"He's coming in!"

U. S. Marshall Clive Jefford looked up from his desk as the excited Commissioner of Customs brandished the new issue of the Tucson Sentinel. Jefford pushed aside the stack of wanted posters he was perusing, read the article and grinned. That was the word they'd been waiting for since that cavalry shavetail led his detachment down to the border to squat on their haunches.

"Statehood for sure, now that murderer's treed."

Pete Fenton pulled back a chair and sat down. "Good for businessmen across Arizona. Question is, can we make it good for us?"

Both men were at the cusp of their lives, early forties, the age where a man realizes that the limits of his ability can never match the extent of his ambitions. Already starting to broaden around the waist, to recede at the forehead, not yet gone to seed, but not far from it, each faced a declining middle age as his vital energies waned.

And, soon, a forgotten old age unless they seized the opportunity that now lay before them. Jefford crossed the small office and eased the door closed. Back at his desk he lowered his voice. "Reach out and it's in our grasp, Pete," Jefford said. "We have to plan this out carefully."

"Or watch life pass us by."

In a few minutes, the talking done, Fenton passed over a celebratory cigar. "When the hangman steps down from the gallows, we'll be the heroes of Arizona. You for Governor, me for the Senate. We're set for life."

Lt. Britton Davis, twenty-three years old, two years out of West Point, Class of 1881, with all the weight of the peace of the border burdening his shoulders and his alone, had little to do in his encampment at the mouth of Skeleton Canyon but school his patience. The Apache renegade had promised to lead his band north from Mexico "in two moons." The time had come. And it had gone.

"Apache time is not white man's time." He had heard that truism declared by his fellow officers, by experienced sergeants, and by men of the frontier. Now he probed its truth. General Crook had given him his mission: escort Geronimo's band back to the San Carlos Reservation quickly, protecting them from attack by blood-lusting Arizona civilians, and show the proud Apache leader the honor one warrior always accorded to another. Give him no cause to back out of his surrender agreement and return to raiding.

And so Lt. Davis waited, his small detachment of Indian scouts from Company B with him. Waited and watched the opening of Skeleton Canyon, the much-traveled passage between Mexico and Arizona favored by smugglers of both American and Mexican disposition, by raiders, Army patrols, and anyone seeking a quick passage across the border. Here was the spot where Geronimo had sent word he and his band would return north, would cross the border, and submit to reservation life.

Until, as Davis well knew, they decided to go a-raiding again. But the future was not Davis's challenge. Not yet. The immediate challenge was getting Geronimo from Skeleton Canyon the one hundred seventy-five miles to the San Carlos Reservation in the quickest possible time, while avoiding any hostile contact with Arizonans that could spark Geronimo to feel disrespected and leave a swath of destruction as he returned to Mexico.

For Davis had no elements of coercion. The scouts from Company B were barely sufficient as route guards. His force would serve as no more than a symbolic defense against Arizonans who might think twice before fighting through the blue uniform of the U. S. Army to extract their vengeance on Geronimo and his band, a vengeance that Davis knew would be as savage as the depredations of the Apache. His small force might deter Arizonans but he could never force Geronimo and one hundred men, women and children to follow Army orders.

And now Geronimo was overdue.

Two moons turned into three. Then into four. And still Lt. Davis waited.

Geronimo's name was feared, and it was hated. Not without reason, at least as the white settlers of Arizona saw it. Decent hard-working farmers struggled to bring cultivation to the arid land, to scratch their meager living out of desert soil made fruitful only by their sweat. What was Arizona before them? Little more than a home for scorpions, Gila Monsters and other wild animals, chief among them the naked and savage Apache.

Of course, the Apache, the People, saw the world through a long history reaching back to the time Usen, the Life-Giver, had brought First Man forth from the depths within the earth. For centuries the People had lived by hunting, their hunting fields now including the free-ranging cattle generously brought into Sonora by the Spaniards, now Mexicans, whom Usen had sent to serve the needs of the People. Then the White-Eyes had begun to infest the People's homeland, only a few at first, but then more, drawn by shiny metal in the mountains, by sparsely grazed grasslands. White settlers in Arizona could be looked at as hostile invaders, conquerors, if left to their way, seeking to drive the People from the land Usen had given them. But enterprising Apache could take a different view: the white settlers served their needs by bringing objects for their raids conveniently close. Even better, the White tribe's great chief Washington provided tribute to the People for permission to construct their villages, tribute in the form of blankets and food, relieving the People of the need of hunting for themselves. That the nantans from the White-Eyes tribe pressed the warriors of the People to do squaw work, forsaking the bow of manhood for a hoe and plow could be ignored, so long as the tribute arrived on time.

