Lonesome Horizon

Pinal Creek Morning

PINAL CREEK MORNING

One thing I have never tired of is the fresh, warm air of high deserts in the Arizona Territory. I wasn’t born here, but I have spent most of my life in this place. My parents built a homestead here on a low, flat ridge when I was only a child. They traveled here when I was only three as part of a Mexican land grant from St. Louis, Missouri. I guess they figured that city life was becoming too crowded and too corrupt. One thing about it, the rugged landscape in this territory will make or break the honest and the dishonest alike.

It was by no mistake that my folks chose the remote eastern parts of the territory to settle in. They figured a few cows and chickens were enough to live by. The rest could be grown or hunted. Most of the Indians in this country know this, too, but some prefer to steal to live. I guess that’s not really a new idea, either. Solitude suits me, and it suits this wilderness. When all of this was suddenly interrupted, I was none too happy about it.

It was late in the autumn of 1864 and I had traveled down south from my homestead between the Apache Peaks and the place where the Salt River bends west. All the signs were telling of a bitter winter ahead and I needed to gather a sack of wheat to see me through it. For this I found myself in the wild wheat fields along Pinal Creak. The stage line runs through this little valley, but I already tried my hand at civilization and didn’t care for it; thus, I just ignored the stage if and when it passed.

The morning was still young when I broke my camp at the base of the foothills. The Peaks were rising up proudly about ten miles behind me. The Pinal Mountains were a blue barrier off on the southern horizon and the little mountain that’s been called Sleeping Beauty was lying peacefully, barely in view over the western foothills around this valley.

I was content to spend the day gathering wheat kernels, but somehow I knew I had lost that when I seen the dust cloud rising a couple miles south on the stage trail. That wasn’t so bad but for seeing, also, a peculiar dust cloud coming up over a ridge north of the valley. I recognized it with little trouble and I recognized what was about to happen. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop it even if I wanted to. I have had an understanding with the Apaches and White Folks, I don’t mettle in their affairs and they don’t mettle in mine.

I was still half a mile or more away from the trail and on the east side of the swift running creak when the stage came between me and the war party that was plainly descending down on them. Apparently, the stage saw them, too. The hard concussion of gunshots shattered across the dry, chilly breeze and the speed of the horse drawn coach tore up the northbound trail in a panic. There was another unmistakable sound that carried over even the sound of the riffle blasts and the thundering hooves of horses and Apache war cries. It was the blood curdling scream of a woman.

I sat and watched as the raiding Apaches lost interest in their game and fled on to the south, likely to refuge in the Pinal Mountains. The stage raced wildly forward on its course. Judging by the waxing panic of the horses and the seeming lack of control, I’d say the driver had a fatal meeting with a keen Apache arrow.

Peace having returned to the scene, I went back to gathering wheat. Most of the day went by without any other annoyance, and I had gathered enough and then some to begin my journey back to the homestead. I decided, though, to make my way to the creek and refill my water sack first. This decision would result in what I deemed to be the worst possible circumstance.

I was keeping a sharp eye out as I approached the clean, rolling waters of Pinal Creek on its northern trek for the Salt. I was fairly certain that the attack on the Stage happened right about here four or five hours before, as the Stage Route follows fairly close along the creek. With a cautious scan I did not see any signs of trouble and proceeded a little more liberally to the water’s edge. It was good and cool according to the season. I filled my bladders and my mind was just beginning to ease with thoughts of my trek back into the Apaches and on to home, but out of the corner of my eye I sensed some movement in the mesquite brush off the other shore. I carried no gun with me, but a bow I had ever ready. Thus, I calmly drew an arrow from the sheath on my back while still watching the unnatural wrestling in the bushes across the way.