At the inauguration of President Theodore Roosevelt, March 4, 1905, an aged Indian chieftain rode in the procession, clothed in rich and gaudy attire. As he passed by the reviewing stand, I watched the expression upon his face. It was stolid, imperturbable, sad, and as he looked up at the figure of the Chief Executive of the all-conquering Anglo-Saxons, he did not deign to give him a nod of salutation. With a scowl upon his countenance, he rode up the broad avenue, while the people gazed at him in some amazement. It was the renowned Geronimo: the bloodthirsty Apache chief.

This warrior had fought in many a desperate encounter with the whites of Arizona and New Mexico, and, because of his strength of body and ability to live in a country in which his pursuers could scarcely exist, it was many years before he was eventually captured. Physically he was somewhat "squatty," but with a tremendous girth of chest. His muscles were as hard as bone, so hard that he could light a match upon the bottom of his feet. His wants were few, and he cared for no luxuries. War was his business, his life, and victory was his dream. He would gladly travel hundreds of miles to attack a Mexican camp, or an isolated village. He would incur every risk to run off a herd of cattle, mules, or sheep.

Geronimo, in his native wilds, wore no clothing save a narrow piece of calico, or buckskin, about his loins, a headdress also of buckskin, crested with the plumage of the wild turkey and eagle, and long-legged moccasins, held at the waist by a string, and turned up at the toes by a shield which protected him from stones and from the "cholla" cactus. If he felt thirsty when on the warpath, he knew where to find the tiny springs and brooks of the arid wastes, or, if he could find no water, he would put a stone or twig in his mouth in order to induce a flow of saliva. With this as a stimulus, he would journey onward for hours.

This crafty warrior would pitch his bivouac by nightfall at some distance from any spring, where his pursuers would be least likely to look for him. Generally it would be upon the side of some rocky mountain, along which no trail would be left, and up which no pursuing band of United States cavalrymen could ascend without making so much noise that they would wake him long before they were near enough to do any damage. He was familiar with every ravine, cavern, caÑon, defile, gorge, and place which was inaccessible to horses. When on a raid, his followers often lived upon rats, mice, rabbits, and coyotes, and, if very hard pressed, killed and ate the horses which they were mounted upon. No wonder that they held out against the white men for months after any other Indian tribe would have been annihilated.

As the whites took up ranches and settlements in Arizona and New Mexico, there was continuous difficulty with the Apaches. Various causes led to a final outbreak, and, much as one may regret the fact, the actions of some United States officers who were on the frontier were mainly the reason for Indian hostility. The Apaches soon instituted a reign of terror in the Southwest, and there seemed to be no cruelty too atrocious for them to commit. They made sudden and daring raids upon the scattered ranch houses, burning them to the ground, killing the inmates, and carrying off the sheep, cows, and horses.

One day a ranchman of New Mexico was returning from a distant search for a stray heifer, when, upon mounting a hill just beyond his ranch house, he saw flames issuing from the roof and windows of his home. Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped up to the front yard, anxiously looking for signs of his family. As he did so, a wild yell came to his ears, and gazing across the plain, he saw a band of four Apaches, with his little son in their arms. Waving their hands at him defiantly, they soon disappeared beyond the sloping hillocks, while he, terrified and horrified at this unlooked-for assault, hastened to the garrison of United States troops, ten miles away, to warn them of the raid and ask assistance. Not long afterwards a squad of cavalry was in hot pursuit of the redskins, guided by the heartbroken parent, who urged his horse at top speed in the endeavor to overtake the marauders. But knowing that pursuit was almost certain, the Apaches had rested their ponies, and, as they were fresher and tougher than those upon the trail, they soon left the latter far behind. Plunging into a shallow river, they wheeled about, and, while one held the little boy in his outstretched arms to let the heartbroken father know that they still had him, the other shouted defiantly at the United States soldiers. Then, turning suddenly, they were soon lost in the mountains.

