Tag Archives: Geronimo

Charles Whiting Sr.

1 Reply

Charles Whiting Sr.

1852-1917

Charles Whiting Sr. was born in Manti, Sanpete County, Utah on December 16, 1852.  He was the third child of Edwin and his third wife, Mary Elizabeth Cox, in a family of nine children.  Although the mother of Charles Whiting, Mary Cox Whiting, was a school teacher who taught in the small settlements in Utah where they lived, Charles had to help on the farm and did not get much education.

He advanced as far as what was called in those days The Third Grade Reader.  However, Charles loved to read and was self-educated.  His own children loved to hear him read in the evenings by the fireplace such books as Swiss Family Robinson, Robinson Crusoe, and Horatio Alger’s Ragged Dick.

His father, Edwin, and his first three wives crossed the plains after being driven out of their homes in Nauvoo, Illinois, in 1849.  They stopped at Mount Pisgah for a time where Edwin’s father and mother, Elisha and Sally Hulet Whiting died.  Then Edwin and his family moved on to the Salt Lake Valley, tired and wary from their long trek.  Brigham Young sent them on to Sanpete Valley, now Manti, and there Charles was born.  His father married two other women while at Manti, making a total of five wives.

Edwin, who was a horticulturist, found that Manti was too cold for his business so he moved his families back to Hobble Creek Canyon (now Springville) where the climate was milder and there Charles grew up.  He met and married Verona Snow who also was born in Manti on March 27, 1859.  They were married in the Endowment House in Salt Lake City on January 24, 1876.  Verona was a bride of only three weeks when Charles was called, along with about 300 other men, to go to Arizona and settle along the Little Colorado in northern Arizona.  These men tried farming, but when they drew irrigation water onto the land it turned to alkali.  So Charles Whiting, along with J.J. Adams tried raising cattle, but the country was infested with horse thieves and outlaws of the worst kind who stole their stock and made life miserable for them.  By this time Church Authorities had organized the United Order, one camp being called Brigham City near the site of Winslow, Arizona.  Not far from Brigham City was another called Sunset which was presided over by Lot Smith.

While living in the Order, Charles Whiting, with other men, was called by the authorities of the Church to take a plural wife.  This was necessary because there were more women than men who needed protection in the wild, lawless country.   So with the consent of his wife, Verona, Charles was married and sealed to Amy Irene Porter in the St. George Temple on December 1, 1880.  She bore him two children.  Soon after this the Order broke up and Charles with his two wives moved to a little settlement called Wilford in Navajo County, near Snowflake, Arizona.  There two more children were born. 

In the mid-1880’s they were advised by the leaders of the Church to take their wives and move to Mexico where they would be safe under the Mexican flag as they believed that it was not unlawful for a man to have more than one wife in Mexico.  After they moved into the state of Chihuahua early in 1885, another son, Francis Marion, was born to Charles and Verona on May 8, 1885.  He was the first child born in Colonia Diaz and had a wagon box for a bed.  Just a little later a townsite was chosen and Colonia Diaz was established and named for Porfirio Diaz who was the President of Mexico at that time.  Charles was sustained as the First Presiding Elder of the little Branch or camp.

In 1886, Bishop William Derby Johnson, Jr. was made the first Bishop with Martin P. Mortensen and Joseph H. James as his first two Counselors.  Later Charles Whiting and Peter K. Lemmon filled these positions and served until July 11, 1911 when bishop Johnson was released and Ernest Romney was made Bishop.

The summer of 1886, Charles and Verona went back to the White Mountains of Arizona to get some of their belongings and some of their stock which they had left.  Amy stayed with friends while they were gone.  When they returned to Mexico in the fall they were accompanied by Joseph S. Cardon and family.

When the Whitings reached Taylor, Arizona, where Joseph Cardon and the rest of the company were waiting, they were alarmed to find that word had come from the United States officials at Fort Apache that the fierce Indian Chief Geronimo had broken loose from the Fort with a band of his braves, swearing to kill every white man they could find.  People were advised to stay at home and not run the risk of traveling until Geronimo could be captured and subdued again.  Their journey was halted for only a few days, however, for when they conferred with the officials at Fort Apache they were told that if they had quite a number in their party they might be safe because there were soldiers from the Fort trying to hunt down and capture the renegade chief and his band.  So they took the risk and started out. 

They passed Fort Apache unharmed and went on to the Black River Crossing, intending to camp there that night.  But as Brother Cardon was watering his horses on the bank of the river he saw Geronimo on the opposite side.  As Geronimo saw Brother Cardon he grunted, turned his horse and rode up the bank among the trees.  Joseph then went to Charles and told him what he had seen so they decided that it would be better for them to go on up the dugway, after crossing the river, and camp on the top of the mountain. They said nothing to the women for fear of exciting them, and the party proceeded.  The evening meal had been prepared and before eating they all knelt around the fire in prayer, which was their habit.  But now, of course, they realized that they needed the protection of their Heavenly Father in their dangerous situation.  While the prayer was being said a little Indian dog ran into their camp and another could be seen a short distance off.  The horses became excited and they knew Indians were near.  After prayer the men took their guns and crawled in the brush out of camp to investigate.  It was a bright moonlit night and they could see Geronimo with his braves huddled together in a little clearing in the trees as if in consultation.  The men crept back to their camp and stood guard all night.  The women put the children to bed in the wagons, and went to bed also, but they could not sleep.  The men stayed up all night and stood guard with their guns ready, prepared to defend themselves in case of an attack.  But morning came and they were not molested.  Being such a bright moonlit night they could see the Indians as they rode up over the hills in the distance, their silhouettes plainly drawn against the sky.   

