“I say, I say,” crooned Slaughter, bending over, “wake up, little fellow.”
The baby girl opened her black eyes drowsily. A shadow of a smile flickered for an instant about her mouth. She probably expected to see her mother’s face hovering above her. When she saw the black-bearded white stranger, her eyes filled with sudden terror. But no cry or whimper escaped her. She rolled off her deerskin and, like a baby wild animal taken by surprise, went scurrying off on all fours across the earth floor in a blind effort to escape.
“Well, baby,” soothed Slaughter, “you needn’t be so scared. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
He caught up the little thing in his arms, wrapped her in an old shawl lying on the ground, and took her outside.
“Hey, fellows. What do you think of this?”
Soldiers gathered round, laughing. They peered into the frightened little face, patted the bronze cheeks, shook the chubby hands, tugged playfully at the tiny bare feet.
“Well, I’ll be good gosh-darned.”
“Hello, baby.”
“Has your muvver gone and left you? Poor little baby.”
A rifle crackled behind a rock high on the mountainside. A bullet whizzed past the heads of the group and knocked up earth and stones near by. An Indian, eh? Come prowling back. Several carbines made reply. No more shots came from the lone rifle on the mountain. A stalking party discovered an Apache buck lying dead behind the rock.
“The baby’s daddy, I reckon.”
“Come back to see what he could do for his kid.”
“You’ve got to give it to that Indian. He loved his baby.”
Was ever a tiny daughter of Apaches in such tragic misadventure as this mite of a baby cuddling in Slaughter’s arms? Abandoned by her people. Captured as prize of war by the enemies of her race. Her father—probably—killed before her eyes. Her mother far off in the mountains, doubtless weeping out her heart. Now the soldiers were applying the torch. The infant’s home was going up in flames. Still not a whimper from her lips. This baby was an Apache.
“What you goin’ to do with the kid, Slaughter?”
“Take her home.”
On the home trail, the baby slept beside Slaughter in his blankets. He woke one night and found her gone. He heard a rustle off in the darkness. The little Apache girl was crawling away silently through the grass. The starlit mountains had whispered, “Come back.” She was going home. Her wild little heart had heard the call of the wild.
So the Apache baby took her place as one of the family at the San Bernardino ranch. Mrs. Slaughter, having regard to the month, named her Apache May. But this was too big a name for such a mite. It was changed to Patchy. Civilization’s first gift to Patchy was a bath. Then some pretty new dresses. But Patchy’s original clothes were preserved as curiosities. And very curious they were. Her entire wardrobe was on her back and consisted of only two pieces—an under waist and a frock. But these had a history. The baby was clothed in the vestments of murder.
Riding forth on their wild foray from San Carlos, the Indians of the band to which Patchy had belonged had attacked a ranch on the Gila River and massacred a Mormon family named Merrill, consisting of father, mother, and daughter. Farther south, in the San Simon Valley, they had murdered a lone ranchman named Hand. Friends of the Merrills identified Patchy’s under waist as a part of the dart-fitted, many-buttoned, embroidered basque of the Mormon girl, and the shawl in which Slaughter had wrapped the baby, as having belonged to the Mormon mother.
Patchy’s tight-fitting outer waist was made of a flour sack, and the little skirt attached to it was of white cloth of equally coarse weave. Patchy’s frock was very dirty but on the skirt, beneath the grime, Mrs. Slaughter noticed dark figures which she believed were elaborately wrought aboriginal ornamentation.
“These quaint markings, so dim with dirt, intrigue me,” said Mrs. Slaughter. “They are probably a swastika pattern. Or some sort of intricate scroll work. Or picture writings. I imagine they must have some mysterious significance. I wish some Apache would ride this way who could interpret their meaning for me. Very probably, Patchy’s mother was, in her way, an artist.”
Profoundly interested in these cryptic designs, Mrs. Slaughter had Patchy’s frock washed. After it had been soaked in a tub of suds, scrubbed on the washboard, and dried in the sun on the clothesline, the figures that adorned it stood out with startling distinctness. They read as follows:
Republican Ticket
Delegate to Congress
Thomas F. Wilson
For Joint Councilman
J. W. Calkins
For Representatives
… Hicks
J. O. Stanford
J. S. Robbins
A. Wight
E. G. Norton
County Surveyor
H. G. Howe
Supervisors
J. Montgomery
B. S. Coffman
Sheriff
S. H. Bryant
District Attorney
W. H. Stilwell
Treasurer
James P. McAllister
County Recorder
W. F. Bradley
It was laughable, of course, to think of little Patchy romping about the parental wickiup in the Sierra Madres clad in an old Cochise County election poster, identified by Arizona antiquarians as of . But it was also tragic. The old poster had hung for years on the walls of Hand’s cabin and had been carried off by the Apaches after the lonely rancher had been butchered.
From the wickiup in which he found Patchy, Slaughter had also brought away a war bag and two papoose-carriers. The war bag had been made from a pair of buckskin pantaloons, stitched with bright thread on a sewing machine and probably once belonging to some Mexican dandy whom the Apaches had murdered. The papoose-carriers consisted of a jacket attached to a head band. With the band across their foreheads, Apache mothers carried their babies in these jackets on their backs. Mrs. Slaughter
