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time before at Peeples' ranch. I recognized it by the one corked shoe, while the other three were plain shoes. I at once determined to follow the tracks to the Hassayampa if necessary. I saddled up and took all of the stock back to Weaver, and told some of the people what I had found. I asked for one or two volunteers to
go with me on the trail. The men said it had been too long; that we could never overtake the Mexican, and, besides, that the stock was all poor and not fit for a long trip, perhaps clear into Sonora, as it was evident that Sonora was where the Mexican was heading for, at that time there being no other places in Arizona except Tucson and Gila City, now Yuma.
“I inquired about the road and learned from a man who knew the country that there was but one road through the Hassayampa Canyon, where the railroad bridge now crosses, and about two miles below the Tucson road left the river and turned east, while the other road followed the river bottom. I realized that if I could get the tracks at or near the forks of the road, I should be sure that my man would go directly to one of the two places. I bought a few pounds of pinole, some pinoche, and a little coffee, and with a quart cup and canteen, started for the Hassayampa, but took the main road as it was quite dark and I had to depend on picking up the trail the next morning. I passed Henry Wickenburg's camp before day, and about nine o'clock in the morning I came to the forks of the road. Here I was bothered a good deal, as both roads had been traveled by wagons and ox carts. I had about made up my mind to take the Tucson road as being the most likely one
for my man to take, when I noticed a trail that went over a point of a mesa that the wagon road passed around. I went and examined this trail, and there was my corked shoe sure enough. Now I was sure the Tucson road was the one for me.
“I slept the most of that day and gave my horse a chance to fill up on good gramma grass. Getting to the Pima Villages, I found there a mule which had been left in care of Mr. White, who had a flour mill there, and White wished to send the mule to Re Allen, its owner, in Tucson. I had White inquire of the Indians if they had seen the Mexican, (who was easy to describe on account of the big buckskin horse), but he had not been seen, so I concluded he had passed through the Indian villages in the night. I took Allen's mule and left my horse with the Indians, and that evening pushed on toward Tucson and the next day reached what was known as 'Soldier's Grave,' a road station established by the old Butterfield Stage Company. The man at the station had seen nothing of the Mexican with the buckskin horse, but told me that someone had been to the well and got water two nights before, and had gone toward Tucson; that the horse tracks were larger than most riding horses.
“I rested my mule nearly all day and took the road about four in the afternoon; made Bluewater station that night about twelve o'clock and lay down until daylight. That was another one of the old Butterfield stations, and there about the same thing had happened as at Soldier's Grave, only I had gained about twelve hours on my man according to our calculation. “From there I pushed on to the Picacho station, only eighteen miles from Tucson, but the keeper had seen nothing of my man. Arriving at Tucson I at once called upon Major Duffield, the United States marshal, and told him my story. He took some interest in the matter, and said he would try to locate the Mexican if he was in or around Tucson. I didn't leave the matter in the hands of others, but went all over the town and to all nearby ranches of which there were several, but no sign of the buckskin. I bought a Comanche pony from a Mexican, and the second afternoon I went to the old Mission San Xavier, which is eight or nine miles from Tucson, the main traveled road to Sonora. About halfway from Tucson to the Mission there had been a big mudhole which changed the road. The mudhole had dried, but the wagons still went around the place, while saddle animals took the shorter cut over the dry mudhole. And there I found my corked horseshoe mark, and pretty fresh too. I pushed my horse along pretty lively until I got to the Mission. There were a lot of Papago Indians living there and one white man, who went by the name of Alejandro. I told Alejandro my business. He inquired among the Indians, and we concluded that the Mexican had passed there late the night before. I. had given my pony to a Papago to feed and water for me, and when I had him brought up to saddle, he had the colic. I went after Alejandro, who was running a mill for grinding wheat by burro power. He found me an Indian who would trade me another pony for $20 to boot. If my pony died I was to keep the Indian's pony, or if I returned the Indian's
animal and took my own, the Indian was to have the twenty dollars for the use of his horse. Rather a hard bargain! But I accepted the proposition and was soon on my way again.
“I traveled nearly all of that night, and the following afternoon rode into a military camp, two companies of cavalry stationed at the mouth of the Sohbapuri Canyon. When I got within a mile or two of this camp, I lost the track of the corked shoe which I had been seeing all day. The cavalry herd had obliterated the tracks.
“I thought sure I should find my man or some trace of him when I saw the soldiers, but I did not. I knew he was not far away, for his horse had completely given out, and he had been walking and driving the horse ahead of him for the last twenty miles. It was but a few miles to Tubac, where I had learned there was some Americans living, so after satisfying myself that there was nothing at the soldiers' camp for me, I pushed on for Tubac, watching all the time for tracks in the road. But no corked shoe track did I find. At Tubac I found a family named Pennington, all but the grown men folks. There were several women and two boys, twelve to fifteen years old, and a Mrs. Page and a little daughter. Mrs. Page was a Pennington. After she had married Page and before her girl was born, the Apaches captured her and a twelve year old Mexican girl, but as Mrs. Page was not able to travel as fast as the Indians wanted to go, they lanced her full of holes, threw her body over a bluff, then threw rocks on her head, and left her for dead. She came to and after crawling around for two weeks or more, and living on roots, managed to reach a camp in the Santa
Rita mountains. She told me the story herself as I stayed there that night with the family.
“The next morning I was out as soon as I could see, expecting the Mexican would pass that place in the night as he had every other place where he was liable to be seen. He had not passed that way however, and the women told me of a road that went up the Canyon to an old deserted ranch, and on to the Sierra Colorado mine and Sonora, and showed me a trail that would take me by a short cut to the old ranch. I hurried across to the old ranch, which was the ruins of what had been a big ranch at one time, and here were my horse tracks quite fresh, and the man tracks on top. I examined my shotgun carefully, and pushed my pony for all that he could stand for about four miles, watching the trail at every step. Finally as I rode down into a little sandwash that came into and across the road from the low hills to my right, I saw the tracks leading up the wash, and the sand was not dry where the horse tracks had disturbed it. I followed up this little wash about a quarter of a mile, and there on a flat near the wash was the horse hobbled, and in the shade of a bush in the sand on the saddle blankets, lay about the worst looking, black, scar-faced greaser that I ever looked at. But he looked good to me just then!
“I cut the hobbles off of the poor horse, and went on to the Sierra Colorado mine, and rested two days. Colonel Colt, the gunman, was preparing to work the mine, after having had a massacre at the mine some time before.
“I did a little prospecting near the Sierra Colorado mine, and found an old abandoned