The next morning they met soldiers from the fort who told them that at Black River Crossing where they had earlier planned to camp, a boy and a man had been murdered, scalped and their wagons burned.  At Deer Creek, just three miles away, three sheepherders had been killed.  All the way to Mexico they heard of depredations and murders both ahead of and behind them.  They never knew why their lives were spared until their relatives wrote from Taylor, Arizona that a squaw came back to the Fort and told the people there that Geronimo had intended to kill their group, but when he saw them praying to the Great Spirit he was afraid to do so. 

On June 13, 1886 Charles’s second wife, Amy Irene, passed away and in September 1886 her little daughter Linnie followed her in death.  Charles then felt like he would prefer to go back to Springville, Utah, because now he had only one wife, but the leaders of the Church called him to stay in Mexico to help build up that part of the country.  Consequently, in 1889 he was married to Anna Eliza Jacobson.  To this union were born six children.

Charles was always a faithful Latter-day Saint.  When he was driven from Mexico in 1912, he lost all he had except the teams he drove out, but he did not owe one dollar to anyone.  He had always been a faithful tithe payer, and served faithfully in every Church office that he was called to accept.  He lived faithfully and kept the Word of Wisdom in every detail.  He was a quiet man, passive and patient in disposition, a peacemaker, always hating trouble with his fellowman.  Not caring to be a leader, he always liked to be in the background.  He was very modest, kind and patient with his children and was a man of few works.  He never punished his children severely but they knew that when he corrected them or told them to do something that he meant what he said and that he expected obedience.  The held him in high esteem.

For a time Charles was engaged in the cattle business because there had been an abundance of moisture and the range for cattle was especially good.  He was prospering and doing well financially, but because his two oldest sons became involved in with unsavory characters, cowboys and outlaws who sought refuge from the United States law south of the border, he sold his cattle at a sacrifice and made farming as a main occupation.  Colonia Diaz was so close to the border that many rough, bad men drifted in.  There was also the problem of La Ascension, just five miles across the river from Colonia Diaz, where liquor of all kinds could be purchased with no restrictions as to youth.  This had a bad influence on the community.  Charles and Verona decided that if their oldest son, Charlie, who had always been a well-behaved boy, could be led off by bad company, the rest of their sons and those of the second family of Charles were also vulnerable.

After they left Mexico, Verona went with her daughter Amy and family to St. Johns, Arizona.  Charles stayed with his third wife, Eliza, close to the border.  His sons, Charlie and Bernard, also stayed as did Ezreal Thurber, Amy’s husband, to see if they could get some of their property out of Mexico.  They did manage to slip into Diaz to bring out a few articles of furniture and some of their horses and cattle.

Charles and Eliza lived in a little shack at Franklin, Arizona and one day while they were gone it caught fire and was burned to the ground.  All they had left were the clothes they were wearing.  People were very kind and got up a collection for them.  The Bishop of the Ward brought Charles $100 in cash.  He said all his life he had paid his tithing and fast offerings and this $100 received back from the Lord’s storehouse helped him more than any gift he had ever received, for it came when he was really in need.  He moved to St. Johns the next spring and his brother Edwin and his nephew Eddie gave them employment.  His mother had passed away just before they were driven out of Mexico.  She owned two city lots n St. Johns and the brothers of Charles felt like she would want him to have them so they were deeded to him and lumber was available from his brother Edwin’s sawmill.  Consequently two lumber houses were soon built on them, one for Verona and one for Eliza. 

Charles freighted for his brother and sons.  At first he sawed timber for them with his son-in-law Junius Cardon.  The later he hauled grain and other freight including lumber from his brother’s sawmill in the mountains. 

On his 64th birthday, December 16, 1916, the family gave him a surprise party. He had remarked when the youngsters were celebrating their birthdays that he would soon be 64 years old and had never had a party in his life, so we surprised him.  His nephew, Eddie Whiting, brought him a big armchair from the store. He received other nice gifts but did not live long to enjoy them. One day about a year later, while hauling grain from Springerville to St. Johns, his horses became frightened of a dead horse lying by the side of the road.  He had a team of draft horses that were high-spirited and not very well broken.  The team lunged and pulled him off the load.  He fell under the wagon and one wheel ran over his head, crushing his skull.  He died instantly.  This was on December 20, 1917.  His son Bernard was freighting with him just ahead on the road.

This was a terrible tragedy to his families who were dependent on him for support, but his love and kindness was the thing that was missed more than anything else.  He had always had a hard life.  Yet, he had always lived within his means.  He was never rich in worldly goods but had, through the years, built two good brick homes for his two families and owned two farms all paid for.  Then when the Revolutionists drove the colonists out of Mexico, he had to leave everything.

