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Senora Fimbres Killed by Apaches

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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

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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