From the Improvement Era, March 1943 –

Arizona Ranger

By Joe Pearce, as told to John W. Fitzgerald

Chapter 1

Thirty long years ago I was county ranger and undersheriff of Apache County, Arizona, riding the line between New Mexico and Arizona, from the Utah border on the north to Old Mexico on the south. The Arizona Rangers had been disbanded sometime before, and outlawry in the form of rustling, in both cattle and horses, was again rapidly becoming a menace, terrorizing the stockmen and settlers along the Arizona-New Mexico border. The rustlers were also preying upon the herds of the Navajo and Zuni Indians.

One morning in July, 1912, I received the following telegram:

MR JOE PEARCE ARIZONA RANGER
SPRINGERVILLE ARIZONA

RUSTLERS SWOOPED DOWN ON ZUNI AND NAVAJO INDIAN RESERVATION STOP HEADED FOR MEXICAN BORDER WITH STOLEN HORSES AND MULES STOP CAN YOU TRAIL AND CAPTURE THEM

(signed) AZ HUTTO
U S STOCKMAN AND DEPUTY U S MARSHALL
BLACK ROCK NEW MEXICO

I could. Although it wasn’t in my territory and not in the line of my regular duty, I could, or at least I would try. But not alone — safety and common sense dictated that I get help, I summoned Clay Hunter, trapper, prospector, and cowboy, to go with me. He was practically born on the open range and wasn’t scared of anything. Good shot, too. A mighty handy man to have around.

Our horses were the best range stock obtainable. Thank Providence for that. A good horse was then worth its weight in nuggets.

We had a saddle horse and a pack horse apiece. Just as we were ready to leave, a tall Navajo Indian with long hair rode up and dismounted. From his wrist dangled a quirt; he’d pushed his horse to get there before we left. We shook hands. He said, “Need your help. Rustlers headed toward Mexican border. Indian scouts found trail, following outlaws. My name Baltazar Cojo (Ko-ho). Me have horses stole. Come. No?” He spoke Spanish. I understood Spanish perfectly.

“Si,” I answered.

We already had packed — grain for our horses and chuck for ourselves — and left immediately. Baltazar, the Navajo scout, led us to New Mexico to meet the trailers. We intercepted them twenty-five miles east of Springerville, Arizona, in New Mexico. They were camped for noon at Coyote Creek, resting their horses. The men trailing the rustlers were Jesus (Ha-soos) Erachio, governor or chief of the Zuni tribe, and his son, Leopoldo; Beek Cojo, brother of Baltazar; and Wayne Clawson, a white man, who had also lost horses.

We found them tired, out of food, with worn-out horses and with no desire to continue the chase. They had decided to return home and let the rustlers alone.

After preparing a good meal which the Indians relished, they agreed to go on. It’s surprising how much better the world looks on the outside when you’re full on the inside. And with Indians, that’s gospel. Anyway, I had the tradition of the Arizona Rangers to uphold, “Never turn back till you get your man.” I made em a little speech.

“You’re brave men, not cowards. I need you; you need me. We work together. Come. We will break up this band of outlaws and stop rustling for keeps in this country.”

They came, and it was well they did. You can’t beat these Indians when it comes to trailing, and even they needed all their skill. The rainy season was on and rustlers always took advantage of it to steal horses, cattle, and mules. The rain would soon beat out the tracks of the stolen animals.

We headed south for about ten miles. The trail was dim, but grass was good. We camped at dusk in a clump of pinon pines and cedars, built an Indian fire and prepared our meal. We had no water, but Clay Hunter knew where a watering hole, used by cattle and horses, was located. He took a canteen and a coffee pot and walked the half-mile or so to it. It was dark. When he returned, we found the water “alive.” Polliwogs and huahalotes or “water-dogs” made up a third of the contents. We strained the “live” part of the water off by using a burlap sack, and made our drink. The water was pretty well “seasoned” so we didn’t use as much as usual. But we drank it.

“Not bad,” said Clay, “have tasted worse.”

The Indians only grunted.

When the meal was over, Baltazar spoke, “Lone Wolf, (the Indians, even in later years, called me Lone Wolf) the rustlers stoled our cattle for years.” He spat disgustedly, “The snakes, lizards, Gila monsters.”

Indians never swear but they call rustlers and other kinds of outlaws the names of the lowest creatures within their experience. And I learned that snakes, lizards, or Gila monsters are “good citizens” when compared with rustlers.

“Since soldiers gone from Fort Wingate and Fort Defiance, rustlers more bold. Steal often. Snakes!” said Erachio.

“We happy you here. Lone Wolf. We follow you, eat with you, help you. You good man, brave. We fight, if necessary,” Baltazar continued. This made me feel good. And with mutual confidence we stretched our feet to the fire, lay on our saddle blankets and dozed off.

We were traveling fast and light and could take no bedding. There was a tacit understanding among all rangemen and rangers that a man wasn’t a real scout or ranger or cowman who couldn’t sleep on his saddle blanket, saddle for a pillow and a copy of the Times or World or Sun or American over his face.

