terest and sympathy. When they learned what | most abject condition of filth and poverty. From had happened they gave him some ash-baked this time, for many months, they lived a life of bread and a gourd of water. Then they told servitude, working from morning till night for him to await their return, and rode away. He their captors, and subject to the most cruel and staid a little while, but fearful of treachery brutal treatment. The scantiest pittance of started on again. Wandering along the road food was allowed them, and that they had to till he came out of the cañon and overlooked the gather themselves. Often they were without plain, he discerned some moving objects in the food for two days at a time, save such roots and distance, which he speedily recognized as two insects as they could secretly devour while gathwhite-covered wagons. He knew they must be ering supplies for the lazy wretches who held Americans. Overcome by emotion he sank to them in bondage. The younger sister, Mary the ground unconscious of all his sufferings. Anne, was of a weakly constitution, and gradual, Within an hour or less he was aroused by the ly declined under the terrible hardships to which voice of Wilder, saying, "My God, Lorenzo! she was subjected. There is a touching pathos what has happened?" The wagons contained in the gentleness and fortitude with which she the families of Wilder and Kelley, who had bore her sufferings. She seldom complained; started for Fort Yuma. Next day the unhappy and it was her custom when alone with her sissufferer was safe among the Pimos. The emi-ter to sing hymns, and say she thought God grants halted a few days until he gained suffi- would take pity on them some day and deliver cient strength to join them. He traveled with them. Wilder and Kelley to Fort Yuma, which they reached after a journey of eight or ten days. As soon as the Apaches had concluded the massacre of the Oatman family and plundered the wagon of its contents, they fled across the river, taking with them the two captives, Olive and Mary Anne. These unfortunate girls had seen their parents, brothers, and sisters cruelly murdered, and were now dragged away, bareheaded and shoeless, through a rude and desolate wilderness. Ferocious threats and even clubs were used to hurry them along. Their feet were lacerated, and their scanty clothes were torn from their bodies in passing over the rocky mesas and through the dense and thorny thickets. Sometimes the younger sister faltered from sheer lack of strength, but the savage wretches, unmindful of her sufferings, beat her and threatened to dispatch her at once if she lagged behind. She said it was useless to try any more-she might as well die at once. A brutal wretch of the tribe seized her as she sank to the ground, and casting her across his back started off on a trot. Thus they traveled till late in the night, when they halted for a few hours. On the following day they met a rival party of Indians, among whom was one who had lost a brother at the hands of the whites. The strange Indians charged furiously upon the captives, and would have killed them but for the resolute interference of their captors, who were not willing to lose their services. On the third day of their journey, after the most incredible hardships, having traveled over two hundred miles, they came in sight of a cluster of low thatched huts down in a valley. This was the Apache rancheria. The captives were ushered in amidst shouts and songs and wild dancing. For many days the savages indulged in their disgusting revels. The two young girls were placed in the centre of a large circle, and compelled to witness sights so brutal and obscene that they were filled with dismay. They prayed that they might die before they should be subjected to the cruel fate that threatened them. The tribe consisted of about three hundred, and lived in the In March, 1852, the tribe with whom they lived was visited by a band of Mojaves, who were in the habit of trading with them, and a bargain was made for their purchase. The Mojaves remained a few days carousing with their friends, and then set out with their prisoners for the Colorado. A dreary journey of two hundred miles over a desert and mountainous country, during which they suffered hardships surpassing any thing they had hitherto endured, brought them to the village of the Mojaves, where they were received with dancing, shouting, and jeering. The crops on the Colorado were short, and here again they suffered all the horrors of gradual starvation. Even some of the Indians died from insufficiency of food to sustain life. The gentle child, Mary Anne, worn down by the fatigues of the trip and want of nourishment, wasted away gradually till it was apparent to Olive she was dying. The sisters one evening sat hand in hand. Mary Anne sang one of the favorite hymns she had been taught by her mother. Then gazing with steadfast and loving eyes in her sister's face she said, "I have been a great deal of trouble to you, Olive. You will miss me for a while, but you will not have to work so hard when I am gone." Indians gathered around in mysterious wonder. But the dying girl saw them not. A smile of ineffable happiness beamed upon her features. Peacefully she sank to rest in her sister's arms. Olive was left to bear the burden of life alone. The It is the custom of these Indians to burn their dead. Preparations were made for this ceremony