war-path for ten years. A military company, called the
Tombstone Toughs, was organized in Southern Arizona to wipe them out,
but accomplished nothing. Finally, America's greatest Indian fighter,
General Crook, was sent to campaign in Arizona in 1885. The celebrated
chiefs, Geronimo and Natchez, broke out again and killed some
twenty-nine white people in New Mexico and thirty-six in Arizona before
Crook pushed them into the Sierra Madre Mountains in Sonora, where at
last Geronimo surrendered. Victorio was an equally celebrated Apache
war-chief and was out about the same time. Fortunately these last raids
were always made on the south side of the Reservation. We were happily
on the north side, and though we had frequent scares they never gave us
serious trouble. So here were my duties and my pleasures.

The saddle horses when not in use were in my care. The cattle also, of
course, needed looking after. I was in the saddle all day. Frequently it
would be my delight to take a pack-horse and go off for a week or two
into the wildest parts of the Reservation, camp, and fish and shoot
everything that came along, but the shooting was chiefly for the pot.
Young wild turkeys are a delicacy unrivalled, and I became so expert in
knowing their haunts that I could at any time go out and get a supply.
One of my ponies was trained to turkey hunting. He seemed to take a
delight in it. As soon as we sighted a flock, off he would go and take
me up to shooting range, then stop and let me get two barrels in, and
off again after them if more were needed. Turkeys run at a great rate
and will not rise unless you press them.

Big game shooting never appealed to me much. My last bear, through lack
of cartridges to finish him, went off with a broken back, dragging
himself some miles to where I found him again next morning. It so
disgusted me as to put me off wishing to kill for killing's sake ever
afterwards. A wounded deer or antelope, or a young motherless fawn, is a
most pitiable sight.

There was, and perhaps still is, no better bear country in America than
the Blue River district on the border of Arizona and New Mexico. On
these shooting and fishing trips I was nearly always alone, and many
times experienced ridiculous scares. Camping perhaps in a deep canon, a
rapid stream rushing by, the wind blowing through the tall pines, the
horses tethered to tree stumps, a menagerie-like smell of bears
frequently quite apparent, your bed on Mother