Never did he receive one penny for any of his property in Colonia Diaz.  But he never complained.  He always was a peacemaker, disliking bickering and trouble.  He was also talented but very modest about it.  We loved to hear him sing with his melodious voice.  Although he never wanted to display any of his dramatic ability he was amusing to listen to, especially when he would joke and tell things about the English.  His wife Verona was English and he liked to tease her about her nationality.  His talent was passed on to some of his children.     

His children revere the memory of their dear father who was a shining example of righteousness, patience, ambition and kindness.

Mae Whiting Cardon, daughter.

Nelle Spilsbury Hatch Stalwarts South of the Border page 772

William Carroll McClellan

Leave a reply

William Carroll McClellan

1828-1916

William Carroll McClellan, son of James and Cynthia Stewart McClellan was born in Bedford County, Tennessee, May 12, 1828.  He was the eldest of 12 children, six boys and six girls, all of whom grew to adulthood and married, raising families of their own.  Some of them, including Williams, lived to a ripe old age.

William remembered little of the place of his birth as his parents moved to Shelby County, Illinois in the spring of 1833, when he was five years old.  There they squatted on a quarter section of land but made no effort to prove it.  In 1834, his father bought property from a man named Silver that was already improved with a cabin, smokehouse, and corn crib.  This small claim lay in the bend of the Oker or Kaskaskia River, but it was fenced and the land was “broke.”  The nearest neighbor was three-fourths of a mile away, but the next nearest was two-and one-half miles distant.  Here he spent the following six or seven years of boyhood on the farm, growing corn in the summer, feeding hogs and cattle in the winter, with little chance for education except what his mother could impart of reading and spelling.

His father’s economy and industry soon surrounded the family with the comforts of life.  Hogs and cattle sold well and fattened on the range for most of the year. Chicago and St. Louis furnished good markets for all he had to sell.

Under these prosperous conditions the early Mormon Elders found them and taught them the Resorted Gospel.  His parents were baptized in 1840.  His father, anxious to meet the man through whom the Gospel had been restored, made a trip to Nauvoo, Illinois.  He was so pleased with Prophet Joseph and Nauvoo that he bought property in the fast growing city, and returned home determined to sell out and move to Nauvoo.  This was not an easy thing to do.  Their farm was one of the best and largest in the country, containing 600 acres of cultivated lands.  He finally sold it for part cash and the rest stock.

He sent William to Nauvoo early in the spring of 1841 to look after the land he had bought.  The party tried hard to reach Nauvoo in time for conference on April 6, but arrived the day after.  William was baptized May 12, 1841, when he was 13 years of age.  All summer he chored around their Nauvoo property and returned in the fall to help his father move the family onto it.

Trouble then beset them.  First to happen after arrival was rheumatism, afflicting both his father and other so terribly that they were confined to their beds for three months.  Responsibility for keeping work going both inside and out fell on William, barely 14 years of age.  The great herd of stock they had driven from Shelby needed the card of a man, and a strong one, certainly more than a mere lad was able to give.  During on of the fierce storm that came with winter, the 60 head struck out of their old home, but the river, full of ice, stopped them.  They milled around near the banks until a party took charge and cared for them until spring. Expenses for keeping them cost his father half the heard.  Fortunately, tithing on them had already been paid.  Shares in the Nauvoo House had also been paid, but loss of his stock, with no way of caring for what he had, taxed his resources.  With sickness in the family, bedrock was soon reached.  The slide from plenty to poverty seemed but a short step.  Making a bare living now rested entirely on William’s young shoulders.

All winter he worked for wages.  In fact that was his lot for as long as they lived in Nauvoo.  He worked in the brickyard, did team work, and did much boating and rafting.  The last two years in Nauvoo were spent mostly on the river where, because he could do a man’s work on the water, he was counted on during all hours of the day, and often did emergency work at night.

Near the last of February, 1846, he was asked by J.D. Hunter to meet him and others at night near the upper stone house.  He, Hunter, Charles Hall, Allan Tally, and others with whom he was acquainted, went quietly to Shirt’s lime boat on the bank of the river.  Aboard, they pushed into the stream and floated a mile down the river, pulled ashore and put a wagon and team on board.  William was told to land at a light he could see on the Iowa side.  This was done with few words spoken.  Only two men aboard knew who was being ferried, Hunter and the stranger himself.  William was curious but asked no questions.  This was the beginning of the Exodus.

William stayed several days longer ferrying other parties across.  Then he went home to help get his folks ready to leave with a company.  First he took his father’s team and wagon, loaded with goods, intending to be gone a month.  But instead of being sent back at the end of that time, according to contract, he was sent into Missouri to work for provisions for the camp and was there until May, almost two months.  Letters came from his father concerning his lengthened stay, but they were burned.  Brigham Young, getting word of the inferred absence, wrote William personally, asking him to go to him at once at Garden Grove. He loaded his wagon with cornmeal and bacon, returned to camp and was soon on his way to Nauvoo, accompanied by three or four boys, who had no teams but wanted to return to their folks.

When they reached Nauvoo, he found his folks getting ready to move from the city.  The hostile mobs were making life unendurable.  His party was made of his father, mother, and family, Aunt Matilda Parks, T. C. D. Howell, his grandfather Hugh McClellan, Grandmother Rigby, Gabbit and others.  They crossed the river at Nashville, as there they gained better teams for ferriage.  The weather was hot; they made good time an reached the camp on Mosquito Creek on July 14.  William drove his grandfather’s team on the journey. 

