The caravan had proceeded without further incident toward its destination. Fort Whipple was named after Lieutenant Amiel Weeks Whipple, who came to southern Arizona in 1849 to survey the new border between the United States and Mexico—and who, with the rank of Brigadier General, died during the Civil War at the second battle of Chancellorsville in 1863.
Fort Whipple was one of the hundreds of outposts established by the United States Army in order to protect travelers and settlers who faced and moved ever westward.
Years ago at the Medicine Lodge Council in Kansas, the Kiowa Chief Satanta had said to the commissioners:
“I have heard that you intend to settle us on a reservation near the mountains. When we settle down we grow pale and die. A long time ago this land belonged to our fathers; but when I go up to the river, I now see camps of soldiers on its banks. These soldiers cut down our timber; they kill our buffalo; and when I see this, my heart is broken. I feel sorry. I have spoken.”
There was good reason why Satanta was known as the Great Orator of the Plains. He was also a prophet of things to come.
The blare of bugles and the hoofbeats of troopers heralded the inevitable change that fell like a dark shadow across the Indian way of life.
Prairie schooners, the Butterfield Stage, steamboats and the iron horse swept westward across the hunting grounds, and with them people from the East and all the nations of Europe—more people than there were buffalo.
The gold strike in California had signaled another tidal wave of immigrants.
“Our great mission,” said Senator John C. Calhoun, “is to occupy this vast domain.”
And as early as 1845, an article appeared in an Eastern newspaper. “Our Manifest Destiny is to overspread the continent allotted by Providence for the free development of our yearly multiplying millions. We will realize our Manifest Destiny.”
Little or nothing was mentioned about the Manifest Destiny of the Indians. But some of the Indians would have something to say about it and something to do about it.
After the war broke out in 1861, the Union Army needed all the manpower it could muster—especially if that manpower had prior experience in warfare.
Much of that manpower was in the West, where their experience included warfare with hostile Indians.
Some of the forts were abandoned; others had to make do with reduced ranks. Fort Whipple’s garrison size dropped by eighty percent, from 124 to only twenty-four.
After the war, Indian hostility accelerated through the ensuing years so forcefully that President Grant assigned Colonel George Crook, who during the four-year bloodbath had distinguished himself at South Mountain, Antietam, Chickamagaua, and Appomattox—and before that was already renowned as an Indian fighter—to command the army forces in the Territory with orders to drive the Apaches to their assigned reservations and keep the peace in any manner he deemed necessary.
It was a tall order for a tall man.
Colonel Crook’s first move on arriving at Prescott had been to transfer the department headquarters to Fort Whipple.
The sentry at Fort Whipple hollered to the guards at the gate.
“Wagon train!”
The gates swung open and Big Ike’s caravan rolled through and into the compound.
Two men came out of the headquarters door.
One of them was Colonel George Crook, the best “wilderness soldier” who ever lived—copper hair scatter-shot with iron strands, tall, erect, spare and sinewy, with a raspy voice, severe and brusque, but not unkind. He wore civilian clothes except for a well-seasoned, well-wrinkled old army jacket.
The other man, Rupert Lessur, also was tall, but smooth, his skin best suited to the parlor; his voice was pleasant and often dripped caramel, but not always. Lessur customarily walked a half or even a full pace ahead of whomever he was walking with. But not when he walked with Colonel Crook.
“Colonel, I told you Gallagher would get through.”
“Yes, you did.”
The fact that a wagon train had made it from La Paz to Fort Whipple was good news for everybody at the fort, and most everybody who didn’t have official duties that would keep them from greeting the caravan made their way to the compound.
The caravan creaked to a stop.
Ike, Dolan, Gallagher and the other riders stepped off their mounts, as did some of the occupants of the wagons.
Lessur approached with a confident, satisfied smile.
“Well, Gallagher, you made good time. Congratulations.”
Gallagher said nothing as Lessur looked around at Ike and the others.
“I see you picked up some passengers along the way.”
“Uh . . .”—Gallagher fumbled—“. . . not exactly.”
“See any Apaches?” Crook asked.
“All we wanted, Colonel.”
“But you got the cargo through.” Lessur still smiled.
“Not exactly,” Gallagher repeated.
“Why the devil do you keep saying that?” Lessur took closer notice of Ike and the dilapidated wagons. “What’s going on?”
“Well, Mister Lessur, this cargo don’t belong to us.”
“How’s that?! To whom does it belong?”
“To me . . .,” Ike said, “and my partners.”
“And who are you, sir?”
“That’s Big Ike Silver.” Gallagher gulped. “And he outbid us.”
“And he outfought you,” Dolan added.
“He what?” Rupert Lessur’s expression had darkened.
“Well,”—Gallagher gazed at the ground—“you said not to go any higher—”
“Never mind that.”
Crook made no attempt to disguise his amusement and pleasure.
“Mister Silver, I’m Colonel Crook.” He extended his hand.
So did Ike, and they shook.
“Yes, Colonel, I know. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Never mind the sir. You’re not in the army, and it looks like the army’ll be doing business with you.”
“Looks like.”
“How many barrels?”
“One hundred.”
“What are you asking?”
“What’s the going price?”
“Twenty dollars a barrel, but if you—”
“Sold.”
“Mister Silver,” Crook said, “it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Vice versa, Colonel.”
“Gallagher,”—Lessur did his best to shift back to an amiable mode—“you must have misunderstood, I told you—”
“Wait a minute, Mister Lessur.” Gallagher squinted. “We’re lucky to be alive. That Colorados—”
“Colorados?” Crook interrupted. “We heard he’d escaped, but badly wounded. Thought he’d be dead by now.”
“Not by a damn sight,” Gallagher exclaimed. “We was attacked by his Apaches, but seems like he’s a friend of Big Ike here, so he let us go.”
Crook noticed around his neck, on a thong, Ike Silver wore an eagle claw—and Colonel Crook was aware of its significance.
“That’s interesting. Mister Silver, will you be going back to La Paz?”
“No, Colonel, at least not for a while. Staying in Prescott. Bought a store there.”
“That so? Well, I’ll make out a bank draft for the cargo . . . if that’s agreeable with you . . .”—he glanced at Ike’s companions—“. . . and your partners.”
“Agreeable!” Jake responded. “It’s very agreeable!”
“Fine. Is it also agreeable,” Colonel Crook asked, “if we unload the wagons?”
“Colonel Crook, as of now those barrels belong to the army and you can do with them as you will.”
“I’ll start with that bank draft. One hundred barrels at twenty dollars. I make that an even two thousand. Correct?”
“Correct,” Jake said.
Crook gave the command to start unloading while the rest of the occupants of the wagons, including Sister Bonney, Binky and Ben Brown and his family debarked.
Without saying another word, Rupert Lessur began to walk away. He was immediately joined by Gallagher, who followed just a pace behind.
“Mister Lessur . . .”
“Gallagher,” Lessur said softly, “you’re an idiot.”