This was but one of many such raids, so when General Crook took command of the United States troops of Arizona, in June, 1871, the settlers of the border country were in a frenzy of delight. At once this skillful Indian fighter enrolled a number of friendly savages as scouts. They were under a chief named Miguel, who was perfectly familiar with the mountain haunts of the Apaches, and, like bloodhounds upon the trail of criminals, were perfectly able to hunt down the followers of Geronimo to their last resort. In December the American troops gathered in the Tonto Basin, a mountain plateau surrounded by high ridges of the Mogollen, the Mazatal and the Sierra Ancha ranges, heavily timbered slopes deep with the winter's snow. For the first time since they had been striving against the whites, the Apaches found themselves matched in their own game. The allied scouts of Crook's army were as keen, as daring, and as untiring as the followers of Geronimo, and piloted the men in blue uniforms to the very heart of the bad lands, where was the lair of these enemies of the border.

Splitting into small detachments, the United States soldiers scoured the barren wastes in search of their human quarry. The Apaches skulked, like mountain lions, in the crevasses and coulies of the hills, and, seeing that they were being surrounded, concentrated in their strongholds, three of which were almost impregnable. These were the fortress at the summit of Turret Butte, the cliffs of the Superstition Mountains, and the cave in the caÑon of Salt River.

Major Brown's command was near the latter place on December 28, 1872, when one of the friendly scouts came up to the officer, saying:

"Heap 'Pache down below in cave. I show you there, if your men follow. I live there once, but now heart bad against Geronimo."

"My men will follow any trail you lead them on," said the United States officer. "We will be ready to fight any band of Apaches in Arizona in fifteen minutes. Lead us to the fort."

The soldiers welcomed the news of a near-by fight with a cheer, for they were tired of perpetual marching with no enemy in view, and, starting from their bivouac in a small box caÑon at the first appearance of a certain star in the East, they pushed onward through the night. At daybreak they were at the caÑon of the Salt River, where, in a cave halfway down the face of a vertical cliff, the Apaches were in hiding. The trail leading to this stronghold was narrow and dangerous, so narrow in fact, that, should the Indians have discovered the presence of the whites before they reached some rocky hills, they could have annihilated the command. "Men, will you follow me?" asked the gallant Major, at this juncture. "We will," came from every throat. "Then look to your carbines and ammunition," continued Brown. "Put some crackers, bacon, and coffee in your blankets slung over your shoulders; fill your canteens with water; give a look at your moccasins, and follow me."

The friendly scouts gathered about little fires, and stuffed themselves full of mule meat, while the soldiers were picketing the horses and mules. Then their medicine men walked before them, telling them what to do, how to shoot, and how to creep upon the enemy. This ceremony was soon over, and, as the bright light of the guiding star began to twinkle in the East, the soldiers and slinking redskins softly began the descent to the cave of the Apaches.

Moving like a long file of spectres, the band of attackers crept down the sides of the barren mountain. For an hour or more the progress was leisurely. The air was chill and blew keenly through the scraggy cedars, which, like ghostly sentinels, nodded and beckoned in the wind. At the crest of each hill the column halted for a few moments, when a warning "Tzit! Tzit!" hissed from the rear, signalled that the last man had reached his place in line. Thus the black army of death approached the sleeping followers of Geronimo.

Midnight had come, and all was silence. The sharp yelp of a coyote sounded far off across the barren waste, and Nantje (the head Indian scout) turned, seizing Major Brown firmly about the body. "Quiet," he whispered. "We have discovered a footprint in the soil!" All were still, as the keen-eyed scout lay down upon the trail with some comrades by his side, and, with their blankets over their heads so that not the slightest gleam could escape, struck a few matches and inspected the sign. "Ugh! Ugh!" growled Nantje. "It is a big bear's foot. He has been here but an hour past. It is good luck for us, for when a bear crosses the path of a war party, they will meet the enemy and will be successful!"

