about twelve hours on my man according to our calculation.

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“From there I pushed on to the Picacho station, only eighteen miles from Tucson, but the keeper had seen nothing of my man. Arriving at Tucson I at once called upon Major Duffield, the United States marshal, and told him my story. He took some interest in the matter, and said he would try to locate the Mexican if he was in or around Tucson. I didn't leave the matter in the hands of others, but went all over the town and to all nearby ranches of which there were several, but no sign of the buckskin. I bought a Comanche pony from a Mexican, and the second afternoon I went to the old Mission San Xavier, which is eight or nine miles from Tucson, the main traveled road to Sonora. About halfway from Tucson to the Mission there had been a big mudhole which changed the road. The mudhole had dried, but the wagons still went around the place, while saddle animals took the shorter cut over the dry mudhole. And there I found my corked horseshoe mark, and pretty fresh too. I pushed my horse along pretty lively until I got to the Mission. There were a lot of Papago Indians living there and one white man, who went by the name of Alejandro. I told Alejandro my business. He inquired among the Indians, and we concluded that the Mexican had passed there late the night before. I had given my pony to a Papago to feed and water for me, and when I had him brought up to saddle, he had the colic. I went after Alejandro, who was running a mill for grinding wheat by burro power. He found me an Indian who would trade me another pony for $20 to boot. If my pony died I was to keep the Indian's pony, or if I returned the Indian's

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animal and took my own, the Indian was to have the twenty dollars for the use of his horse. Rather a hard bargain! But I accepted the proposition and was soon on my way again.

“I traveled nearly all of that night, and the following afternoon rode into a military camp, two companies of cavalry stationed at the mouth of the Sohbapuri Canyon. When I got within a mile or two of this camp, I lost the track of the corked shoe which I had been seeing all day. The cavalry herd had obliterated the tracks.

“I thought sure I should find my man or some trace of him when I saw the soldiers, but I did not. I knew he was not far away, for his horse had completely given out, and he had been walking and driving the horse ahead of him for the last twenty miles. It was but a few miles to Tubac, where I had learned there was some Americans living, so after satisfying myself that there was nothing at the soldiers' camp for me, I pushed on for Tubac, watching all the time for tracks in the road. But no corked shoe track did I find. At Tubac I found a family named Pennington, all but the grown men folks. There were several women and two boys, twelve to fifteen years old, and a Mrs. Page and a little daughter. Mrs. Page was a Pennington. After she had married Page and before her girl was born, the Apaches captured her and a twelve year old Mexican girl, but as Mrs. Page was not able to travel as fast as the Indians wanted to go, they lanced her full of holes, threw her body over a bluff, then threw rocks on her head, and left her for dead. She came to and after crawling around for two weeks or more, and living on roots, managed to reach a camp in the Santa

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Rita mountains. She told me the story herself as I stayed there that night with the family.

“The next morning I was out as soon as I could see, expecting the Mexican would pass that place in the night as he had every other place where he was liable to be seen. He had not passed that way however, and the women told me of a road that went up the Canyon to an old deserted ranch, and on to the Sierra Colorado mine and Sonora, and showed me a trail that would take me by a short cut to the old ranch. I hurried across to the old ranch, which was the ruins of what had been a big ranch at one time, and here were my horse tracks quite fresh, and the man tracks on top. I examined my shotgun carefully, and pushed my pony for all that he could stand for about four miles, watching the trail at every step. Finally as I rode down into a little sandwash that came into and across the road from the low hills to my right, I saw the tracks leading up the wash, and the sand was not dry where the horse tracks had disturbed it. I followed up this little wash about a quarter of a mile, and there on a flat near the wash was the horse hobbled, and in the shade of a bush in the sand on the saddle blankets, lay about the worst looking, black, scar-faced greaser that I ever looked at. But he looked good to me just then!

“I cut the hobbles off of the poor horse, and went on to the Sierra Colorado mine, and rested two days. Colonel Colt, the gunman, was preparing to work the mine, after having had a massacre at the mine some time before.

“I did a little prospecting near the Sierra Colorado mine, and found an old abandoned

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mine that had hackberry trees growing on the dump a foot through at the butt. I returned to San Xavier and got my Comanche pony all right.

