Chapter 6 -
Hunter Jones Meets Cochise, Geronimo and Mangas Coloradas

(Hospital) Patch took a small bite of his cinnamon roll and put it on the table next to him, then decidedly moved it a little closer to himself, away from Peg. He carefully opened the Doc’s newspaper and started reading quietly to himself.

Peg waited patiently for a moment, spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the brass spittoon and then cleared his throat loudly.

“What Peg?” Patch said behind the newspaper.

“Well, are you going to read to yourself all day or let me and Hunter in on the news from the battle field?”

“Can you be patient? I’m looking for something interesting.” Patch continued to read quietly to himself. “Okay, here’s something.” Patch noisily folded the paper down to a smaller size, looked over the top of it at Peg and read, “When Federal troops from the west gathered to repel the Confederate invasion of the New Mexico Territory, the whole southwest area was left open to Apache attack. Cochise led a series of raids on white civilians that left dozens dead and spread fear and terror across the territory. Both the Confederates and the Federal government attempted to control the Apaches but failed.”

“I guess the Apaches were unhappy with being relocated and the ‘Trail of Tears’ thing.” Peg offered.

“Wrong. It says here that in addition to the Navajo, Hopi, Pima and Pueblo Indians, the Plains Indians, the Apaches, Comanche, Pawnee, Cheyenne, Sioux, Crow, Blackfoot, and Arapaho are all indigenous to the area.”

“Indigent?” Peg looked confused.

“No, not indigent, indigenous. Indigent means you have no money. Indigenous means they were born there not moved there.” Patch corrected Peg.

“So, why were the Apaches so angry?”

Patch read quietly to himself for a moment, then answered, “It seems like it all started with Mangas Coloradas, Cochise’s father-in-law. It seems that for a long time Mangas Coloradas had been fighting first the Spanish, then the Mexican about the white man’s encroachment onto the Apache’s ancestral hunting grounds. Then when the Americas in 1846 wanted to fight the Mexican, Mangas Coloradas was all for it and helped the Americans with the Mexican-American war.”

“Well that’s nice.” Peg offered.

“Nice until gold was discovered in California three years later, in 1849. Then all kinds of Americans from the east coast went traipsing across the Apache’s ancestral hunting grounds en route to the west coast.”

“Big oops.”

“Even bigger oops when gold was discovered in Mangas’ backyard. In 1850 gold was discovered in the Santa Rita Mountains just 40 miles southeast of Tucson.” Patch read quietly to himself for a moment then added, “It says here in 1851 Mangas Coloradas was captured by a group of gold miners who tied him to a tree and beat him severely. This led to reprisals back and forth until finally there was an all out war. They called it the Apache Wars.”

“Was Cochise involved?” Peg asked, leaning forward for the answer.

“Yes. It says here, in early February 1861, Lieutenant Bascom and his U.S. troopers lured Cochise, his family and several warriors into a trap at Apache Pass. Cochise managed to escape but his family and warriors remained in captivity. It says the ‘Bascom Affair’ ended with Cochise’s brother and five other warriors being hanged from trees.”

“I bet that made Mangas Coloradas angry.”

“You bet. Cochise was married to one of Mangas’ three daughters who got captured. It says here that later that year, Mangas Coloradas and Cochise struck an alliance, agreeing to drive all Anglo-Americans out of Apache territory. Geronimo joined them in their efforts. Even though the goal was never achieved, the white population was greatly reduced in the first few years of the Civil War. It says here that what white settlers didn’t get killed, were either moved to forts for protection or they just fled the western territories all together.”

“How about the gold miners?”

They were continuously attacked too, as were stagecoaches and wagon trains filled with food and supplies headed to the miners.”

(Dream) Hunter watched from the hilltop as Mangas Coloradas and his war party sweep down onto the wagon train from all four sides. The attack was so quick that the hired guns assigned to the supply train did not have time to circle the wagons for defense.

The Apaches were skilled horsemen and could shoot and kill buffalo at a dead run. The muleskinners and hired protectors were no match for the unrelenting waves of arrows seeking white freckled flesh. The surprised white men were like sitting ducks and the attack, once started, was over in minutes.

Even though the attack was over and the defender’s guns were silenced, the Indians continued to ride crazily around the five wagons, whooping and hollering at the dead men and the wagons stacked high with needed supplies, supplies that would never get to the gold mines.

Some of the Indians jumped from their horses and fell on the dead men, savagely stabbing their lifeless bodies repeatedly.