There was recruiting in the camp enlisting men for service in the Mexican War. William’s father gave him the alternative of enlisting and being part of the 500 Mormons they had asked for or taking care of the four families, as well as the families of his Uncle Howell.  William A. Park and James R. Scott were enlisting so William decided to join.  He marked off with the 5th Company to camp on Sarapee’s Point. He received his outfit and supplies at Leavenworth and marched on to Santa Fe.  From here a party of invalids and laundresses left the detachment and were sent to Pueblo, Colorado.  Somewhere on the Rio Grande on November 10, another invalid detachment was sent back to Pueblo.  William was sent with this party to care for the sick.  It was a long, hard trip.  It was terribly cold and four men died; all of them suffered untold hardships, wallowing through the snow, half-clad and half-starved, reaching Pueblo late in December.  Here he stayed until the end of May, faring well with supplies from Bent’s Fort, jutting and getting fresh meat every day.  When he left, they traveled north, striking the old pioneer trail at Fort Laramie, going up the North Platte.  They followed the trail to Salt Lake, arriving July 27, 1847, just three days after Brigham Young and his advance company.  There William was mustered out of the army. 

On August 29, William, in company with 60 men, 30 of them Battalion men, started east for the Missouri River.  They had about six days’ rations per soldier to last them on a journey of 1,000 miles and mostly ox teams to haul them.  The first 500 miles there was no game to be found to stretch out their scanty rations.  The last half of the journey, buffalo furnished fresh meat for the famished men and even a straight meat diet was better than the starvation days, as they had plenty of salt.  They reached camp where William’s parents were the latter part of October, having been absent 14 months.  Both his grandparents had died, but all others were well.  For a year he worked single-handed, jobbing around Missouri. 

On July 19, 1849, he married Almeda Day.  She was his companion until death in 1916, and bore him 12 children in 55 years.  She was a daughter of Hugh and Rhoda Ann Nichols Day and was born in Leeds, Upper Canada, November 28, 1831.  When she was just a child of four, her parents crossed the St. Lawrence River on ice to New York state where the family probably joined the Church.  They sailed by boat through the Great Lakes to Illinois.  She buried her mother in Nauvoo.  There she met William C. McClellan. 

He built a little log cabin and gathered around him enough to make himself and his wife’s family comfortable for the winter.  He intended to stay in Missouri to take over his father’s farm when he moved west in the spring, but the gold rush to California had begun and his father and father-in-law urged him to go.  He had a baby coming, not much to move with, and was hard to convince; but he began making preparations anyway.  He joined his father in putting up a shop for fitting out wagons and other repair work.  But before they were ready to work, the gold hunters were on them, wanting supplies of food and shop work done.  The next June, 1850, he loaded all he had into a wagon and started west with his father, father-in-law, a month-old baby, and reached Salt Lake City early in October.  They passed through a siege of cholera, which cause the death of his brother, and attacked him as well.  He settled in Payson, Utah and lived there for 17 years, going through the hazards of land shortage.  His pioneering in Utah, the first of three such ventures in the United States, bade his pioneering in Mexico an old story. 

In April, 1857, he was ordained President for the 46th Quorum of Seventy.  Then the Utah War came and volunteers were called to guard the pass in the mountains, to fortify and block canyon entrances to keep Johnston’s Army from entering and carrying out threats to exterminate a “seditious and disloyal people.”  William volunteered and all through 1858 did duty in Echo Canyon.  He was called to raise 50 men to help.  Because part of the Payson men he needed were already out, he had to go to Spanish Fork for men to fill his company.  Captain Kite, Major A. K. Thurber of Springville were part of the 500 men who did spectacular work in Echo Canyon under the direction of Lot Smith.  They were instrumental in forcing General Sidney Johnson into winter quarters at Fort Bridger.

In 1863, William’s mother died on April 12, an extreme loss to her family and the community.  She was but 52 years old, so her death was a shock.  William was then called, in company with others, to meet and help incoming immigrants at Florence, Nebraska.  John R. Murdock was captain of this company.  His father, his brother Sam, and himself had a private team, probably owned by Jesse Knight, hauling goods for the company.  They left Florence on the Missouri about the 4th of July on their return home.  The company consisted of about a hundred wagons and four hundred immigrants. 

William was set to caring for women and children who had to walk.  His job was to keep them ahead of the wagons, instead of straggling behind.  William was also camp physician, and kept his medical supplies in his coat pocket.

The Salem Dam near Payson had been washed out four times, taking valuable land with it.  In the settlers’ discouragement they turned to him to replace the dam that meant life to their farms.  The structure he put in the river is still there, having done service for nearly three-quarters of a century.

In the summer of 1865, Indian trouble began.  At first they just acted ugly, but by 1866 they had become mean and hostile and it was necessary to organize for guard duty, keeping men and women in the fields night and day to prevent Indians from even getting near the settlement.  Finally an organized army was necessary for the Walker War was in earnest and William, guarding the settlement, was elected May 8, 1866, Colonel of the 1st Regiment, 2nd Brigade, of Goshen, Santaquin, Salem, and Benjamin.  This was full time work for seven months for the years 1866 and 1867.  There was a little breathing spell during the winter when the Indians could not cross the mountains for the snow.  A treaty of peace was concluded in the fall of 1867 and he resumed his work on Payson where he was a member of the town council, serving several terms. 

