Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 41, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 November 1908 — THE COWBOY REVENGED [ARTICLE]

THE COWBOY REVENGED

A very formal report to the commissioner of Indian affairs at Washington tells in a few colorless words how an Apache who murdered a cowboy in New Mexico was meted out punishment by his own race. This is the story, but not in the language of the report: , ' * I.—HUNGER. Death broods over the Mascalero reservation. The coyotes, slender, famished, slink hopelessly through the chapparal to the tepee of Da-Ga-In-Ka, and Just as hopelessly slink away again. There are no fresh bones behind the wickiup. It has been many sleeps since Da-Ga-In-Ka has tasted meat; not since the last beef killing, with its wanton waste and great feasting, at the agency. Therefore Da-Ga-In-Ka’s woman cowers as she puts before him the jar of cornmeal porridge. The stomach of a warrior craves flesh. And who Is Da-Ga-In-Ka, that he should eat the food of women and children and of the craven white man who humbles himself at labor like a squaw? Yet. he must endure the close-fisted bounty of the paleface, for now the Apaches are 1 almost civilized and live on the land the white man has allotted them. Bah! The Great Spirit feeds the eagle. He will feed Da-Ga-In-Ka.

lI.—THE COWBOY. At the ranch the superintendent over his tally of th§ “beef critters” again. Yes, three are missing. The white man counts even the grains of corn and demeans himself to labor like a squaw. He has none of the traditions of a noble race. “Jim, go out arid try to round up them three steers. Like as not they’re on the Mescalero.” A frolic this for Jim McLane, cowpuncher. Hurriedly gathering up a sack of rations from the mess shack he swings himself on his game little Pinto and tears away over the sand and the sage brush. An impetuous, wholesome young fellow is Jim, the most lighthearted of the lot. His bandanna- neckcloth flutters Jauntily as he rides. Over on the edge of the Mescalero he meets Indians. The greetings exchanged are friendly. Steers? Yes, away over that way; saw them not far from Da-Ga-In-Ka’s tepee. “Thanks. Have a cigarette.” Friendly fellows, these Apaches. Nearly civilized.

lII.—FRESH BLOOD. Da-Ga-In-Ka’s squaw shakes him by the shoulders. The brave grunts drowsily; he is so gorged with meat. She has seen something again, and this timejt is a horseman. He has dismounted near the carcass of a steer which has been quartered. Nearby are the ashes of Da-Ga-In-Ka’s campfire. Look, he is angry. He will complain to the agent. The agent will cast Da-Ga-In-Ka in the prison of the white man —Da-Ga-In-Ka, a ptoud sovereign of the arid plains.

IV.—BIG GAME. They find Jim McLane lifeless near the quartered steer, which is to say, near Da-Ga-In-Ka’s deserted tepee. The other Apaches are aghast. For the tribe Is civilized—nearly. The white man’s brows are black, and the blue In hts eyes snaps like flint. “We want Da-Ga-In-Ka?’ the agent says. Time was when this meant war paint. But the Apaches are getting civilized by degrees. The Mescalero has been defiled with savagery, and the white man who doles out the beef is angry. Away! Find Da-Ga-In-Ka! V.-ON THE BRINK OF REFUGE. To the Apache braves the trail of Da-Ga-In-Ka across the desert is as plain as a post road. Ever on. Far ahead beyond the purple haze of distance toil the fugitive and his squaw. He is strong; he has eaten. He is stout of heart. The squaw is fresh, too. The ponies are weary. They have not eaten so much. The little group enters the mountains. These _ are the Sacramento mountains. It is well. From the mountains Da-Ga-In-Ka can almost see the Rio Grande. Mexico is his goal.

VI.-THE LAST STAND. Here is a cavalcade coming up the pass. So close? It is the pursuit. Da-Ga-In-Ka sees they are Apaches. The fire of his forefathers is in the fugitive. He faces them with his cherished old Winchester in hand. “Come back to the Mescalero,” shouts the leader. “Brothers, go your way. I will go mine.” This is the sullen answer. The column moves again, forward. The hunted savage gazes at his brethren fixedly. Then,, with the suppleness of a snake he slips from his blanket, drops to his knees and puts the cool butt of his rifle to his swarthy cheek. He sings the war song of the Apaches. Behind him crouches' his squaw txembling. This is because she is a woman, and fears the white man who can turn the redskin against his kind. The Winchester begins barking merrily, and a shower of ejected shells rattles to the ground. Back from the trail comes the echo of the war song, and a volley that tears a cloud of splinters off the ersg. It is soon over. Jim avenged, and a wrinkled, ugly squaw is wailing over her dead. Da-Ga-In-Ka Is literally riddled with bullets. They say the Mescalero Apaches are becoming civilised.