Daybreak saw us packed and on the trail, going to the southeast. We could see the trail sheered east of the great Escudilla mountain, indicating the outlaws were taking a fast route. We discovered from the tracks that there were three men driving the stolen horses and mules and that there were about sixty head of animals in the herd. We came to the noon camp of the desperados, made the day before, read the signs, and found that they had cut a pack mule from the stolen stock and roped him. A six-shooter had bounced out of its holster during this roping and Baltazar found it.

“Mira akoo.” (“Look here!”) We looked, then gathered round. Clay unscrewed the screw in the handle of the six-gun with his pocket knife. The word “Pat” was lettered on the inside, and two notches were cut next to the name.

The Indian, Beek Cojo, held up two fingers. “Bad. Killer. Snake,” he grunted.

Baltazar gave me the gun and said, “Your gun. All I want, my horses.” I kept the gun.

Grass was plentiful. Good water, not “seasoned,” was at hand. We found that the rustlers had been lucky and had had antelope for dinner the day before. We found the feet and legs by the dead fire. We made our camp close to their abandoned one, ate our chuck, and felt much better. Soon the Indians found the boot prints of the outlaws. There were three of them. We could tell from their boots. One was a high, narrow, sharp heel; another a medium heel and the third pair was minus a heel.

We rested our horses about an hour, then saddled and took the trail! We soon found that our outlaws had turned due south through rough, black malapai hills and were obviously trying to cover their tracks. Here the Indian trailers were of great value. The four of them dismounted and Hunter, Clawson, and I drove their horses behind them. The Indians took the trail afoot, holding their rifles in hand, ready for anything. Uphill and down, across ravines and through deep gorges we went. Sometimes the rustlers had driven the stolen stock through brush and timber. This told us they had expected someone to follow them. This was good country for ambush, too, and we had to be “double-barrelled ” careful. They might try to waylay us.

‘T’he trail led over a hill. A ranch house came into view. Hunter spoke, “That’s McDermott’s place.” We all looked.

Erachio pointed to a horse three hundred yards away in the pasture. “My horse.”

It was his horse, covered with sweat, obviously ridden down and left. We knew we were on the right track. We found no one at the ranch house. Queer! But we had no time to investigate, so away we went again. We rode about five minutes when we saw dust coming from the east. I used my field glasses.

“It’s a horse and rider coming like the dickens; no one rides that fast unless he’s covering trail or trying to get away from somebody.”

We rode down a small ravine where the rider was sure to pass. Scrub cedar hid us and he ran right into us.

I pulled down on him, six-gun leveled, “Stop.” Erachio and Baltazar had their guns on him too.

He stopped and threw up his hands. I disarmed him, taking his .45 and belt from him; I put them on my saddle.

“Dismount.”

He got down, and we questioned him.

“Who are you — what’s your name?”

“Jack McDermott.”

“You own this ranch?”

“Yes.”

“What is that stray horse, lathered with sweat, doing at your ranch?”

“He was just left there.”

“Who left him?”

“I don’t know.”

Clay Hunter spoke, “Oh, yes, you do —talk.”

“Well, some men.”

“Well, who?”

“The Maris gang.”

“How many and what are their names?”

“Well, there are three, Manuel Maris, Pat Guiterrez, and Diniscio Sanchez.”

“Did they stay at your place last night?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re guilty of harboring outlaws, are you?”

“Well, call it that, but I’d rather feed ’em than fight ’em.”

“McDermott,” I said, “you’ve been running a ‘Jackson Hole,’ or ‘hole in the wall,’ you’re under arrest. So come with us. You’re our hostage until I feel you can be released.”

I was taking no chances of his riding “cross lots” to warn the rustlers after we left. We took him along. He had no gun, but we watched him closely.

“The trail now led to the southeast, and the country was hilly, covered with scrub cedar, pinon pine, and juniper trees. It was plain though, and we rode faster. Baltazar was in the center of the trail. I was close to him. The others, with the exception of Beek Cojo, who brought up the rear with the pack horses, were placed at intervals of forty-five or fifty yards on either side of us, in a straight line. Now that the trail had grown fresher, we didn’t know when we would be fighting, so I gave the posse some training. I took my hat and made a motion toward the ground, which meant to dismount, grab guns, seek cover, and be ready to fight. When there was any likelihood of ambush from a hill top, I would take Baltazar and cut around the point of the hill to see if the rustlers had gone on. When we had definitely found they had, I would ride to the top of the same hill and motion the others to come. These precautions made the Indians have even more confidence in me.

We then rode through draws, over ridges and timber-covered mesas, down arroyos and through little valleys. These small foothills are “feeders” leading to the north of the Mogollon (Mo~go-yon) mountains. We covered fifteen miles more. Our horses were holding up in fine shape. This is a country you never forget — volcanic malapai mesas, tall rank grass, turned almost dry before the recent rains, with young green shoots now cropping out, scrub cedar, and juniper standing here and there like raisins in a fruit cake.

Leopoldo, riding on the left wing, crossing a small glade, stopped and motioned us to come over. Here our outlaws had found a yearling steer and butchered it. The hide and other parts they had left were still warm. The Indians put their hands under the hide.