The warrior, that had been left behind to guard Hunter, pointed his bow toward the wagon train, grunted and then kicked Hunter’s horse’s backside.

Hunter’s hands were tied behind him and he could do nothing more than hold on the best he could to the startled animal as it careened crazily down the dusty hillside. Within seconds they were right in the middle of all the whooping and hollering.

One of the braves grabbed Hunter’s horse’s reins and pulled him and his horse into the crazed circle of jubilant Indians. Now with Hunter in the midst of them, the braves continued to circle the wagon trains whooping and hollering and chattering some kind of eerie tight lipped, high pitched screech, that chilled Hunter to the bone.

They continued this victory dance until the dust was thick in the air and the horses were breathing hard and frothing at the mouth.

Some of the warriors had jumped from their horses and were throwing wooden crates off the wagons, while others on the ground were breaking them open with tomahawks.

Beans, coffee and sugar spilled out of the broken creates. They found gunpowder, picks, shovels and axes and other things needed to dig gold out of the mineshafts. One of the crates, obviously missed directed, contained women’s dresses, hats and bolts of uncut cloth. Soon the Indians were dancing around with dresses on, feathered hats pulled down on their ears and yard after yard of cloth draped over their shoulders or wrapped around their waists.

By now all the Indians were off their horses, combing through their plunder. Hunter’s horse was exhausted. Its sides heaved in and out gasping for air. Its tongue hung dry and limp from its mouth, eager for a long, wet drink of cool spring water. Hunter sat quietly atop the sweating, heaving animal and watched in wide-eye-disbelief as the warriors smashed and slashed through everything. What they didn’t want or understand went flying over their heads, while the good stuff went into a pile.

Once they had successfully gone through what they wanted, they piled it back into the now empty wagons. While this was happening Mangas Coloradas visited each dead white man, whose boots, pants and shirts had already been stripped off of them. He pulled each dead man into a sitting position and carefully removed their scalp, with a long and very sharp knife. Once the scalp was removed, he tucked it under his belt and carefully placed the man’s cowboy hat back onto his head.

He did this with every one of the dead bodies. He was so careful and meticulous that the warriors had long finished sorting through their plunder and were waiting patiently for the chief finished the last few.

When the Chief was finished, he slowly stood up, turned and faced Hunter. Hunter had been successfully looking away from the Chief’s grisly activities but turned and watched as Mangas Coloradas took a step toward him. Hunter was shocked by how muscular and tall he was, well over six feet. And for an Apache, that was very tall. However, Hunter noticed that his most prominent feature was his large head. He had a broad, bold forehead, a large Indian nose, thick full lips and mouth, and a broad, heavy chin. His eyes were smallish, but exceedingly brilliant and flashing as he stared at Hunter for a long second. Then without warning he threw the long, sharp, bloody knife at Hunter. Hunter closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

(Hospital) “Read that again.” Peg insisted.

“It says here that Mangas Coloradas’ signature was a hat left on a scalped head. That way when bleached bones were found out in the desert and a hat was on the skull of the propped up skeleton, everyone knew that the dead man was the work of Mangas Coloradas.

“It sound like Mangas was serious about trying to rid his ancestral hunting grounds of all white people.” Peg said spitting a stream of brown tobacco juice into the brass spittoon and nervously adjusting his old dusty cowboy hat.

“Well, his hat trick didn’t last very long. After less than a year of fighting, he called for peace talks with the Federals at Fort McLane.”

“I wonder why?” Peg pondered. “A big fellow like that, a ‘man with a mission’, it’s funny that he would throw in the hat so easily.”

“That’s a pun.”

“Where?” Peg look around his chair nervously.

“What you just said is a pun.” Patch said taking a small bite of his cinnamon roll. “A pun is a play on words. We were talking about Mangas ‘putting a hat on a scalped head’ and you made the comment about him ‘throwing in the hat’. That’s a play on words, a pun.”

“Man, I’m glade it’s a play on words.” Peg shivered. “I thought for a second something was crawling around my chair or up my leg.” Peg nervously spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the brass spittoon and shivered again. “It still doesn’t answer why he gave up so easily.”

“It seems a Union soldier named Teal shot Mangas in the chest two months before the Fort McLane meeting.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Peg snorted.