“At Tucson I met Jack Swilling and others of a party who, with King S. Woolsey, had returned from a prospecting trip in the Pinal mountains. The party had divided at what was known as ‘The Wheatfields,’ Woolsey going to the Agua Fria ranch near Prescott. They parted with the understanding that Swilling would go to Tucson and fit out a strong party, and meet Woolsey, who would fit out another party at Prescott, and a third party would start from the Pima Villages with Indians who were ready at any time to go after the Apaches. All three parties were to meet at a certain place on an appointed day, and all were to kill as many Apaches as possible.

“When Swilling got to Tucson he could get no flour to outfit a party. He had to send men and animals to Hermosillo, Sonora, for a supply of flour, and it was necessary for Woolsey to know this. Swilling had tried to find some men to go to Prescott with dispatches, but the country was alive with Apaches, and there were no volunteers to try the hazardous trip with less than five men. I learned of this one evening late, and went to Swilling's house, and proposed to take the dispatches to Woolsey if I could get a good saddle animal, and an order for another at Maricopa Wells, where the Swilling party had left all of their stock that they could spare as they went to Tucson. They had left their stock in charge of a man named Chase, and two or three other men. At Maricopa Wells there was pretty good grass. It was near the friendly

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Indians, and had good houses and corrals which had been built by the old Overland Stage Company.

“Swilling was glad of the chance to get word to Woolsey, and at once set about writing letters to Weaver and Prescott, that is, what is now Prescott.

“About four o'clock in the morning of May 1st, 1864, Swilling had his letters written, and I went to the citizens' corral, (which joined the government corral on one side), to get the mule which I was to ride to Maricopa. I found a lot of the soldiers in and around the government corral, and on making inquiries learned that the Apaches had got away with five cavalry horses which were in the corral, notwithstanding the fact that there had been a sentinel walking in front of the corral all night. The Indians had cut a hole in the back side of the wall and got the horses. They cut the wall by tying a rock to a rope, then throwing the rock over the wall, and by pulling the rock up near the top and letting it down, soon cut a piece out big enough to get a horse through.

“I had a splendid mule under me, and by good daylight was at the nine-mile waterhole. I pushed on to the Picacho station and lay there until about sundown; made Bluewater station before day, and remained there until late in the afternoon, when a man named George Frame came in from Fort Yuma. He came in a cart with one mule, carrying the United States mail. I saddled my mule and started, intending to go as near the Pima Indians as I could before sleeping. When I got out four or five miles on the road, my mule shied and bolted into a run, leaving

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the road at right angles. He was badly frightened, and I could not stop him and make him stand. I soon learned the cause of the mule's fright. There was a heavy thicket of greasewood and mesquite at the point where the mule stampeded, and about two hundred yards from the road I saw plenty of moccasin tracks, and on the ground lay a 38-caliber Colt's revolver. I tried to get the mule to stop so that I could get off and get the gun, but I could not make him stand. So I turned him and rode past the gun and picked it up from the saddle. It was loaded and clean. The Indians in their hurry to get to the road in time to ambush me, had dropped it, I presume. Anyway, I got the gun and let the mule go as fast as he wanted to through the brush, and didn't go to the road until after dark.

“I watered my mule at the Soldier's Grave, and pushed on to near the Sacaton station, where I rested a few hours. Then I pushed on to White's Mill, and arranged with Mr. White to send my horse that I had left when I got Allen's mule, to Weaver or Walker by the first opportunity. I rode on until I reached the last of the Maricopa farms, and there I stayed and had a good sleep, reaching the Maricopa Wells early next morning. Here I found Chase, delivered a letter from Swilling, and after supper started on a fresh horse. The mule that I had been riding belonged to Chase. He told me that he had captured the mule from the Apaches on a raid that he had participated in at Pinos Altos, New Mexico, hence his fear of Apaches. If I had been riding a less timid animal the Indians

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would have killed me, where the mule saved my life.

“Leaving the Wells I rode all night, and until after the sun was well up. Then, turning off the road into the mesquite timber, I slept until nearly sundown. Coming back to the road I found the tracks of two horses going towards Maricopa Wells. I learned that the two horsemen, one of whom was James Sheldon (afterwards killed by the Yavapais), were going with dispatches from Woolsey to Swilling to notify him that there were not sufficient supplies in the Walker country to be had to outfit a party, and that Woolsey had sent a pack train to La Paz on the Colorado River to buy a supply for the expedition. Not knowing this, I made the best time I could via Weaver to where Prescott now is, reaching there May 5th in the morning. I think it is nearly three hundred miles the way I travelled.

“I learned that the town of Prescott had been located and named by Governor Goodwin, the name having been suggested by R. C. McCormick. The town was being surveyed by R. W. Groom and a man named Waldemar.