“Snakes, Gila monsters, only one-half day ahead.”

Clay nodded, then added, “Seems wasteful, only eating the loin cuts and leaving the rest.”

We went on, not daring to cook any of the remaining meat for fear the outlaws had poisoned it. We soon camped for a one-hour rest. The sun was hot. We unsaddled our horses. They drank from the water-hole close by, rolled, grazed, and were much refreshed when we again threw on the saddles.

The outlaws had slowed up. We increased our pace, trotting our horses on level ground and down the hills, dismounting and leading them up the inclines, holding our rifles ready for instant use. Baltazar started an Indian chant in Navajo and the other Indians took it up. In English this is what they were chanting: “We’re on the trail. We know we’re right. Our friends will lead us. We’ll make a fight.”

We camped at six o’clock. We could see the rustlers had no fear of pursuit now because the stolen animals had been allowed to spread out and graze. There was a little spring on the side of a pine-covered bluff at the foot of the Mogollon mountains. “Good water,” I said. “Thank heaven for that.” Suddenly we heard blasting.

Clay Hunter spoke, “Blasting at the Mogollon mining camp.”

“Soon we blast snakes and lizards,” said Baltazar.

“Mebbe,” I replied, “but not unless we have to. Take them alive, if possible.”

“Snakes sell mules at mining camp,” from Erachio.

Leopoldo nodded, “No eat without money, sell mules, buy chuck, go on to border,”

Just before supper the Indians formed a circle. They began to chant, stepped first on one foot, then on the other, stomping feet in perfect time. Hunter, Clawson, and I were motioned into the circle, and the same words were used: “We’re on the trail. . . .” McDermott was not invited into the circle.

We were satisfied we would overtake the rustlers the next day.

Next morning the trail slanted to the east, towards the Socorro pass in the direction of the Mogollon mining camp, and was very clear. We trotted our horses on the level ground and sometimes rode at a gallop.

“If we can beat them to Socorro pass, we’ve got them.”

“Trail of snakes and lizards, two hours old,” said Erachio.

“The stolen horses and mules are becoming tender-footed and can’t be pushed,” commented Clay.

We were gaining fast.

“Keep watch,” I warned, “Mebbe we’ll be fighting soon.”

“Socorro pass in view,” said Clawson, scanning the mountains.

“Faster. We don’t want to stop at Mogollon to recover mules the outlaws might sell to the prospectors.”

We spurred our horses. At noon we came to an old abandoned cow ranch that the rustlers had left perhaps an hour before.

We all unsaddled to rest our horses. They grazed. We had no chuck at all.

“Noon’s over. Let’s go.”

The tracks and other signs left by the rustlers and stolen mules and horses were very fresh. The outlaws were now following the path of least resistance, going around the edge of the hills, on the softer parts, in the sand, and not over the rocks and up the inclines.

“They’re slowing down some more,” said Clay.

Suddenly we came to a small knoll overlooking a small valley to the east. I used my field glasses. “There’s two houses, one a long stone house, the other probably a dwelling.”

I handed the glasses to Baltazar.

“Look, my horses — yours too, Erachio.” He looked.

“Mine, too,” he agreed.

“How many?” I asked.

“All that stoled.”

“Good.”

We went into a small draw, out of sight of the ranch to lay our plans. We all sat in a circle except McDermott.

“People there, I seed smoke from house,” said. Baltazar.

I asked them all this question. “Shall we attack tonight or wait till morning?” It was now about six p.m.

“Men not like fight early in morning. Brain cloudy. But me think best we go now,” said Baldazar, “before dark.”

They all seemed to feel the same way.

“Let’s get it over with,” urged Clay.

“OK, we go before night,” I said.

We went to the top of the knoll again. Hunter looked at the house. “Don’t see but one of the outlaws’ horses; wonder where the other two be.” We all wondered the same thing, but we couldn’t waste time just thinking, so I gave instructions.

“Clawson, you and Beek guard McDermott and our horses. We’ll signal you when to come. Keep out of sight until we motion you to come.”

“Careful now,” I warned. Then I said, “Now boys, remember what Captain Tom Rynning of the Arizona Rangers used to say, ‘One live outlaw is better than ten dead ones,’ but protect yourselves. Keep covered by trees and rocks. We’ll go down this ravine, out of sight of the houses.”

Well, we advanced to within fifty yards of the long house. We stopped. I said “Baltazar, you and Leopoldo, and Erachio place yourselves on your bellies rifles in hand, covering all approaches to the houses. Stay about ten to twenty yards away from the dwellings. If you hear shots and then see the outlaws running, shoot them in the legs. Understand?”

They grunted assent.

“Come on, Clay, we’ll creep to the door of the bigger house.” We advanced on the blind, no-window side of the long stone building and sneaked around to the door.

“Any word you want sent to your folks?” Clay whispered. His eyes twinkled. Then he added, “The one who comes in second on the draw might start a young graveyard.” His face was serious, but his eyes teased a tight smile from me.

I thought, “Curse such a guy.” But I had to grin. Clay certainly could make a man loosen up, just what I needed.

(To be continued)