Moving onward again for three or four hours, suddenly the warning, "Tzit! Tzit!" sounded from the advance guard. "Ponies!" whispered the scouts, and there in a small, grassy glade were fifteen Pima ponies, which had been driven up the mountain by Apache raiders that very night. "See," cried Nantje, "the sweat is not yet dry upon their flanks. Their knees are full of cactus thorns, against which they have been driven during the night. The Apaches have done this."

"Carefully, now," whispered Major Brown. "Advance with great caution, and make no noise. We are within rifle shot of the enemy."

Although there was no moon, the stars gave out sufficient light to show that the soldiers were in a country filled with huge rocks, behind which a well-armed foe could fight for hours. In front was a deep valley: dark, precipitous, vague. "You are at the place," said Nantje. "A dozen picked men must be sent forward with me to climb down the precipice in order to attack."

"All right," whispered the Major. "Fifty more will come behind you. A strong detachment will hold the edge of the precipice to prevent any of the hostiles from getting above and killing our people with their rifles. As soon as these first detachments secure the field, the rest of our force will come down."

The Indians in the cave below were absolutely unaware of the approach of the soldiers. They were in high good humor, and were dancing to keep themselves warm. Several of the raiders who had just returned from a trip of killing and robbing in the settlements near Florence, on the Gila River, were bending over a fire, and stirring some deer meat in a bubbling pot, while a few sleepy squaws were cutting faggots. Sheltered in the bosom of these grim precipices, they fancied themselves secure from any intrusion save that of the eagle, the hawk, the turkey buzzard, or the mountain sheep. The fire danced upwards, sending the fitful gleam of the flame over the rugged precipices of inky blackness; while far below the glowing current of the rushing Salado sounded like solemn music of an invisible orchestra. But, hark, as the first glint of dawn reddened the horizon, a call sounded forth, and its echoes woke the stillness of the grim solitude: "We have you surrounded. You cannot escape. Surrender!"

Taken aback at this unlooked-for demand, the Apaches scattered, like slinking wolves, into the cave. They then hurled back their savage defiance in their own tongue. "We will die first. Not one of your own party will escape from the caÑon!" The death wail came from the fortress, and then, out of the cave and over the great pile of rock, which protected the entrance, swarmed the warriors. Although outnumbered three to one, they fought like tigers. The bullets rained down upon the rocks like hailstones, and, striking the roof and mouth of the cave, glanced along and wounded a number of the women and children. Sharp wails of pain and rage rent the air as the battle continued.

Again the Apaches were summoned to surrender, or, if they would not do so, to allow such of their women and children as they desired pass out between the lines. But to this demand came yells of defiance. A little boy, not more than four years old, now ran out of the cave and stood dumbfounded at the affray. Without a moment's pause, Nantje rushed forward, grasped the trembling infant by the arm, and escaped to the lines of the troopers with the boy unhurt. A bullet struck the little Apache, but did not injure him, and, as the new recruit reached a place of safety, the troopers gave a yell of encouragement and appreciation of the brave rescue.

The end of the fight had nearly come. A detachment left by Major Brown at the top of the precipice to protect the retreat, in case of necessity, had worked its way over to a high shelf of rock, overlooking the cave of the Apaches, and began to tumble down great boulders, which speedily crushed the greater number of these rude warriors of the mountains. The rifle fire grew hot and savage; so savage that, in twenty minutes, every Indian was dead at his post, and the troops swarmed into the little fort. In the inner recesses of the cave were the women and children, a number of whom had been struck by glancing bullets and fragments of rock. They were seized, carried to the pack train, mounted on horses and mules, and started for the nearest railway station. The great fight in the mountains was over.