William was the prime instigator in extending the borders of Payson and building a canal from the Spanish Fork River.  He kept the work moving, combating the discouragement of those who felt it was too big an undertaking for such a small group of impoverished people.  When the work was finally done, “I am prouder of it,” he said in his journal, “than of any job I was ever connect with.” He was also a prime mover in building the meetinghouse, creating the funds as they went along, and in the process a feeling of unity and brotherhood was made that had not existed before. He also built a Relief Society store.

On May 14, 1873, William entered the practice of polygamy by marriage to Elsie Jane Richardson.  The next year, 1874, he was induced to go in with a few others and made a dairy farm in Grass Valley, Utah County, Utah, a fertile but cold section of the country in the high valleys of the Wasatch Mountains.  Together they farmed a quarter section of farmland and two or three quarters of meadow and pasture land with posts and pole fences.  They built houses and outbuildings and put up quite a lot of hay and made excellent cheese.  William brought in supplies for this mountain valley project.

Early in the spring of 1877, all Payson and Grass Valley plans were interrupted by a call to go with others to settle in Sunset, Arizona, and help establish the United Order.  The call could not have come when prospects for better living were brighter.  He had grown children, some of whom were married yet he began preparations to accept the call.

Fitting wagons to carry foodstuffs, seed and implements, and getting teams and livestock to take along was a matter of ease.  But sales were finally completed satisfactorily, and he pulled out with four wagons, six teams of oxen, a span of horses, and a light wagon, all filled with flour, merchandise and household goods.  A neighbor drove part of his outfit to help him to the first campsite.  William left behind a forest of waving hands from neighbors, all of whom wished him good luck in his new venture.

Not far from Payson, he found his neighbor awaiting him with a broken axle.  But before he had time to investigate, he heard other wagons following with the Payson band in the lead wagon, ready to burst into a lively tune.  Then he knew what was the matter with the “broken axle.”  He also knew, again, what warmth the love and respect of good neighbors can mean and what an uplift their interest in his welfare was.

The United Order was Utopian form of living, where there are no rich and no poor, where everyone shares alike.  By living the Order, the Saints hoped to become like the people of the City of Enoch, so righteous that they “were taken up and were no more, for God had taken them.” Moses, 7:69).  Failing to reach that degree of perfection, they could emulated the Nephites and Lamanites who lived in peace for 200 years after Christ visited this continent, all sharing in common.

Even though the Order, tried by Christ’s Apostles in Jerusalem after His ascension into Heaven, broke up because of weaknesses among its members, and the same failure had come to attempts to establish this Order in modern times, William retaining his hopes that this time it would succeed.  He put all his belongings into the Order when he arrived at Sunset, retaining for his family only what the Order stipulated.  He hoped only for some of the exaltation that blessings from living the Order righteously could bring.  But, after living it for three years and finding that finite men, including himself, were not yet sufficiently perfected, the Order could not be made a success.  He left when the Order dissolved with little more than that which the family wore.  Worse still he was a disillusioned, discouraged man.  For a few years he lived first in one locality then another on the Arizona frontier with little hope of betting his situation until he finally joined a group settling the little town of Pleasanton, New Mexico, a fertile valley near Silver City.

Here a successful and bright future seemed near.  But, too soon, fear was added to the remembered disillusionment and discouragement.  First, there was fear of Indians.  Geronimo and his renegades were on the rampage operating in the area, making fortification necessary for the protection of lives.  Second, there was fear of U.S. Marshals who were invading remote frontiers, bent on arresting every man having more than one wife.

Not relishing the idea of a jail sentence and fine, he acted promptly when, via the grapevine, he heard a “place” had been prepared in Mexico.  He left at once.  With his 16 year old son, Edward, an interpreter and others also seeking the “place,” he left, taking a roundabout way in order to avoid possible encounters with Indians.

They reached La Ascension on February 22, 1885 and with Bate William, who could speak Spanish, they went through the ordeal of customs inspection, a new and bewildering experience.  But more bewildering was that no one was there to lead them to the “place,” or to tell them what to do in the meantime.  They made camp on little Lake Federico where they shot ducks and fought mosquitoes for two weeks when Alexander F. Macdonald and his party, returning from a scouting trip through northern Chihuahua, finally arrived.  He had nothing to tell but to wait until pending land purchases were completed. 

William followed instructions, making camp for himself and others who soon followed and tried to cur his impatience.  He made one trip to Deming for supplies and looked the country over in search of farm land.  Still restless, he finally hitched up his team and returned to Pleasanton, New Mexico, got the farm work going there and with some seed potatoes returned to his camp in Mexico.  There he rented a piece of land from a Mexican and planted his potatoes, but, on account of the drought, not one came up.  He then made another trip to Pleasanton, but stayed only a few days, returning to Mexico about May 1.  By this time he was disgusted, discouraged and desperate enough to return to Pleasanton, get his family into Utah, face the music, or wait until the storm blew over.  Maybe in the country where he had known the greatest peace and prosperity, some of those happy days would return.  He left his grove camp below La Ascension May 19 with this intention but decided, sanely, to spend one more Sunday with the Saints in Camp Diaz.  There, in the meeting, something happened that changed his whole outlook.  A testimony came, a convincing feeling that his mission lay in the land of Mexico., that whatever hardships awaited them, he was part of a people of destiny, and that his place and part in it was to do his best toward fulfilling that mission.