in the present case; but the wife of the chief, pitying the distress of the surviving girl, prevailed upon him by much entreaty to let Olive bury the body according to the custom of her people. A grave was dug in a little patch of ground which had been cultivated by the sisters. They had often worked together in this little garden, and talked of their happy home before misfortune had come upon the family. All that was mortal of the gentle captive-girl was here consigned to the earth. Olive was thenceforth without friend or companion. During these dreary years the brother, Lorenzo, had vainly striven to procure the rescue of his sisters. Of course no aid was furnished by the military authorities at Fort Yuma. The only person there who took any interest in the matter was Mr. Henry Grinnell, a private citizen, who from 1853 up to the date of their rescue never ceased to exert his energies to that end. And here a singular coincidence occurs. While the Grinnell expeditions, organized through the generosity of a merchant-prince -Mr. Grinnell, of New York-were prosecuting their search at the Arctic Circle for Sir John Franklin, an erratic nephew of the same Grinnell, who from love of adventure had wandered into the wilds of Arizona, was nobly devoting his energies to the rescue of two emigrant girls who had fallen into the hands of the Apaches. If there is nothing in blood, surely great hearts run in families; for here was one, without means, doing as much for the cause of humanity as the other with all the resources of fortune. Through the services of Francisco, a Yuma Indian, the purchase of Olive from the Mojaves was effected by Mr. Grinnell, in February, 1856. She was brought down to a place on the Colorado at an appointed time. Here Mr. Grinnell met her. She was sitting on the ground, as he described the scene to me, with her face covered by her hands. So completely was she disguised by long exposure to the sun, by paint, tatooing, and costume, that he could not believe she was a white woman. When he spoke to her she made no answer, but cried and kept her face covered. It was not for several days after her arrival at Fort Yuma that she could utter more than a few broken words of English. Subsequently she met her brother, and was taken by him to his residence near Los Angeles. After that they lived a while in Oregon. I believe they now reside in Rochester, New York. Between Grinnell's and Oatman Flat is the former overland mail-station called Burke's, of which nothing remains but a small hacqual on the bank of the river, occupied at present by two soldiers who have charge of the Government hay. The route taken by myself and friends on the opposite side of the Gila compelled us to leave Burke's considerably to the right, which I greatly regretted, as I was desirous of seeing an Apache chief whose body, I was informed, dangled from a tree within a few miles of the station. Subsequently in passing down the Gila, I had an opportunity of gratifying my curiosity. I was traveling without an escort, in company of Mr. Allen, a trader from Tucson, and having seen what we supposed to be fresh Apache tracks on the main road, it was deemed prudent to make a short cut through the bottom in order to reach the station as soon as possible. On the way, near the point of a sand-hill to the left, Mr. Allen directed my attention to an open space fringed with brush-wood and mesquit, in which a sharp fight had taken place two years before between a party of three Americans, one of whom was King Woolsey, and about fifteen or twenty Apaches. Mr. Woolsey, who has since become quite famous in Arizona as an Indian fighter, had contracted to supply the Government with hay, and was returning from the grass range with his loaded wagon and two hired hands, entirely unsuspicious of danger. They had but one gun with them, which by good luck rather than precaution was charged with buckshot. In emerging from the bushes, where the road approaches the point of the sand-hill, a terrific yell burst upon them, and in a moment the Apaches sprang up from their ambush and charged upon them like so many devils incarnate. Woolsey said: "Hold the mules, boys, and give me the gun!" which they did with great coolness. The Indians wheeled about and dodged, but kept shooting their arrows with such fearful dexterity that Woolsey thought it advisable to give them a load of buckshot. The distance was too great, and no damage was done. At this the savages renewed their diabolical yells; closer and closer they crowded, the brave little handful of whites standing coolly by the wagon and mules, ready to sell their lives as dearly as possible. The leader of the Apaches, a warrior of gigantic stature and hideous features, rushed forward brandishing his war-club, and called upon his men to follow. Woolsey waited until the chief had approached within twenty paces, when he discharged the other barrel of his gun. Down tumbled the yelling savage, with a hole through his head. In the panic and confusion that followed, it was deemed advisable, as there was no more ammunition, to cut loose the mules and retire to the station. Here they procured additional force and armed themselves. Return ing as soon as possible to the scene of the conflict, they found that the cowardly wretches who had attempted to murder them had fled, not even taking time to destroy the wagon. The chief lay just where he had fallen, stiff and