This was a crushing blow to the savages. Driven to bay in their chosen fortress, where they thought that no one could reach them, all of the warriors had been exterminated, while only one white soldier had been killed. As Major Randall, two days later, delivered another crushing blow to the hostiles, at Turret Butte, the remaining Apaches, including Geronimo, soon capitulated to the governmental forces. But this snakelike warrior was not to remain long in peace and quiet, for he resented the control of the whites. In May he escaped from Fort Apache, taking with him thirty-four warriors, eight boys, and ninety-one women, who travelled one hundred and twenty miles before camping. Thus and thus only they eluded the cavalry sent in pursuit, and, although chased hundreds of miles, the band safely reached the wild wastes of the Sierra Madre Mountains.

General Crook pushed hot upon the trail of the terrible Apache. The thermometer registered one hundred and twenty degrees, and often more. The air was like a fiery furnace, and the soil was like a hot stove, under the feet of the troopers. Often the metal work upon their guns became so hot that it could not be touched with the bare hand, and sometimes, aflame with thirst, they would reach a tiny spring—the only one for miles—to find it befouled by the retreating Apaches, so that neither man nor beast could drink from it. Still Crook persisted and finally captured the crafty Geronimo. He held him for only one night, and then the slippery Apache escaped to the arid wasteland, leaving his wife behind him in the hands of the soldiers. Several nights later he stole into camp with four of his warriors, found his wife's tent in the blackness, and, before the dozing sentries discovered him, was off again into the wilderness, with his better half strapped before him on his scraggly pony.

Geronimo retreated into Mexico and lost himself in the treeless mountains which seemed to be incapable of sustaining human life. But he was pursued by the American troops as if he were a wild animal. Fortunately, a treaty with Mexico made it possible for United States forces to venture far beyond the Rio Grande, and thus several detachments were soon upon the trail of the outlawed Apache. Captain H. W. Lawton and Assistant Surgeon Leonard Wood did their utmost to capture him. He was hunted from mountain range to mountain range; through snowfields, cactus plants, and sun-baked ridges. Every device known to the red men was practiced to throw the pursuing enemies off the trail, but the half-breed trailers were good, and it was soon evident that not a spot could be reached by Geronimo's band which would offer them security. Twenty-five different commands, or detachments, representing four regiments, kept up this persistent trailing through narrow paths, along dangerous divides, down side cuts into the middle of precipices hundreds of feet high, up precipitous banks and beetling crags; sometimes leading the jaded horses for hours, at times looking vertically into caÑons whose bottom was a mile below. One of the scouts, while looking for signs of the fugitives, rode one horse nearly five hundred miles in less than seven days and nights; while a young lieutenant once climbed a mountainous ascent for twenty-six hours, with the heat at 110°, and without water for eighteen hours of this time. Such perseverance was bound to tell.

At length Lawton's troopers, clinging to the trail like bloodhounds, and suffering much from heat and thirst, cornered Geronimo's men in a valley three hundred miles south of the Mexican boundary line, in the Sonora range of mountains. There had been several skirmishes with them along the way, and the United States troopers had shown great gallantry under fire, especially in rescuing their own wounded troops when under close range of the rifles of Geronimo's Apaches. The food supply of these fugitives was now exhausted, and, realizing that to stand out longer would be the height of absurdity, the Indians made signs of peace. At the risk of his life, a young lieutenant, named Gatewood, of the Sixth Cavalry, went unattended into Geronimo's camp, and meeting the Apache chieftain face to face, gave him the terms of speedy surrender. The old chief was helpless, and he knew it. So he surrendered and was brought back to New Mexico with the remnants of his once powerful army of mountain fighters.

Upon his capture and return to the United States, a tremendous call went up from the settlers of the Southwest to have him removed to some place from which he could not escape. "We do not know when this terrible raider will not again break out and renew his plundering and murder," wrote a committee of the settlers to the Department of the Interior. And thus, in deference to the wishes of the white pioneers, Geronimo and the few people of his tribe, who had survived the war, were sent to Florida, and then to Alabama, to be confined upon a reservation. Geronimo, the famous fighter, died in 1909, treasuring no doubt to the last, happy memories of the time when, as a mountain outlaw, he was the scourge and terror of the Southwestern frontier.