He went to Pleasanton and moved a part of his family not to Utah, but to Mexico.  He joined the people at Camp Turley near San Jose and was in camp when the letter was read from Church Authorities appointing George W. Sevey Presiding Elder.  William raised his had to sustain him and prepared to move with them to land purchased on the Piedras Verdes River.  He was among the number that first settled in Old Town.  By the spring of 1886, he had all his family together there.  He was by now a financial wreck, his experience in Pleasanton having taken what was left after the United Order failure.  But he and his boys dug in, and through sickness, poverty and other ills incident to settling in a foreign land, gradually raised themselves from scratch to a comfortable situation.

He identified himself with the people of Colonia Juarez, did his part toward making it a thriving settlement and set an example of frugality and thrift by getting respectable homes for both his families. He built the first rock house in Old Town, helped survey the East Canal, and made ditches to carry weather from it to town lots.  He worked for good roads and took part in all the labors and doings of the people.

The years of pioneering in Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, and finally Mexico, had taken their toll.  As years piled up, his step slowed, his eyes grew dimmer.   He then took time to write the story of his life for his posterity, the closing paragraph of which reads:

    I will leave a large Posterity, and my wish is that none of them will ever do worse than I have done, but as much better as possible.  It would be a great satisfaction if I could know they would all grow up to be honest, virtuous, upright, and useful members of Society, as these ideas have been my hobby through life. Possibly I rode them too hard, at times for my own good, but yet I think of the poet that said, “A wit’s a feather, a chief’s a     rod, but an honest man is the work of God!”

William endured the privations of the Exodus and moved out of the country with other Church members, leaving two commodious and comfortable brick homes, orchards and town property.  But William took it as he did other losses as “all in a day’s work.”  He died April 19, 1916, in Colonia Juarez.  Almeda and Elsie lived on in Utah for several years, both dying in the homes of their children.

Nelle Spilsbury Hatch

Stalwarts South of the Border, page 437

Senora Fimbres Killed by Apaches

Leave a reply

Senora Fimbres Killed by Apaches

(as written by Nelle Spilsbury Hatch)

In the summer of 1927 Pedro Fimbres with his wife and two children, a boy of ten and a girl of five, set out for Bavispe in Sonora, Mexico.  It was a long, hard journey.  Some places were so steep they had to travel on foot, trailing or leading their horses up and down the tortuous mountain trails.  As they made their way down one steep descent, Senora Fimbres took the lead with the little boy riding behind.  Senor Fimbres followed on foot with the little girl in his arms, letting his horse pick its way down unhampered by a load.  When the little girl asked for a drink Pedro left the trail for a spring of water near by.  As he returned minutes later he heard his wife scream loud and agonizing.   Running toward her he saw Indian Juan jerk her from her horse, throw her onto the ground and begin pelting her with huge stones.  Shouldering the little girl he ran back to where some cowboys were rounding up cattle and gasped out his story.  They returned but when they arrived at the spot of the ambush she was not there.  At the top of a high ledge, on the rim of the round valley, they found the crumpled and mangled body of the woman.  The boy was gone.  As Pedro made his way down to her, through his crazed brain rushed recollection of all the losses he had suffered at the hands of Indian Juan–horses stolen, food caches looted, cattle driven off again and again and now the brutal murder of his wife and his son carried away to be tortured or raised as an Indian.

Pedro could endure no more.  Indian Juan must be made to pay.  Kneeling by the side of his murdered wife, he solemnly vowed “Come what will, I will never rest till you are avenged.”  He would follow Indian Juan to the remotest fastness; he would never stop till he had rescued his son and rescued and exacted full payment for his wife’s death.    By the time he had take her body to Nacori, his desire for vengeance was a consuming passion.  Enlisting friends to help, and being legally deputized to hunt and kill Indians, he left to carry out his vow.  For three hears he followed the wily savage, his thirst for revenge driving him into places where white man had never before set foot.  He combed mountain retreats in search of Indian hideouts following every clue or rumor no matter how wild or seemingly impossible.  When friends tired and left him he went on alone. He even crossed the border into the United States, told his story, and solicited help from the government there.  Failing to get it he returned to continue his search on his own.  Nothing could dissuade him.  No one could discourage him.  No warning checked him.  Even Lupa’s (Geronimo’s great grand daughter)  entreaty that he give up the search lest he lose his life went unheeded.

One day his brother, Calletano, heading his small party, climbed slowly to the top of a high, bald peak.  Weary and worn they sought water from the never failing Indian Spring.  There they would give the country one last over-look, refresh their weary horses, and eat their own meager lunch.  But as they neared the spring they unexpectedly saw Indians approaching it form the other side.  In a split second they realized that their long-sought enemies were near and that chance for vengeance had come.  Secreting themselves they waited.