“I waited around the new town for my partner Beauchamp to return from La Paz, where he had gone with others for supplies for the Woolsey expedition. I thought of going to work on the Montgomery if Beauchamp was inclined that way. On May 17th, 18th and 19th, it stormed, and the ground was six inches deep in slush on the plaza.

“When Beauchamp returned from La Paz he wished to go out with Woolsey again. So I concluded to prospect near by, and did do some

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prospecting in the mountains along the Hassayampa as far as Lambertson's ranch, There, late in June, I met some men who had been prospecting near the Vulture mine, and had some glance ore, which I took for silver glance, such as I had seen and got samples of at the Sierra Colorado mine. The ore that I got at the Sierra Colorado was worth about a thousand dollars per ton. I learned all that I could about the locality of the vein that the ore came from, and concluded to go and try to find it. I went to Weaver and there met Charles Mason, Elijah Smith, William Holcomb and a Frenchman. They had just found a big cropping near Weaver which had some free gold, and were digging a little on it. They proposed to give me an interest in the claims if I would join them, and said that we would build arrastras and work the ore. I accepted the proposition and at once set about sampling and homing the ore along the surface. I did not get the results that I thought would pay to arrastra, but there was a prominent mining man at Weaver by the name of Ehrenberg, a graduate of Freyburg. I got Ehrenberg to go and look at the property. He thought enough of it to take samples from the sixteen-foot hole that was on the claims, as well as sampling the croppings for about two thousand feet along the ledge, and started for San Francisco with about fifty pounds of ore. He got better than sixteen dollars per ton, and sent us the assays. He wrote that he would return and do some work on the claims. On his way back a renegade Surrana Indian murdered him while asleep at Dos Palms station.

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“Flour was scarce, so Smith, Holcomb, Charles Mason and the Frenchman desired to go to White's mill at the Pima Villages, and load their animals with flour, and walk back. With a boy that I had picked up, I went as far as the sinks of the Hassayampa with them. Here I camped in order to prospect for the rich ore that had been shown me, which started me out.

“The next day I filled a 10-gallon keg with water, and packed it on a burro, and, riding a mule which I had borrowed at Prescott, set out on the trail toward the Vulture, the boy following on a horse. About four miles from the river our trail crossed a wide wash and ran up the side of a small point on the west side. As I started up the trail the mule shied off and went around on the opposite side of the point from where the trail led up. The burro followed the mule, and the horse followed the burro. It was some distance before I got the mule back into the trail, which at that point, crossed a mesa or table land. There I discovered a lot of Indian tracks, and after making a careful examination, concluded that they had seen us and were not far away at that moment. I thought it best to turn back, as there appeared to be a big bunch of the reds. We took the trail back, and just at the point where the mule seared I found that the Indians had been crouched behind a bank just below the trail. Had the mule not left the trail we should both have been riddled with arrows and bullets. That was twice in about two months that mules had kept me out of trouble.

“We made our way back to where Wickenburg was camped, and the next morning we went back

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with Wickenburg, and some more men, and took the trail of the Indians. We followed it until night, but as we were not prepared to stay longer, we returned to the Hassayampa. This was July 4th, 1864.

“Wickenburg had an arrastra partly built, and had about a ton of Vulture ore at his camp. As he knew nothing about working ore, I undertook to show him what I could, and soon had the arrastra running. By the time the party returned from the Pima Villages, we had ground out the ton of ore, and cleaned up $105.

“When the party returned I took Mason and Smith and we went and found the copper ore which I had mistaken for silver.

“We next went to Antelope Creek near Weaver, and, it being terribly warm, concluded to go on to Prescott, but laid over one day, July 18th, and went to Weaver and voted at the first election held in Arizona Territory. We got to Prescott July 22d and camped near the town. We had killed several deer the night and morning before we went into Prescott, and sold the venison readily at twenty-five cents a pound, which suggested the idea of hunting for the market. Smith and Holcomb were expert game hunters and did most of the killing, while I hunted a little and kept camp when necessary, and Mason did the selling. This lasted only a short time with me.

“About August 6th a man who had come up from Fort Mojave to try to start an express line, started out from Prescott on his return, and at a point about fifteen miles out had been jumped by the Indians and shot with an arrow, as was his mule also. The mule got him out and brought

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him back to Prescott, neither being very badly wounded.