Then came days when the White-Eye's tribute was withheld or was insufficient to serve their wants. In such a day, Geronimo would obtain supplies in the manner of his ancestors. Was not the land theirs? By what Power had the White-Eyes stolen the land from the People and ordered them to remain within the confines of the barren San Carlos Mountains? As for farmers and ranchers left dead in the wake of any raid, such had always been the stakes in the Apache world. Those who defended their herds and showed themselves worthy received a warrior's respect. But those who resisted ineffectively and surrendered their scalps were of no value, not even to their own tribe. Why could not the White-Eyes understand that simple truth?

But the White-Eyes insisted that their Great Spirit had so little discernment that it valued even the feckless creatures who had turned their backs upon others of their tribe and lived in isolated cabins, tempting even the youngest of Apache warriors to count coup and return victorious. The White-Eyes talked of names. They printed them in their papers. Names such as Judge McComas and his wife, "murdered" as the White-Eyes would say, in a routine raid in New Mexico, his young son Charlie taken captive to be given a productive life as a member of the tribe. Such names were preserved and recounted for time past memory, for winters and summers, even as the river of Apache life rolled on.

And so, in 1883 Geronimo led his band off the reservation again. They lived as the People always had, moving from site to site in the Sierra, providing for themselves by their bows, seizing the cattle put there for their purposes. Geronimo dodged the American Army and outmaneuvered the Mexicans until he grew tired of the game, ready for a rest, ready to receive the accolades that would be his from the dirt-scratchers at San Carlos who lacked the boldness to live as a true Apache.

He headed for the border.

Finally Lt. Davis felt the weight of waiting slip away. He sat on a slight hillock at the international border and watched Geronimo, some older Apache men and several scores of women and children make their way between the lips of the canyon to the broad plain beyond. Perhaps he should have wondered at the lack of men of fighting age accompanying Geronimo. But this was not the time for concern; this was the time for relief.

Davis met Geronimo and confirmed the agreement the Apache leader had reached with General Crook: he and his band would return to the San Carlos Reservation, not as prisoners but retaining their weapons and with no sanctions for having left the reservation. Experience told Davis that such a small band could reach the reservation in four or five days, before angry Arizonans could learn of their arrival and make plans to take revenge. His assignment would soon be complete.

Then a cloud of dust appeared, slowly advancing up the canyon, and raising the alarm of a new problem. "The Mexican Army is on your heels," Davis said. Just as the American Army crossed the border after Apache raids, the Mexican Army might as well.

"Ganado," Geronimo grunted. And cattle they were. Three hundred fifty head the Apache had stolen from Mexican ranches just below the border, herded by Geronimo's warriors. Davis's plans for rapid marches of forty miles a day, keeping away from towns and citizens, had just been destroyed. Instead of avoiding ranches, Davis would be compelled to seek them out for water and easier travel for the cattle.

Still, as they moved north, the Chiracagua Mountains to their east, the Dragoons to the west, the first days on the trail passed quietly enough.

Cpl. McKinsey had been dispatched to Bisbee with the coded telegram to Gen. Crook reporting that Geronimo had arrived and that Davis was leading him to the reservation. McKinsey returned with the latest issue of the Tucson Sentinel. He handed it to Lt. Davis, folded open to highlight the important article.

Justice for Arizonans

The vicious murderers of hard-working Arizonans have too long been shielded from justice by our nation's "esteemed public servants" as the politicians in Washington City would have you think they are. Easy it is for them to deny the just claims of non-voting residents of a remote territory. Does murder become benign when performed by "wards of the state?" Tell that to the scalped and mutilated victims in farm house after farm house across Arizona.

How long will the United States Army protect these vicious sub-human animals? When will our government come to the defense of Americans?

Word has reached Tucson that the worst of the predators that have ravaged Arizona are now returning from their Mexican depredations under promise of safe conduct back to the San Carlos Reservation, where they will rest, be fed by the largesse of taxpayers, and prepare for their next venture into death and destruction.

The people of Arizona demand that the forces of law seize Geronimo and bring him to justice, lest the long-suffering honest citizens of Arizona be forced to take up their arms in their own defense.

Any official who executes his oath to "preserve and protect" with the expected zeal will gain the undying support of this paper, and of the people of the Territory of Arizona.