First to appear was a squaw riding a burro.  They shot her as she was frenziedly trying to extract a gun from the side of her saddle.  A second Indian woman, following close behind darted into oak shubbery for protection but quick shots from the Mexicans wounded her in the arm.  Screaming she continued to run, her dangling arm impeding her as she scrambled over rocks and bushes.  The Mexicans in hot pursuit continued shooting until a fatal shot dropped her in the canyon bed.  Calletano fortunately had not joined in the chase but had remained on the spot where the shooting began.  Almost at once an Indian buck came in sight evidently in search of the reason for the shooting.  His eye took in the fleeing girl with Mexicans in close pursuit and cocking his gun he slipped along their trail stalking the pursuers under cover of rocks and brush, waiting for a favorable time to shoot.  He had not seen Calletano and not until a bullet spattered the rock near him did he realize his own danger.  He darted to cover behind a large tree.  Then began the shooting contest between the Indian behind the tree and Calletano concealed behind boulders.  Each was hidden by the other, except as one or the other darted a quick look to shoot.  Calletano could change his position but the Indian could only confuse by darting his head first from one side of the tree then the other.  Getting the exact level of which these quick peeks were made Calletano sighted his gun and in one deadly shot got his Indian.  Pedro returning with the others found Callentano bending over his fallen victim and recognized his archenemy Indian Juan.  The long search was over.  Indian Juan was dead–not by Pedro’s hand, but dead.  But were was his boy?  Not finding him Pedro’s brain reeled again and blind with rage and disappointment, he ordered the bodies placed in a pile.  He fiercely scalped them and left them to be buried by Cerilo Perez, a rancher they passed on their way home.

Pedro made a report of the killing to government officials and then prepared to continue the search for his son.  But the search ended before it begun.  Perez, when he went to bury the Indians, found that an attempt had already been made to bury them.  In a carefully laid up stone enclosure, covered by a beautiful Indian blanket, lay the three scalped bodies and on a pile of rocks by their side lay the scalped bodies and on a pile of rocks by their side lay the scalped and mutilated body of Fimbres’ son!

Who had killed the boy?  Certainly not Indian Juan who lay dead beside him.  Then who but the savage followers still at large in the hills.  And against them continued warfare must be waged if property and lives in and around the mountains were to be made safe.  Open season on Indians was therefore declared.  Capture or kill was the order.  Every rider through the mountains and every guard in the valley carried arms with which to fight this menace to the finish.

It was the vaqueros from Rancho Harris on the western slope of the Blues who finally located an Indian camp in a secluded valley of the Senora mountains.  With the aid of field glasses they studied the setup and made plans to take the camp by surprise making sure that none should escape.  No one but squaws could be seen, however, and the cowboys had scruples against killing women.  Only in urgent need of wiping out the menace made them decide to go with their plans.  They closed in, shouting and shooting as they rode, killing every squaw in camp as they scattered terrified and screaming, except one woman and girl.  By the trail of blood left, as the woman ran, they knew she could not go far before dying.

The girl was found two weeks later by Bill Byes near Alta Mirana as she roamed the hills in search of food.  Bye’s hounds treed her, the strangest cat they every treed, though one that could fight and scratch as fiercely as any feline.  She was induced to come down after the hounds had been called off, though she continued to fight and scratch at least provocation.  Byes took her to Casas Grandes where she was confined in the Juzgado comun (jail).  There she sat for days, glaring defiance at the crowds who clustered round her bars all hours of the day, contemptuously refusing food shoved in for her until her body collapsed and her proud spirit took flight–another wild heart broken by capture and confinement.

With her death the last Apache Indian in the Sierra Madre wilds was accounted for.  Her burial in the Casas Grandes cemetery rang the curtain down on the Apache menace to peace and safety which had persisted since Geronimo went on the rampage in 1880.

 

 

Lupa – Great Granddughter of Geronimo

Leave a reply

Lupa – Great Granddughter of Geronimo

as written by Nelle Spilsbury Hatch 

In the wild jagged country about 50 miles wide along the border between Sonora and Chihuahua are high rugged mountains divided by deep, narrow canyons. Here trout fill streams while deer, bear, mountain lion, wolves, and turkey range the hills. The climate is mild, and palm trees grow in the lower valleys. There are no weather hazards. Here with food, water, and fuel in abundance, and caves in which to seek shelter, outlaw Indians from the United States and remnants of the Apache Kid band were as inaccessible as natural barriers could make them.  Occasional trappers and prospectors unwittingly furnish guns, ammunition, saddles and tools, and ranchers living in the Arres and Bonita tributaries made good picking when cattle, corn or potatoes were needed.  Even the Mormon colonies in the mountains had lost cattle, horses and mules to them.

Leading the group of Apache remnants in the 1920’s, was Indian Juan.  His atrocities paralleled those of former desperado Indians and he spread terror in a similar fashion. He struck unexpectedly and slaughtered a family from Atla Mirana, Chihuahua, and a woman schoolteacher who were on their way to a weekend visit in Casas Grandes.  He stripped their bodies, looted their wagon, and made off with their mules, leaving the dead to be buried by friends when they found them. He ambushed and killed a Mexican man in the same vicinity and kidnapped the boy who was with him.  The boy made his escape when sent to round up horses and in a few days returned.