“I was anxious to have the line established, and after examining the mule carefully, concluded that he could make the trip. I proposed to take what letters the fellow had collected and go to Fort Mojave with them. The proposition was accepted, and the next day I traveled with Miller Brothers' pack-train, which was starting for Los Angeles, as far as Williamson Valley, about twenty miles. Leaving the train after dark, I rode until the following morning about seven o'clock, and came to a camping-place where a nice stream of water ran for a short distance by the side of the road. There was good feed growing on the flat among the mesquite and catsclaw bush, and I tied the mule with a long rope and went down under the bank which was ten or twelve feet high, to make a cup of coffee. I had just got my fire started and cup of water on it, when I thought I heard a quick move on the bank above. I grabbed my gun and ran to the top of the bank, and, sure enough, a Yavapai Indian was leading my mule away as fast as he could make him lead. Almost at the same glance I saw another Indian on a horse off about two hundred yards to my right. He let a terrible yell out of himself as I showed up, and right there I did some of the fastest running that I ever did. I couldn't shoot because the mule was in the way. The Indian saw that I was bound to overtake him, so he dropped the rope and ran, dodging, through the brush. I tried hard, but could never make a sure shot, and I was not going to waste any powder. Maybe I was not glad to get hold of that rope!

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“I did not wait to make coffee, but got out of there pretty quick, although I presume the two Indians that I saw were all that there were in the bunch. If the Indian had led the mule slowly away, instead of trying to hurry him, I should not have known anything about it until too late.

“I rode on for a few miles until I came to a favorable place to watch the mule from a bunch of granite rock, then tied him in the open, and lay there until nearly night. Starting out I had traveled only a short distance when I saw coming on the trail, meeting me, quite a bunch of Indians with women and children. I left the trail and kept a good gunshot distance between us, as I thought perhaps they had adopted that plan to get near me, and I thought I recognized the horse that the Indian was riding who yelled to his partner in the morning.

“I made a dry camp late in the night, and gave the mule a good rest, and a chance to graze. I arrived at Fort Mojave the fourth day from Prescott, one hundred and seventy-three miles, with my mule's neck and withers badly swollen from the arrow wound. I remained at Fort Mojave two nights, and was furnished with a cavalry horse and three soldiers, to escort me back to Prescott.

“The morning that I reached Mojave, Dr. Willing with four men and a pack train of mules were just starting for Prescott. One of the men, A. I. Shanks, I had ridden the range with in Sacramento Valley for two years before coming to Arizona. On my return trip I overtook the Willing party the third day out, and camped two nights and traveled one day with them. The

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second night we camped at what is known as Walnut Creek, and early in the morning I went out to try to get a deer, and run on to a lot of Indians camped in a gulch among the cedars. I sneaked away without alarming the Indians, and rushed back to camp and told what I had found. The three soldiers volunteered to go with me and clean them up. I placed the soldiers on a high mesa directly above the camp, and told them that I would go down below and sneak up as close as I could get and turn loose on them. As I should be in sight of the soldiers, they would know when to show up and commence shooting. I got within forty or fifty yards of the camp without being seen, and just as I was ready to shoot, the soldiers commenced to holler, ‘Don't shoot! Don't shoot!’ The Indians were gone like a flock of quail, and I was mad enough to commence on the soldiers if it would have done any good. Their excuse was that the Indians looked like Mobaves. The truth of the matter was that there were too many Indians. I will say here that these were Yavapais, and as bad as any Indian tribe of equal numbers. They played friendly when in or near the government post or mining camps, and stole and murdered every time they got a chance when they thought they could blame it on the Apaches. When I returned to camp I told the soldiers in presence of the Willing party what I thought of them, and rode away toward Prescott without breakfast.

“Along about four o'clock in the afternoon, when within six or seven miles of Prescott, I took a trail across a bushy point which the wagon road went around, and when I reached the top of the bushy point I saw off to my left a covered rig

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with two horses hitched to it and some men on the ground, That being an unusual thing, I rode down to the wagon and learned that they had come from California, via Yuma, and were heading for Prescott. I had been talking but a few moments when a bunch of Indians appeared on top of the ridge where I had left the trail to go to the wagon. The men (whom I afterward became acquainted with) were Gilford Hathaway, Joseph Melvin, William Little, and a man named Smith. They became quite excited and were going behind the wagon and talking so that I could not hear what was being said, so I took the road to Prescott, not caring to be taken off by mistake as being a renegade white running with the Indians. Nor did I stop to explain that the Indians were shouting the password that Pauline Weaver had learned the Yavapais at a treaty made in 1863 at Agua Caliente.

