By Michael Ledwith

March 1, 2024

For some forgotten reason at an early age, eight maybe, I wanted to be a Chiricahua Apache warrior.

When we played Cowboys and Indians with cap pistols or using our thumbs and pointer fingers as Colt revolvers, I always wanted to be among the Indians. How that desire went from generic Indian to a member of a small, fierce tribe that lived in Arizona and New Mexico is lost in the mists of time.

Mists that included dimly remembered attempts at building a sweat lodge, scalping our cat with a rubber knife (I came off the worse) and jettisoning my Greek warrior Halloween costume for fake long leather boots, breech cloth, tunic and vest.

And, a broad red cloth band circling my Army standard crewcut.

Cochise was my hero.

Much cooler than Geronimo. Like Buddy Holly to Elvis. JFK to Nixon.

It all percolated somewhere in my mind. Came alive as we drove through Apache country driving from San Francisco to Ocilla on the way back from Japan. Then remained in the background of imagination and dreams until I read a book about Kit Carson and about how the Apache slaughtered the Navaho and drove them out of New Mexico and Arizona. How the Comanche, the fiercest Plains Indian Tribe of them all, got as far as Apache country and stopped.

Maybe, from seeing John Ford’s Cavalry Trilogy at Fort Benning’s Main Post movie theater with my brother and dad when I was 11.

Or, after hearing this exchange of dialogue from Fort Apache, one of the trilogy.

The pompous, martinet from back east, Colonel Owen Thursday, played by Henry Fonda, and John Wayne, playing one of his greatest roles, Captain Kirby York: Lt. Col. Owen Thursday: We here have little chance for glory or advancement. While some of our brother officers are leading their well-publicized campaigns against the great Indian nations – the Sioux and the Cheyenne – we are asked to ward off the gnat stings and flea bites of a few cowardly ‘digger Indians’.

Captain York: Your pardon, Colonel. You’d hardly call Apaches ‘digger Indians’, sir.

Lt. Col. Owen Thursday: You’d scarcely compare them with the Sioux, Captain.

Captain York: No, I don’t. The Sioux once raided into Apache territory. Old-timers told me you could follow their line of retreat by the bones of their dead.

Lt. Col. Owen Thursday: I suggest the Apache has deteriorated since then, judging by a few of the specimens I’ve seen on my way out here.

Captain York: Well, if you saw them, sir, they weren’t Apaches.

Four years ago I read a book: The Apache Wars: The Hunt for Geronimo, the Apache Kid, and the Captive Boy Who Started the Longest War in American History.

Decided to fly to Tucson, rent a car, and drive to where the war started, then follow along to where it ended.

South from Tucson, heading to the charmingly named town of Patagonia, Arizona.

There is a lot of country between Tucson and the Mexican border. I stopped at the dreamlike San Xavier de Tabac Mission, built in the early 1700s by Spanish missionaries. Dream like because it would look natural sitting on one side of the central plaza in Fuenterabbia, Spain, not completely out of place on an arid plain in Arizona.

Inside, in the cool air, amid votive candles lit by the faithful, blood spattered sculptures of Christ and Catholic martyrs, the realistic depictions of stations of the Cross, I was moved to kneel at a pew and pray for my mother soul. I lit a candle for her eternal rest.

Thick walled houses built close to the mission, remembering the Apache raids.

South to Patagonia, noting how topography dictates living in the Southwest. Mountains mean water. Or at least enough water to survive. Along the creeks and streams, trees and enough soil to grow crops during good years.

It was Donald Trump’s first year as President, and he had closed the border. Or at least tried to. Two-lane road south. Narrow valleys. Signs announcing local ranches for sale.

Roadblocks set up along the highway by soldiers to stop the cartels and drug runners.

I chatted with the soldiers.

So young. So young.

A lieutenant wandered over. Maybe twenty-three. Airborne. Said he was going to Ranger School in November. Yes sir, he said, it’s much worse than what they tell you on the news. The enlisted men nodded. Ranchers have to stay inside at night.

They find dead bodies all the time. Girl’s thongs hanging from cactus. On land they’ve ranched for three generations.

Where you heading?

Patagonia. It’s where the Apache Wars started. I’m going to start there and follow the raiding party to Apache Pass.

No kidding, the lieutenant exclaimed, if we didn’t have to stop the bad guys I’d come with you.

The men all yelled, Hoorah!

Be careful the LT continued. Do you have a gun?

No, I answered.

Drive straight through without stopping to Nogales, he said seriously, and buy one.

A 1911, I asked?

Maybe as a backup. Get an AR-15 with extra magazines.

Good luck sir. He slapped the roof of my SUV. If we’re here when you drive back, stop and tell us about it. Who started that war?

A LT like you started it, his name was Bascomb.

I drove off.

The war started when a small party of Tonto Apaches raided Fred Ward’s ranch, just south of Patagonia, stole some livestock, and kidnapped his 12 year-old stepson, Felix Ward.

Narrow two-lane road south of Patagonia. A picturesque little town.

The road running along a mostly dry creek. The remains of fences and barbed wire here and there. So dry and dusty it seemed hard to believe it could support a ranch.

No roadside sign for Ward’s ranch. No historical marker.

Even though I was driving slowly and paying attention, I drove fifteen miles without finding it and realized it was back up the canyon.

Drove back to Patagonia without seeing a sign or indication as to where one of the longest wars in American history had begun.

Stopped by the Historical Society. Walked in and was greeted by a friendly older woman with a strong Boston accent. Came to Patagonia ten years before. Buried her husband in the pioneer graveyard: he’d like it there, she explained, he hated the cold.

Knew nothing about the raid or Ward’s ranch. Called a friend who she put on the speaker. Raspy smoker’s voice.

Drive 4.1 miles, son. You’ll see a turn out on the left, bulldozed into the cliff. Pull in and park. Watch for rattlesnakes as you mosey around. There’ll be a sign toward the back you can’t see from the road about the kidnapping. Walk across the highway and down to the creek.

You’ll feel it.

It was as he described. The sign shot all to hell. Hardly any water in the creek. Scraggly trees about, showing that there was enough water some times of the year.

I looked up the creek toward Patagonia, the direction the war party came. So narrow that they would have come single file.

The trees bigger, the land lusher then, I thought.

Felix Ward tried to hide in a tree.

The Apaches scared off the hands, stole the horses and cows within easy reach.

With the horses, cattle, and Felix they headed back north.

A cavalry troop from a nearby fort picked up their trail along the creek.

The officer in charge, an inexperienced West Point graduate, named Bascom was convinced that the powerful Chiricahua Apache tribe, not the virtually unknown Tonto tribe were responsible. He broke off the now cold trail along the creek, and headed to Apache Pass to cut them off.

It’s 117 miles from Ward’s Ranch to Apache Pass.

This is it, I thought. Like the old man on the phone had said, I felt it.

Walked back across the road to the car, mindful of rattlesnakes, and headed for Apache Pass.

 

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Frequent contributor Michael Ledwith is a former bag boy at Winn-Dixie, who worked on the Apollo Program one summer in college. A former U.S. Army officer, he ran with the bulls in Pamplona and saw Baryshnikov dance ’Giselle’ at the Auditorium Theater.  Surfer. Rock and roll radio in Chicago. Shareholder, Christopher’s American Grill, London. Father. Movie lover—favorite dialogue: “I say he never loved the emperor.”