Juan’s raids on Mexican ranchers often resulted in killings. His very approach sent whole families scurrying to hideouts.  Capitalizing on this fear he often called out as he rode up in the night, “Soy Indio Juan,” knowing his victims would flee or lock themselves in and leave him free to make off with whatever he pleased. Many ranchers had seen them, knew him by sight, and many more had suffered at his hands. But the pueblitos (little towns) in eastern Sonora suffered most, Nacori being consistently stripped.  Its inhabitants were poor, few in number, with small patches of corn and wheat, few cattle and fewer peach trees. Yet in one night 30 head of stock and the major portion of their winter supply of corn were stolen.

Juan Garabos, Pedro Firmbres, and Abram Valencio went in search of the thieves.  On top of a high peak they found a recent campsite and with the aid of field glasses they located a camp on a nearby peak and identified their missing cattle near. The Indians were preparing to break camp, and the Mexicans made haste to intercept them. To do so they had to slide their way to the bottom of a deep arroyo and climb out again up the steep sides of the high mountain peak. In the bottom, they divided, Valencio climbing the north side, Fimbres the south, and Garabos the east.   High cliffs on the West side made ascent or descent impossible from that quarter.

Closing in they made the ascent without being suspected. Valencio reached the rim first and spied a young Indian riding a mule and guarding cattle near the bluffs.  This Indian shouted an alarm that scattered the Indians into the brush like quail surprised by hounds. But the young Indian stayed with the cattle. First he tried pushing them off the bluffs and when they refused he rushed them to the southern end, Valencio firing wild shots at him as he ran in pursuit.  Garabos and Fimbres, hearing the shots hurried to join the chase, Fimbres met the fleeing Indian face-to-face as he topped the rim on the south.  The Indian slipped off the mule backward and bounded over the southern cliffs like a frightened animal.  All three Mexicans followed in close pursuit, shooting at the fleeing Indian each time he came in sight.

He climbed down a cliff, leapt off a precipice, and darted into a cave, where he was crouching in fear and fatigue when they caught up with him.  They beckoned for him to come out, threatening to shoot him if he didn’t, but the Indian only hissed and growled back.

Finally Garabos laid down his gun, went in, and much to the surprise of himself and others, led the captive out by the hand.  They were further surprised to find the captive to be, not man, but a girl about 13 years of age. She was dressed in expertly tanned buckskin and calf hide. Her moccasins reach to her knees, were stitched and artistically trimmed with beads. Short calfskin pants, and with their hair left on, were covered by a short but skin skirt. A soft, smoked buckskin jacket, fringed at the bottom and latched at the throat complete her costume.  High cheekbones and a around plump face indicated her true Apache descent.

Once the girl had surrendered she stopped fighting and calmly allowed herself to be led off. They returned to the Indian camp and gathered up everything the Indians left— which was everything, including the girl.

Allowing her to choose her own mounts they all started for Nacori.  Her choice was a sorrel burrow which she wrote without saddle or bridle. She showed no emotion, never once looked back, nor made any attempt to leave trace or sign by which they might follow her. After an hour or so she began cutting capers on the burro.  She rode standing first on one foot then the other and then on both. She rode backwards, then squatted on the donkey’s haunches.  She slipped off his back, trotted along his side, then vaulted to her place again like a trained acrobat, never seeming to tire.

When they camped at night she helped unpack, unsaddle, and tether the animals, then wolfed her tortillas and gulped her coffee. Refusing a blanket they offered she curled up on a piece of rawhide on the ground near the fire and slept like a tired kitten.

When they arrived at Nacori and had distributed the stolen articles to rightful owners, the question of who should have the girl was decided by drawing lots.  She fell to Valencio, then she favored Fimbres and spent much of her time with his wife and two children.

They took her to church where she took her vows and became a Catholic.  They christened her “Lupa.”  She quietly adapted herself to Mexican life, learn to speak the language, busied herself grinding corn on flat rock metates, washing clothes on a rock at the creek, sweeping with a broom made of tall grass tied with a string, and weaving hats with leaves from the palms.  She was tall, straight, and agile as a cat.  Her strength was prodigious and she feared no one. She was artistic and her tastes and beautiful work showed plainly her descent from a highly talented and civilized race of people.

She could carve one’s likeness from a piece of bark, touching up personal features till it was at once identifiable.  When one day a cowboy jokingly asked her to “take a picture,” she in a few minutes handed him back the piece of bark. The hat brim had the same droop, the jacket the correct number of buttons, the chaps the same trimmings, his mouth the same curve, finished with the bowlegs of a cowboy.  He was friendly and agreeable but refused absolutely to talk of her past tribal life.

After about three months she was given permission to return to her people if she desired.  She took a few tortillas, some ground corn and set out a-foot, refusing the horse and saddle they offered.  After three days she returned tired and footsore saying she couldn’t find them. Three months later she was again given the privilege. This time she returned after weeks absence saying she didn’t want to find her people now, finding her so Mexicanized, they would surely kill her.

After that she seemed content although she often took long walks alone. (In 1954, at the time Nelle Hatch wrote this, Lupa, great-granddaughter of Geronimo, still lived in Punta Pinal, a little Valley between Garcia and Hop Valley in Mexico)  said that she married a man a drink a lot and that she told him that if he would straighten up and stop drinking she would show him where there is enough gold to make him the richest man in Mexico.

 Taken form Pacheco History and Stories Compiled by Sylvia Lunt Heywood