stark, as peaceable an Indian as one could wish to meet of a summer's afternoon. It is a curious fact that the Apaches never remove their dead. A superstition seems to prevail among them on this point; and I have been told that they will not approach a spot upon which one of their comrades has been slain. Woolsey and his party determined to make a conspicuous mark of the dead chief, from which marauding Indians might take warning. They dragged it to the nearest mesquit tree and hung it up by the neck, leaving the feet to dangle about a yard from the ground. This affair took place something more than two years ago. On a pleasant sunshiny afternoon in March I stood by the tree and gazed with strange feelings upon the dead Apache. The body was dried and shrunken, and of a parchment color. One of the feet and both hands had been cut off or torn away by the coyotes. The head was thrown back, and the eye sockets glared in the sun. A horrible grin seemed fixed upon the mouth, and when a slight breeze gave motion to the body I was startled at the ghastly but lifelike expression of the face as it slowly turned and stared at the bright blue sky. Arrows were sticking all over the breast and abdomen; doubtless tokens of barbarous hatred left by some passing Pimo or Maricopa. The sketch which I succeeded in making is so characteristic of life and adventure in Arizona that I must be pardoned for introducing it. Six miles beyond Oatman's Flat we reached a pile of rocks, jutting out of the desert plain like an island, which, upon a near approach, we found to be the celebrated Pcdras Pintados. We camped a while to examine the inscriptions, and make some sketches. There seems to be a mystery about these painted rocks which yet remains to be solved. Antonio, our Pimo Chief, said the inscriptions were made a great many centuries ago, in the time of the Montezumas, and this seems to be the general tradition of the Indians. I could not believe, however, upon a close examination, that they were of so ancient a date. The figures are rudely impressed upon the rocks with stone and painted over; some of them being apparently of recent date. Mr. Poston's opinion is-and I am disposed to coincide with him-that these paintings are the records of treaties made at different times between the Indians of the Gila and those of the Colorado. From this point of our journey till we passed through the cañon above the Big Bend of the Gila nothing of special interest occurred. APACHE HANGING. tempted, in connection with the Hualpais and Mojaves, to overthrow the Pimos and Maricopas, but three lived to tell the tale of their disaster. Their allies deserted them in the hour of extremity, and the bones of seventy-two Yuma warriors still moulder on the plain. Mr. R. W. Laine, now an express messenger for Wells, Fargo, and Co., saw the fight and gave me a most thrilling account of it. At the Maricopa Wells, the scene of a great battle, fought in 1857 in front of the station- A few miles beyond the Maricopa village, on house, between the Pimos and Maricopas on one a rocky hill to the right of the road, our attenside, and the Yumas on the other, was pointed tion was attracted by a spectacle at once startout to me. Of seventy-five Yumas who had at-ling and characteristic of the country through APACHE CRUCIFIED. which we were traveling. Looming up on the side of the hill, in bold outline against the sky, stood a rude cross upon which hung the dried body of an Apache, crucified about two years ago by the Maricopas. The legs and arms were fastened with cords, and the head hung forward, showing a few tufts of long hair still swinging about the face. It was a strange and ghastly sight. The Maricopas do not profess the Christian faith, but this much they had learned from the missionaries who had attempted their conversion, that crucifixion was a species of torture practiced by the whites. As it was a novel mode of punishment to them, the probability is they adopted it as a warning to their enemies not to come in that neighborhood again. An hour more and we were snugly lodged at the mill and trading establishment of Our friend Ammi White near the Casa Blanca. Crowds of Indians from the neighboring villages came in to welcome us; and for several days there was no end to the shaking of hands and complimentary speeches that signalized the arrival of the Superintendent and his party. I vow the labors through which I went on that occasion surpassed all the fatigues of the journey; and if Mr. Dole does not give me full credit for my sufferings in his report to Congress, I shall always consider him deficient in gratitude. As for Poston, he lost ten pounds of flesh; and the only reason I was more fortunate was that I had none to lose, being by this time as dry as a mummy. In the old Spanish records of the expeditions made to the Gila River, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, special reference is made to the Pimo, or, as the Spaniards called them, Pimas Indians. As far back as 1539 Friar Marco de Niça encountered, during his famous expedition to the north of the Gila, a tribe whom he designated the Pintados, from the fact that they painted their faces. These were probably the Papagoes, who are of the same nation as the Pimos and speak the same language. In the seventeenth century Father Kino explored the country of the Coco-Maricopas south of the Gila, and also gives an account of the Pimos, with |