apache land the greatest of them all

I awoke with a chilly feeling, and a sudden jolt over a rock. ‘‘“I do not recollect any rocks on this road, Jack, when we came over it in the ambulance,”’’ said I. ‘‘“Neither do I,”’’ he replied.
I looked for the North Star: I had looked for it often when in open boats. It was away off on our left, the road seemed to be ascending and rocky: I had never seen this piece of road before, that I was sure of.
‘‘“We are going to the eastward,”’’ said I, ‘‘“and we should be going northwest.”’’
‘‘“My dear, lie down and go to sleep; the man knows




the road; he is taking a short cut, I suppose,”’’ said the Lieutenant. There was something not at all reassuring in his tones, however.
The driver did not turn his head nor speak. I looked at the North Star, which was getting farther and farther on our left, and I felt the gloomy conviction that we were lost on the desert.
Finally, at daylight, after going higher and higher, we drew up in an old deserted mining-camp.
The driver jerked his ponies up, and, with a sullen gesture, said, ‘‘“We must have missed the fork of the road; this is Picket Post.”’’
‘‘“Great Heavens!”’’ I cried; ‘‘“how far out of the way are we?”’’
‘‘“About fifteen miles,”’’ he drawled, ‘‘“you see we shall have to go back to the place where the road forks, and make a new start.”’’
I nearly collapsed with discouragement. I looked around at the ruined walls and crumbling pillars of stone, so weird and so grey in the dawning light: it might have been a worshipping place of the Druids. My little son shivered with the light chill which comes at daybreak in those tropical countries: we were hungry and tired and miserable: my bones ached, and I felt like crying.
We gave the poor ponies time to breathe, and took a bite of cold food ourselves. Ah! that blighted and desolate place called Picket




Post! Forsaken by God and man, it might have been the entrance to Hades.
Would the ponies hold out? They looked jaded, to be sure, but we had stopped long enough to breathe them, and away they trotted again, down the mountain this time, instead of up.
It was broad day when we reached the fork of the road, which we had not been able to see in the night: there was no mistaking it now.
We had travelled already about forty miles, thirty more lay before us; but there were no hills, it was all flat country, and the owner of these brave little ponies said we could make it.
As we neared the MacDowell cañon, we met Captain Corliss marching out with his company (truly they had lost no time in starting for California), and he told his First Lieutenant he would make slow marches, that we might overtake him before he reached Yuma.
We were obliged to wait at Camp MacDowell for Sergeant Stone to arrive with our wagonful of household goods, and then, after a mighty weeding out and repacking, we set forth once more, with a good team of mules and a good driver, to join the command. We bade the Sixth Cavalry(above) people once more good-bye, but I was so nearly dead by this time, with the heat, and the fatigue of all this hard travelling and packing up, that the keener edge of my emotions was dulled. Eight days and nights spent in travelling hither and



thither over those hot plains in Southern Arizona, and all for what?(6th cavalry above)
Because somebody in ordering somebody to change his station, had forgotten that somebody's regiment was about to be ordered out of the country it had been in for four years. Also because my husband was a soldier who obeyed orders without questioning them. If he had been a political wire-puller, many of our misfortunes might have been averted. But then, while I half envied the wives of the wire-pullers, I took a sort of pride in the blind obedience shown by my own particular soldier to the orders he received.
After that week's experience, I held another colloquy with myself, and decided that wives should not follow their husbands in the army, and that if I ever got back East again, I would stay: I simply could not go on enduring these unmitigated and unreasonable hardships.
The Florence man staid over at the post a day or so to rest his ponies. I bade him good-bye and told him to take care of those brave little beasts, which had travelled seventy miles without rest, to bring us to our destination. He nodded pleasantly and drove away. ‘‘“A queer customer,”’’ I observed to Jack.
‘‘“Yes,”’’ answered he, ‘‘“they told me in Florence that he was a ‘road agent’ and desperado, but there did not seem to be anyone else, and my orders were peremptory, so I took him. I knew the ponies could pull us through, by the looks of them; and road