“I got to Prescott before dark, and noticed, as I passed, a small patch of corn that had been planted by a man named Sanford on Granite Creek. The corn had all been killed the night before by frost. That was the 17th of August, 1864. Pretty early frost.

“I learned at Prescott that the Woolsey party had returned and that Beauchamp had been killed by Indians on the trip; that he was the only one killed. I was at a loss to know what to do about working the Montgomery, and lay around the town for a month or more. This completed my first year in Arizona.”

“The next man that was murdered by the Mexleans was digging a well on the road leading from La Paz on the Colorado River to Wickenburg, in company with a man named Dave King.

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The well was being dug to get water to sell to the travelling public—mostly freight teams—and is about thirty miles west of Wickenburg. One evening a train belonging to a man named Stanfield camped near the well, and accompanying the train were several deserters from a company of Mexican volunteers that had been raised by one Primitivo Cervantes, and enlisted to fight the Apaches. This company, or a part of it, was stationed at Date Creek and Skull Valley to escort trains through Bell's Canyon, and from Skull Valley to Prescott. In the morning when the train pulled out, two of the deserters stopped behind, and after King, who was digging in the well, had been at work a short time, he heard a shot and looked up just in time to dodge his partner, who had been shot in the head and came head first to the bottom of the well, which was about a hundred and thirty feet deep. A few minutes before King heard the shot he had seen his partner looking down into the well. He often sat on the landing-board and talked with King as they worked. What must have been King's feelings, there in a well many miles from anyone who could help him with his dead partner! He lay down beside the dead man, afraid to move or cry out for fear whoever had killed his partner would come and kill him. He did not know at the time who had done this. It might have been Indians, as he rather thought it was. But Providence was kind to King. While lying there considering his chances of getting out of the hole he forgot entirely the mail carrier who made one round trip per week from La Paz on muleback, and that was the day the mail was due to pass into Wickenburg. But King never

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thought of the mail-carrier, his only hope being that some train might pass that way and by a rare chance find him before he perished. What could his feelings have been after several hours spent there in that terrible position, to see a man lean over the curbing, looking down into the place? He did not recognize the man, and was afraid to speak lest it might be an enemy. But the man on top, for some unknown reason, said ‘Hello!’ Then King recognized John Duff, the mail-carrier, and Duff told me many times that he got the greatest surprise of his life when he received an answer from the well. Duff had ridden out to the men's camp, as was customary with him when he passed, and found things all scattered around, and had concluded that the men had quit the well and gone to Wickenburg. Something prompted him to go to the well, and that probably saved King's life. Duff lowered the bucket and King put his partner's body into it, and after hoisting the body out, Duff hoisted King out.

“They dug a shallow grave and buried the dead man, and having concluded from the government shoe tracks that it was the Mexican soldiers that had done the killing and robbed the camp, they followed their trail until nearly dark; then, as the trail led across the country toward the Vulture, they turned back to the Wickenburg road, and made haste to get there.

“The next morning everybody in town had heard the news. There was one old gray-headed man that we all called Uncle Joe. His name was Joseph Blackwell. He was one of the Texans who were prisoners at the Alamo, but did not happen to draw a white bean. At that time he

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was night herder for J. M. Bryan, commonly called Crete Bryan. Bryan had a large herd of mules with which he was hauling ore from the Vulture mine to the mill at Wickenburg. As there was no tame hay in the country, the mules were herded in the hills at night, and Uncle Joe was one of the herders.

“When he talked with King he learned all he could about the course the Mexicans had taken; then went to Bryan and asked him for Kit, a favorite riding mule.

“‘What do you want of Kit, Uncle Joe?’

“‘I'm going to get the d—d greasers.’

“‘All right, Uncle Joe. She is in the corral.’

“In a short time Uncle Joe came back with canteen, gun and saddle-bags. Then Bryan realized that the old man meant business, and said:

“‘Well, Uncle Joe, I'll go, too.’

“In less time than it takes me to write it they were off. They started to cut track between the Vulture mine and the Hassayampa. If they failed to cut the tracks there, they would probably find their men at or near the Vulture. They found the tracks east of the Vulture, going toward the White Tank Mountains, and followed them to the White Tanks, where they made a fire. From there they had taken the road to the crossing of the Salt and Gila Rivers. This road led on to Tucson via the Pima Villages. There was no Phoenix at that time.

