of Mexican figs in raw-hide sacks, fairly good tea, which had the one great merit of hotness, and lots and lots of whiskey; but there was no bread, as the supply of flour had run short, and, on account of the appearance of Apaches during the past few days, it had not been considered wise to send a party over to Phœnix for a replenishment. A wounded Mexican, lying down in one corner, was proof that the story was well founded. All the light in the ranch was afforded by a single stable lantern, by the flickering flames from the cook's fire, and the glinting stars. In our saddle-bags we had several slices of bacon and some biscuits, so we did not fare half so badly as we might have done. What caused me most wonder was why Duppa had ever concluded to live in such a forlorn spot; the best answer I could get to my queries was that the Apaches had attacked him at the moment he was approaching the banks of the Agua Fria at this point, and after he had repulsed them he thought he would stay there merely to let them know he could do it. This explanation was satisfactory to every one else, and I had to accept it.
We should, before going farther, cast a retrospective glance upon the southern part of the territory, where the Apaches were doing some energetic work in be-devilling the settlers; there were raids upon Montgomery's at "Tres Alamos," the "Cienaga," and other places not very remote from Tucson, and the Chiricahuas apparently had come up from Sonora bent upon a mission of destruction. They paid particular attention to the country about Fort Bowie and the San Simon, and had several brushes with Captain Gerald Russell's Troop "K" of the Third Cavalry. While watering his horses in the narrow, high, rock-walled defile in the Dragoon Mountains, known on the frontier at that time as "Cocheis's Stronghold," Russell was unexpectedly assailed by Cocheis and his band, the first intimation of the presence of the Chiricahuas being the firing of the shot, which, striking the guide, Bob Whitney, in the head, splashed his brains out upon Russell's face. Poor Bob Whitney was an unusually handsome fellow, of great courage and extended service against the Apaches; he had been wounded scores of times, I came near saying, but to be exact, he had been wounded at least half a dozen times by both bullets and arrows. He and Maria Jilda Grijalva, an escaped Mexican prisoner, who knew every foot of the southern