agents are all right with army officers, they know they wouldn't get anything if they held 'em up.”’’
‘‘“How much did he charge you for the trip?”’’ I asked.
‘‘“Sixteen dollars,”’’ was the reply. And so ended the episode. Except that I looked back to Picket Post with a sort of horror I thought no more about it.ND now after the eight days of most distressing heat, and the fatigue of all sorts and varieties of travelling, the nights spent in a stage-coach or at a desert inn, or in the road agent's buckboard, holding always my little son close to my side, came six days more of journeying down the valley of the Gila.
We took supper in , at a place known as “Devine's.” I was hearing a good deal about Phœnix; for even then, its gardens, its orchards and its climate were becoming famous, but the season of the year was unpropitious to form a favorable opinion of that thriving place, even if my opinions of Arizona, with its parched-up soil and insufferable heat, had not been formed already.
We crossed the Gila somewhere below there, and stopped at our old camping places, but the entire valley was seething hot, and the remembrance of the December journey seemed but an aggravating dream.
We joined Captain Corliss and the company at Antelope Station,(now Stanton .below) and in two more days were at Yuma City. By this time, the Southern Pacific Railroad had been built as far as Yuma, and a bridge thrown across the Colorado at this point. It seemed an incongruity. And how burning hot the cars looked, standing there in the Arizona sun!



After four years in that Territory, and remembering the days, weeks, and even months spent in travelling on the river, of marching through the deserts, I could not make the Pullman cars seem a reality.
We brushed the dust of the Gila Valley from our clothes, I unearthed a hat from somewhere, and some wraps which and not seen the light for nearly two years, and prepared to board the train.
I cried out in my mind, the prayer of the woman in one of Fisher's Ehrenberg stories, to which I used to listen with unmitigated delight, when I lived there. The story was this: “Mrs. Blank used to live here in Ehrenberg; she hated the place just as you do, but she was obliged to stay. Finally, after a period of two years, she and her sister, who had lived with her, were able to get away. I crossed over the river with them to Lower California, on the old rope ferry-boat which they used to have near Ehrenberg, and as soon as the boat touched the bank, they jumped ashore, and down they both went upon their knees, clasped their hands, raised their eyes to Heaven, and Mrs. Blank said: ‘‘‘I thank Thee, oh Lord! Thou hast at last delivered us from the wilderness, and brought us back to God's country. Receive my thanks, oh Lord!’“’’
And then Fisher used to add: ‘‘“And the tears rolled down their faces, and I knew they felt every word they spoke; and I guess you'll feel about the same way when you get out of Arizona, even if you don't quite drop on your knees,”’’ he said.


[antelope peak
The soldiers did not look hall as picturesque, climbing into the cars, as they did when loading onto a barge; and when the train went across the bridge, and we looked down upon the swirling red waters of the Great Colorado from the windows of a luxurious Pullman, I sighed; and, with the strange contradictoriness of the human mind, I felt sorry that the old days had come to an end. For, somehow, the hardships and deprivations which we have endured, lose their bitterness when they have become only a memory.A PORTION of our regiment was ordered to Oregon, to join General Howard, who was conducting the Bannock Campaign, so I remained that summer in San Francisco, to await my husband's return.(indian playing cards)
I could not break away from my Arizona habits. I wore only white dresses, partly because I had no others which were in fashion, partly because I had become imbued with a profound indifference to dress.(cherilea)
‘‘“They'll think you're a Mexican,”’’ said my New England aunt (who regarded all foreigners with contempt). ‘‘“Let them think,”’’ said I; ‘‘“I almost wish I were; for, after all, they are the only people who understand the philosophy of living. Look at the tired faces of the women in your streets,”’’ I added, ‘‘“one never sees that sort of expression down below, and I have made up my mind not to be caught by the whirlpool of advanced civilization again.”’’
Added to the white dresses, I smoked cigarettes, and slept all the afternoons. I was in the bondage of tropical customs, and I had lapsed back into a state of what my aunt called semi-barbarism.(below Cherilea)
‘‘“Let me enjoy this heavenly cool climate, and do not worry me,”’’ I begged. I shuddered when I heard people complain of the cold winds of the San Francisco


Above the abandoned West in Arizona
summer. How do they dare tempt Fate, thought I, and I wished them all in Ehrenberg or MacDowell for one summer. ‘‘“I think they might then know something about climate, and would have something to complain about!”’’By the mid 1870's, Ehrenberg had a population of about 500 people. By the early 1900's, the railroads had taken place of the steamboats and most of the population of Ehrenberg had moved elsewhere.  