“This reporter feels that that bullet might have slowed Mangas down and put him in a more negotiating frame of mind. Listen to this,” Patch found his place and added, “Now remember this happen two months before, near Apache Pass.” Patch cleared his throat and started reading. “After Captain Roberts, his troops and two howitzers ran the Indians off from around the fresh water spring at Apache Pass, the Captain sent six soldiers with the good news back to Captain Cremony, who was waiting at Dragoon Springs with the rest of the cavalry and the supply wagons.” Patch took a breath and continued. “Some Apache warriors fell on the messengers and Private Teal got separated from the others. When his horse got shot out from under him, he decided to hide behind its body and take out a few Apaches before they took him out. During the confrontation Teal shot an Indian in the chest. Instantly all the other Indians stopped fighting and attended to the wounded brave. Just as suddenly as they stopped fighting, they all rode away. Teal could not believe his luck. He walked the eight miles to Dragoon Springs and reported the event to Captain Cremony.”

“Man, Private Teal was lucky.” Peg quipped. “How did the peace talks go?”

When Mangus Coloradas met with General West at Fort McLane, in southwestern New Mexico, under a white flag of truce, the General had him arrested and executed.”



(Dream) General Joseph Rodman West stormed into the dark damp earthen-floored room and pushed Hunter out of the way as he grabbed Mangas Coloradas by the throat. “Now do your hat-trick, you murdering savage!” General West screamed into Mangas Coloradas’ face.

Still holding the gurgling Mangas Coloradas by the throat, General West turned to the Sergeant Major. “Has he talked yet?”

“No sir. We still don’t know where his braves are camped.”

“Well maybe he needs a ‘little more of the same’.” As he said that, he pushed Mangas Coloradas down to the damp dirt floor and kicked him hard with the toe of his custom made riding boot.

The Sergeant Major turned to two soldiers standing next to a fire. They had their bayonets buried deep in the fiery coals and were watching them turn red-hot. “A little more of the same, boys.” The Sergeant Major ordered. He turned to Hunter and snapped, “Corporal you and Hunter grab his feet and hold them up into the air. You two bring those bayonets over here. We’ll teach this scalping savage what a hot foot feels like.”

For Hunter the room suddenly shrank to a suffocating size as the stale musty air was sucked instantly out of it. Unable to breath and his head swimming, Hunter staggered for the door. The door had shrunk too and he found it nearly impossible to squeeze through it.

Once outside, Hunter staggered around until he found a tree. With one hand outstretched, he leaned against it and retched, but nothing came up. He continued to retch so hard he thought his tailbone was going to come up and out.

With the first ear-piercing scream, Hunter’s knees buckled and he fell backward to the ground. The last thing he remembered was seeing the millions of stars in the pitch-black sky start slowly spinning around until they were a white spiraling blur.

He didn’t know how long he lay there but he was awaken by a dozen or more feet tripping and stumbling over him. He rolled over on to his knees and scurried to get out of their way.

“Men, that old murderer has got away from every soldier’s command there is and has left a trail of blood for 500 miles on the old stage line. I want him dead by tomorrow morning, do you understand?” General West snarled. “In fact, tie him to that tree over there and shoot him now.” He turned to the Sergeant Major. “Put in your report, he was shot trying to escape.”

General West leaned in close to the Sergeant Major and whispered, “That big old buffalo’s head would look good on Squire Fowler’s wall.” The General laughed as he pulled out a new cigar, snapped it in half, gave half to the Sergeant Major and put the other half between his teeth.

The Sergeant Major whispered back, “For the Apache, that means their great chief must go through the Happy Place forever headless."

“I know. I know.” The General laughed. “Now, how about a light, Sergeant Major.”



(Hospital) “Read that again.” Peg insisted.

“I said the soldiers from the California militia cut off Mangas Coloradas’ head, boiled the flesh off of it then sent it to the Smithsonian for study.”

“Smithsonian? What's that?”

“Correction. They thought it went to the Smithsonian Museum. But it actually was sent to Orson Squire Fowler and was put on display at Fowler's Phrenological Cabinet in New York City.”

“Phrenological? What in the heck is that?”

“It’s a theory based on the belief that certain mental faculties and character traits are indicated by the configurations of the skull and its dents.”

“What?” Peg looked perplexed.

“Never mind. Just know it was sent to this Fowler fellow for study.” Patch murmured as he thumbed through the newspaper looking for another interesting article to read to the unconscious Hunter. As he looked, he absently reached over for his cinnamon roll on the table.

While Patch was looking for something to read, Peg was looking for spittoon that had slide back underneath his chair. “Got’cha.” He said to himself as he wrestled out the spittoon from under his chair. #