“The Mexicans were overtaken between the two rivers, sitting beside the road. They had a string of fish which they had just caught with some hooks that they had evidently taken from King's camp, for he had some and they were

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missing, as well as a lot of other plunder and the six-shooters.

“Bryan and Uncle Joe threw their guns down on them, and made them lay down their guns and go away from them; then asked them if they had any choice between hanging and shooting. A shrug of the shoulders was the answer. So they marched them far enough from the road so that they would not smell bad, tied them to a mesquite tree, and shot them.

“The next man that was murdered by the Mexicans was a Portuguese who at one time ran a bakery in Wickenburg. He had saved some money and thought it would pay to sink a well between the Hassayampa and Salt Rivers, as it was along way across the dry plains.

“He went to a point about twelve miles out from the sink of the Hassayampa, and started to sinking in a gulch that heads up into the hills east of Wickenburg. He had only got down twenty-five or thirty feet when some passers-by noticed that the well had been caved in around the top and the camp robbed. The place is known to this day as the ‘Nigger Well’ by old-timers. The Portuguese was part negro.

“The well was never cleaned out. The Portuguese left some property in Wiekenburg—an old adobe shack and an adobe oven.

“There may have been more than one man buried in the well, as his Mexican helper never showed up.

“This happened in 1866 or 1867, and the Apaches were making raids in some part of the country nearly every full moon; so the matter of a man or two did not amount to much unless

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he happened to have some personal friends, like Hampton and King.

“The next murder according to my recollection was committed at what was known as the ‘Martinez Ranch,’ about twenty miles from Wickenburg, on the road to Prescott by the way of Date Creek Camp, in the spring of 1871.

“A young man named Sam Cullumber was keeping a station and the Arizona Stage Company kept four standing horses there and a man to attend to them. There were some Mexicans camped near by, and the signs read that some of them had gone to the house to buy something, and while the stock-tender was weighing some flour in one room, he was stabbed in the jugular vein and fell dead, while Cullumber was killed in the other room.

“There were probably four of the Mexicans, as they took the four stage horses. Two days later a Maricopa Indian saw two Mexicans hide their guns in some brush near the Maricopa Canal and get onto their horses and ride off. The Indian (who had not been seen) rushed out as soon as the Mexicans were out of sight, and took the guns and hid them in another place; then went to Phoenix and told the officers what he had seen. Joe Fye (Phy) and Wilt Warden were sent out to investigate. The Indian took them to the guns; then they followed the horse tracks and found the horses tied to mesquite trees. They took the horses to town, and there they were identified by someone who knew them as the stage horses that belonged at Martinez Station. Fye and Warden returned to the place to lay for the Mexicans, but when they got there the tracks showed that the Mexicans had been

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there during their absence with the horses, and had left, going toward the river below town. The officers followed them and overtook them at a point on the river bank known as the Hay Camp, or Half Way Camp. It was a place where the hay haulers—generally Mexicans—camped when they went out west of the Agua Fria to cut galleta hay for use in Phoenix. They would go from this camp and cut a load of hay with hoes, and returning would generally camp at the Hay Camp, go to Phoenix next day, unload, and get back to camp the same night.

“The two Mexicans were sitting on a log beside the road, and Fye told Warden to take care of the nearest one. When opposite them, Fye told them to throw up their hands. Instead, they both reached for their six-shooters. Warden killed his man with a shotgun, but Fye, being an A. No. 1 shot with a rifle, broke his man's arm. His pistol dropped and he picked it up with his left hand. Fye broke his left arm. Then the Mexican broke for the river bank, which was but a few steps away. A shot from Fye's rifle broke a leg. That stopped him! The Mexican's first words were a request for water. Fye asked him where the other two horses were, and he would not tell who had them or anything about it—only begged for water. He never would tell anything, and is begging for water yet, I guess.

“The other two horses were never found, and if the Maricopa Indian had not happened to see the men hide their guns, the blame of that murder would have been laid to the Indians; for when the news got to Date Creek—only nine

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miles from the station—a party of soldiers was sent out accompanied by some friendly Apache-Mohaves, and they had a brush with some Tonto Apaches between Date Creek and the Cullumber Station, and the friendly Indians captured one of the Tontos alive—got him cornered in some big granite boulders and nailed him.

“I have no doubt that there were many murders committed by the Mexicans and blamed on the Indians; the Loring massacre nine miles west of Wickenburg came near being one of the cases. It was reported by government officers that the Date Creek Indians did the work, but the citizens of Wickenburg and Phoenix knew better.”



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