How I revelled in the flowers, and all the luxuries of that delightful city!
The headquarters of the Eighth was located at Benicia, and General Kautz, our Colonel, invited me to pay a visit to his wife. A pleasant boat-trip up the Sacramento River brought us to Benicia. Mrs. Kautz, a handsome and accomplished Austrian, presided over her lovely army home in a manner to captivate my fancy, and the luxury of their surroundings almost made me speechless.
‘‘“The other side of army life,”’’ thought I.
A visit to Angel Island(below), one of the harbor defences, strengthened this impression. Four years of life in the southern posts of Arizona had almost made me believe that army life was indeed but ‘‘“glittering misery,”’’ as the Germans had called it.
In the autumn, the troops returned from Oregon, and C company was ordered to Camp MacDermit, a lonely spot up in the northern part of Nevada (Nevada being included in the Department of California). I was sure by that time that bad luck was pursuing us. I did not know so much about the “ins and outs” of the army then as I do now.(fort defiance arizona)




At my aunt's suggestion, I secured a Chinaman of good caste for a servant, and by deceiving him (also my aunt's advice) with the idea that we were going only as far as Sacramento, succeeded in making him willing to accompany us.(Arizona ranch house on sale, little different to 1870)
We started east, and left the railroad at a station called “Winnemucca.” MacDermit lay ninety miles to the north.(the modern town today) But at Winnemucca the Chinaman balked. ‘‘“You say: ‘All'e same Saclamento’: lis place heap too far: me no likee!”’’ I talked to him, and, being a good sort, he saw that I meant well, and the soldiers bundled him on top of the army wagon, gave him a lot of good-natured guying, and a revolver to keep off Indians, and so we secured Hoo Chack.
Captain Corliss had been obliged to go on ahead with his wife, who was in the most delicate health. The post ambulance had met them at this place.
Jack was to march over the ninety miles, with the company. I watched them starting out, the men, glad of the release from the railroad train, their guns on their shoulders, stepping off in military style and in good form.
The wagons followed—the big blue army wagons, and Hoo Chack, looking rather glum, sitting on top of a pile of baggage.
I took the Silver City stage, and except for my little boy I was the only passenger for the most of the way. We did the ninety miles without resting over, except for relays of horses.




(above Florence Arizona)I climbed up on the box and talked with the driver. I liked these stage-drivers. They were “nervy,” fearless men, and kind, too, and had a great dash and go about them. They often had a quiet and gentle bearing, but by that time I knew pretty well what sort of stuff they were made of, and I liked to have them talk to me, and I liked to look out upon the world through their eyes, and judge of things from their standpoint.
It was an easy journey, and we passed a comfortable night in the stage.
Camp MacDermit was a colorless, forbidding sort of a place. Only one company was stationed there, and my husband was nearly always scouting in the mountains north of us. The weather was severe, and the winter there was joyless and lonesome. The extreme cold and the loneliness affected my spirits, and I suffered from depression.
I had no woman to talk to, for Mrs. Corliss, who was the only other officer's wife at the post, was confined to the house by the most delicate health, and her mind was wholly absorbed by the care of her young infant. There were no nurses to be had in that desolate corner of the earth.
One day, a dreadful looking man appeared at the door, a person such as one never sees except on the outskirts of civilization, and I wondered what business brought him. He wore a long, black, greasy




frock coat, a tall hat, and had the face of a sneak. He wanted the Chinaman's poll-tax, he said.
‘‘“But,”’’ I suggested, ‘‘“I never heard of collecting taxes in a Government post; soldiers and officers do not pay taxes.”’’
‘‘“That may be,”’’ he replied, ‘‘“but your Chinaman is not a soldier, and I am going to have his tax before I leave this house.”’’
‘‘“So, ho,”’’ I thought; ‘‘“a threat!”’’ and the soldier's blood rose in me.
I was alone; Jack was miles away up North. Hoo Chack appeared in the hall; he had evidently heard the man's last remark. ‘‘“Now,”’’ I said, ‘‘“this Chinaman is in my employ, and he shall not pay any tax, until I find out if he be exempt of not.”’’
The evil-looking man approached the Chinaman. Hoo Chack grew a shade paler. I fancied he had a knife under his white shirt; in fact, he felt around for it. I said, ‘‘“Hoo Chack, go away, I will talk to this man.”’’
I opened the front door. ‘‘“Come with me”’’ (to the tax-collector); ‘‘“we will ask the commanding officer about this matter.”’’ My heart was really in my mouth, but I returned the man's steady and dogged gaze, and he followed me to Captain Corliss' quarters. I explained the matter to the Captain, and left the man to his mercy. ‘‘“Why didn't you call the Sergeant of the Guard, and have the man slapped into the guard-house?”’’ said Jack, when I told him about it