Sulfur Springs had long been an Indian camping ground valued for its fine water and grass. Now Henry Clay Hooker had appropriated it for his ranch, thirty miles west of Fort Bowie, twenty miles southeast of Willcox. The Sulfur Springs Ranch house itself was a one-story Adobe building in the center of an unbroken prairie of Sulfur Springs Valley, a level plain, devoid of trees or brush, with visibility for many miles. Davis let his pack train go into camp for the night fifty yards from the ranch house. The Apache, their cattle, mules and ponies, were sent to graze half a mile away where the grass was thicker.

This close to potential troublemakers in Willcox, the Sentinel's clarion call for citizen vigilantes pounding in his brain, Davis knew the two days ahead needed to become a forced march. As the cattle settled for the night, he rode over to announce his plans for an early start in the morning. Geronimo had his own ideas.

"We stop three days. Cattle driven hard. Mexican ranchers chase to border. Need rest."

"No rest," Lt. Davis said. Three days for citizens to organize. Three days to build into a confrontation where he would have to stand between the Arizonans and the Apache, the best outcome that could be hoped for from such a confrontation was that Geronimo would lead his band back into Mexico and then, angered by what he would call "white man's betrayal" would concentrate his raiding on the ranchers and farmers of southern Arizona.

"Cattle tired," Geronimo persisted.

Explaining that the Army could not control the citizens would not make his task easier. "One day, then," Davis finally conceded.

Back at his campsite, Davis pitched his tent, and let himself relax. One day's stop might not give citizens enough time to organize. It was the best he could do. Once past Willcox, the country remained largely unsettled except for the civilians clustered around Camp Grant. Soon the risk of trouble would be behind him. He determined to enjoy the rest himself.

As he waited for the company cook to sound the dinner call, two civilians, notable by their paleness as city men, emerged from the ranch house and approached him. Without introducing themselves, they welcomed him to the area.

"Lt. Davis, how big a herd would you say they have?" Pete Fenton asked.

"The Apache herd, sir? About three hundred fifty head."

Fenton looked at his companion."Hooker's hands should have no trouble handling a herd that size."

"The Apache can get the cattle to San Carlos," Davis said.

"They're not going to San Carlos, Lieutenant. I'll market them in Tucson."

"Sir, the Apache—"

"Those cattle are contraband, smuggled across the border without payment of import duties of close to a thousand dollars. As Commissioner of Customs, I am seizing them to pay off the taxes and fines owed."

Davis had visions of a new round of Indian wars breaking out right there, right under his command. "I don't think you understand what Geronimo will—"

"He won't be a problem, Lieutenant. He'll be in irons as my prisoner." The Commissioner's companion drew back the lapel of his coat revealing his badge. "I am U. S. Marshall Clive Jefford. Geronimo is under indictment for murder of Arizona citizens." Marshall Jefford looked directly at Davis. "I order you to arrest him and to direct your men to escort him to Tucson for trial."

"I take orders from Gen. Crook, sir," Davis protested. "Do you have written instructions from him?"

"There is a higher authority in these parts, Lieutenant. You are a U. S. citizen. Your duty is to the law." Marshal Jefford withdrew a paper from his pocket, scribbled in Davis' name and handed it over. "I am subpoenaing you to join a posse to assist in the arrest and transfer of a dangerous prisoner to Tucson."

As Davis read the subpoena, Jefford continued. "If you refuse my order, tomorrow I will go to Willcox and organize a posse of every willing man in the area." He paused. "And there will be many such men, I assure you. With that posse we will make the arrest. The people of Arizona are demanding justice."

"Sir, if you do that, the people will get war."

"Suppressing or exterminating the savages is the Army's responsibility," Jefford said. "If you men in blue can't do your job, don't come whining to me."

The vision of a whiskey-fueled Willcox posse appeared before Lt. Davis' vision. Could he stand aside and let the Indians under Army protection—under his protection—be slaughtered by Arizona civilians? Could he order his men to shoot down Arizona citizens acting under the authority of a U. S. Marshall? His West Point studies of the tactics of Hannibal at Cannae and Napoleon at Austerlitz had poorly prepared him for the complexities of frontier service. It was the worst he could imagine.

Then it got worse.

"And to be clear," Jefford continued, using the practiced words that would ring with patriotic fervor when quoted in the Sentinel, "if you force me to raise a civilian posse, I will place you under arrest for failure to obey the orders of a Federal Officer. The U. S. District Judge in Tucson will decide whether this nation still rates civilian authority as the source of law, or whether we must all bow down to a military dictatorship."