afterwards. ‘‘“The man had no business around here; he was trying to browbeat you into giving him a dollar, I suppose.”’’
The country above us was full of desperadoes from Boise and Silver City(above), and I was afraid to be left alone so much at night; so I begged Captain Corliss to let me have a soldier to sleep in my quarters. He sent me old Needham. So I installed old Needham in my guest chamber with his loaded rifle. Now old Needham was but a wisp of a man; long years of service had broken down his health; he was all wizened up and feeble; but he was a soldier; I felt safe, and could sleep once more. Just the sight of Needham and his old blue uniform coming at night, after taps, was a comfort to me.
Anxiety filled my soul, for Jack was scouting in the Stein Mountains all winter in the snow, after Indians who were avowedly hostile, and had threatened to kill on sight. He often went out with a small pack-train, and some Indian scouts, five or six soldiers, and I thought it quite wrong for him to be sent into the mountains with so small a number.
Camp MacDermit was, as I have already mentioned, a “one-company post.” We all know what that may mean, on the frontier. Our Second Lieutenant was absent, and all the hard work of winter scouting fell upon Jack, keeping him away for weeks at a time.
The Piute Indians were supposed to be peaceful,




and their old chief, Winnemucca, once the warlike and dreaded foe of the white man, was now quiet enough, and too old to fight. He lived, with his family, at an Indian village near the post.
He came to see me occasionally. His dress was a curious mixture of civilization and savagery. He wore the chapeau and dress-coat of a General of the American Army, with a large epaulette on one shoulder. He was very proud of the coat, because General Crook had given it to him. His shirt, leggings and moccasins were of buckskin, and the long braids of his coal-black hair, tied with strips of red flannel, gave the last touch to this incongruous costume.
But I must say that his demeanor was gentle and dignified, and, after recovering from the superficial impressions which his startling costume had at first made upon my mind, I could well believe that he had once been the war-leader, as he was now the political head of his once-powerful tribe.(below old settlers home)
Winnemucca did not disdain to accept some little sugar-cakes from me, and would sit down on our veranda and munch them.
He always showed me the pasteboard medal which hung around his neck, and which bore General Howard's signature; and he always said: “General Howard(below) tell me, me good Injun, me go up—up—up”—pointing dramatically towards Heaven. On one occasion, feeling desperate for amusement, I said to him: ‘‘“General Howard very good man, but he




make a mistake; where you go, is not up—up—up, but,”’’ pointing solemnly to the earth below us, “down —down—down.” He looked incredulous, but I assured him it was a nice place down there.
Some of the scattered bands of the tribe, however, were restless and unsubdued, and gave us much trouble, and it was these bands that necessitated the scouts.
My little son, Harry, four years old, was my constant and only companion, during that long, cold, and anxious winter.(below tin soldier ltd)
My mother sent me an appealing invitation to come home for a year. I accepted gladly, and one afternoon in May, Jack put us aboard the Silver City stage, which passed daily through the post.
Our excellent Chinese servant promised to stay with the “Captain” and take care of him, and as I said “Good-bye, Hoo Chack,” I noticed an expression of real regret on his usually stolid features.
Occupied with my thoughts, on entering the stage, I did not notice the passengers or the man sitting next me on the back seat. Darkness soon closed around us, and I suppose we fell asleep. Between naps, I heard a queer clanking sound, but supposed it was the chains of the harness or the stage-coach gear. The next morning, as we got out at a relay station for breakfast, I saw the handcuffs on the man next to whom I had sat all the night long. The sheriff was on the box outside. He very obligingly changed seats(above first legion)




with me for the rest of the way, and evening found us on the overland train speeding on our journey East. Camp MacDermit with its dreary associations and surroundings faded gradually from my mind, like a dream.(below tin soldier)
* * * * * * * * *
The year of 1879 brought us several changes. My little daughter was born in mid-summer at our old home in Nantucket. As I lay watching the curtains move gently to and fro in the soft sea-breezes, and saw my mother and sister moving about the room, and a good old nurse rocking my baby in her arms, I could but think of those other days at Camp Apache, when I lay through the long hours, with my new-born baby by my side, watching, listening for some one to come in. There was no one, no woman to come, except the poor hard-working laundress of the cavalry, who did come once a day to care for the baby.
Ah! what a contrast! and I had to shut my eyes for fear I should cry, at the mere thought of those other days.
* * * * * * * * *
Jack took a year's leave of absence and joined me in the autumn at Nantucket, and the winter was spent in New York, enjoying the theatres and various amusements we had so long been deprived of. Here we met again Captain Porter and Carrie Wilkins, who was now Mrs. Porter. They were stationed at




David's Island, one of the harbor posts, and we went over to see them. “Yes,” he said, ‘‘“as Jacob waited seven years for Rachel, so I waited for Carrie.”’’
The following summer brought us the good news that Captain Corliss' company was ordered to Angel Island, in the bay of San Francisco. “Thank goodness,” said Jack, “company has got some good luck, at last!”
Joyfully we started back on the overland trip to California, which took about nine days at that time. Now, travelling with a year-old baby and a five-year-old boy was quite troublesome, and we were very glad when the train had crossed the bleak Sierras and swept down into the lovely valley of the Sacramento.
Arriving in San Francisco, we went to the old Occidental Hotel(below), and as we were going in to dinner, a card was handed to us. “Hoo Chack” was the name on the card. “That Chinaman!” I cried to Jack. “How do you suppose he knew we were here?”
We soon made arrangements for him to accompany us to Angel Island, and in a few days this “heathen Chinee” had unpacked all our boxes and made our quarters very comfortable. He was rather a highcaste man, and as true and loyal as a Christian. He never broke his word, and he staid with us as long as we remained in California.
And now we began to live, to truly live; for we felt that the years spent at those desert posts under. Below Ehrenberg as it is today


the scorching suns of Arizona had cheated us out of all but a bare existence upon earth.
The flowers ran riot in our garden, fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh fish, and all the luxuries of that marvellous climate, were brought to our door.
A comfortable Government steamboat plied between San Francisco and its harbor posts, and the distance was not great—only three quarters of an hour. So we had a taste of the social life of that fascinating city, and could enjoy the theatres also.
On the Island, we had music and dancing, as it was the headquarters of the regiment. Mrs. Kautz, so brilliant and gay, held grand court here—receptions, military functions, lawn tennis, bright uniforms, were the order of the day. And that incomparable climate! How I revelled in it! When the fog rolled in from the Golden Gate, and enveloped the great city of Saint Francis in its cold vapors, the Island of the Angels lay warm and bright in the sunshine.
The old Spaniards named it well, and the old Nantucket whalers who sailed around Cape Horn on their way to the Ar'tic, away back in the eighteen twenties, used to put in near there for water, and were well familiar with its bright shores, before it was touched by man's handiwork.
Was there ever such an emerald green as adorned these hills which sloped down to the bay? Could anything equal the fields of golden escholzchia which lay there in the sunshine? Or the blue masses of “baby-eye,”



which opened in the mornings and held up their pretty cups to catch the dew?
Was this a real Paradise?
It surely seemed so to us; and, as if Nature had not done enough, the Fates stepped in and sent all the agreeable young officers of the regiment there, to help us enjoy the heavenly spot.
There was Terrett, the handsome and aristocratic young Baltimorean, one of the finest men I ever saw in uniform; and Richardson, the stalwart Texan, and many others, with whom we danced and played tennis, and altogether there was so much to do and to enjoy that Time rushed by and we knew only that we were happy, and enchanted with Life.
Did any uniform ever equal that of the infantry in those days? The dark blue, heavily braided “blouse,” the white stripe on the light blue trousers, the jaunty cap? And then, the straight backs and the slim lines of those youthful figures! It seems to me any woman who was not an Egyptian mummy would feel her heart thrill and her blood tingle at the sight of them.
Indians and deserts and Ehrenberg(above) did not exist for me any more. My girlhood seemed to have returned, and I enjoyed everything with the keenest zest.
My old friend Charley Bailey, who had married for his second wife a most accomplished young San Francisco girl, lived next door to us.
General and Mrs. Kautz entertained 


and were so beloved by all. Together Mrs. Kautz and I read the German classics, and went to the German theatre; and by and by a very celebrated player, Friedrich Haase, from the Royal Theatre of Berlin, came to San Francisco. We never missed a performance, and when his tour was over, Mrs. Kautz gave a lawn party at Angel Island for him and a few of the members of his company. It was charming. I well remember how the sun shone that day, and, as we strolled up from the boat with them, Frau Haase stopped, looked at the blue sky, the lovely clouds, the green slopes of the Island and said: “Mein Gott! Frau Summerhayes, was ist das für ein Paradies! Warum haben Sie uns nicht gesagt, Sie wohnten im Paradies!”
So, with music and German speech, and strolls to the North and to the South Batteries, that wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten day with the great Friedrich Haase came to an end.
The months flew by, and the second winter found us still there; we heard rumors of Indian troubles, and at last, the orders came. The officers packed away their evening clothes in camphor and had their campaign clothes put out to air, and got their mess-chests in order, and the post was alive with preparations for the field. All the families were to stay behind. The most famous Indian renegade was to be hunted down, and serious fighting was looked for.