A dejected Britton Davis contemplated his fate as the two civilians returned to the house. The Apache judged a man by whether he kept his word. What could he tell Geronimo? The truth? And see Geronimo flee back to Mexico? How would he explain that to General Crook? Or catch Geronimo by surprise in the morning, assist Marshall Jefford in placing him in irons? And destroy any trust the Apache might ever have for General Crook and his army? Leave at once with Geronimo and seek to outrace the Willcox posse to the safety of the San Carlos Reservation? And be brought up on criminal charges before the Federal Courts?

"Why so glum, soldier?"

Brit Davis perked up at the hearty baritone voice out of an easier past. "Bo," he greeted as he leapt to his feet. "I'd forgotten you were riding over to visit."

"Forgotten your best chum in the entire U. S. Army? Like a mere thirty-mile ride through Apache-infested country could hold me back? Now what kind of friend would that be?"

Davis pumped the outstretched hand with unfeigned welcome.Through years on the plain of West Point, Bo Blake, Class of 1880, had become as good a friend as Davis had. For the moment, Davis welcomed the distraction from his insoluble problem. "I'm glad you came, Bo."

"I had no choice, Brit. I have an unopened bottle of Scotch. I couldn't find anyone at Fort Bowie I'd rather drink with."

The two young Lieutenants sat and shared Blake's whiskey as they traded news of old classmates from West Point, of George Goethals and Jack Biddle, of Auggie Hewitt, dead from his wounds in the Ute War, of Al Griffiths and his death in Montana. They talked of Bo Blake's adventures leading the scouts in the chase after Loco's breakout. But, inevitably, talk turned to the present. Davis handed over Jefford's subpoena. "Got your tail in a crack, Brit," Blake said. "Go to jail for disobeying the U. S. Marshall, or get court-martialed by General Crook for violating military orders."

"Or get killed in the crossfire between the Arizona posse and the Apaches," Davis added morosely.

They talked a long time, trying to see an exit to the maze. Finally, they could see only one path: When the ranch house fell silent for the night, Lt. Blake, who was not subject to a civilian subpoena, would lead Geronimo and his band, moving out silently, leaving the cattle behind, and race north toward the reservation.

Their simple solution had one small problem.

"No leave without cattle," Geronimo insisted.

Davis explained the situation. He cajoled. He persuaded.

Geronimo was unyielding. "White man give word. White men keep word or Apache burn Arizona."

Finally, Davis surrendered to the rock-hard stubbornness of the Apache. "I should have expected this, Bo," he told his friend. "Geronimo knows the Apache aren't crafty enough to move at night without waking up the whole ranch."

"Apache can move while you sit here and you not hear us."

"Well, one thing's sure," Davis said as he got to his feet to return to his tent, "Apache are champion braggers. Sure would have been a good joke on everyone if they were gone when folks woke up." He shrugged. "But it can't happen."

"They're gone."

Pete Fenton rubbed the sleep from his eyes, as Marshall Jefford's shout brought the ranch house to attention. "Not the cattle too?"

"All of them."

"Can't be," Fenton protested as he reached for his trousers. "Cowhands sleep with one eye open. They couldn't get away with it."

"See for yourself."

So far had the herd traveled that as the two men emerged from the ranch house no telltale smudge of dust clouded the horizon. Even the grass had sprung back to its upright position, leaving no trace of the herd's passage.

There was a convenient object for their rage, Lt. Davis sitting disconsolately on a rock by the side of his tent. Jefford turned on him. "The Willcox posse will run them to ground. Tell me where they went or I'll slap you in irons."

"Maybe east to Fort Bowie. Maybe north to the army post at Camp Grant. Geronimo talked about going back to Mexico. Could be any of those."

"Damn you. It's your men with them."

"Not my men, sir. Lt. BIake outranks me." As Davis studied the dirt between his boots, his voice bore the weight of an army officer's greatest humiliation. "I've been relieved of command."

Frustration welled up in Marshall Jefford as he saw his ambitions crumble into dust. He turned to Fenton. "We'll be the laughing stock of Tucson."

At about the same time, eight hour's drive north of Sulfur Springs Ranch, Geronimo paused so the muffles on the lead bells could be removed.

As Lt. Blake watched, Geronimo turned to him and laughed deep from the belly as only the Apache do. "Big mistake," he said, "Lt. Davis claiming Apache cannot move cattle at night."

"Big mistake," Lt. Blake agreed. "You certainly showed him."

Blake watched Geronimo ride off. By the time Marshall Jefford could gather a posse they would have an insurmountable lead, with support from Camp Grant if needed. It had worked out just as Davis planned.