The Story of Geronimo
Copyright© 2025 by Jim Kjelgaard
Chapter 4: Massacre
Again it was spring, the spring of 1858, and almost the entire village of Mimbreno Apaches was on the move.
Twenty or more youngsters, who couldn’t contain their own bubbling spirits and wouldn’t restrain their lively ponies, led the main column by half a mile. Next, riding his immense war horse and surrounded by his sub-chiefs, came Mangus Coloradus himself—a giant of a man and a great leader. Immediately behind this group were more than three hundred pack horses and burros. Their packs bore tanned skins, fruit of the saguaro cactus, edible roots of the mescal plant, and other trade goods.
The pack train was guarded by warriors who rode on either side. Far enough behind so that they would not be bothered too much by the dust of the pack train, came the remainder of the warriors, the old people, and the women and children. All were mounted. Some of the smaller children rode four or five to a pony. They were going on a holiday of the happiest sort.
Though the Apaches were usually at war with the Mexicans, they had arranged a peace so that they might have their great annual trading party, or fiesta, in Mexico. Most of their trading would be done in the town of Casas Grandes, deep in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. But before reaching Casas Grandes they intended to stop and trade at a smaller town which they called Kas-Kai-Ya.
Two and a half miles short of town they halted and set up camp. This was a simple enough business. Most of the Indians just cast their blankets down on the ground and arranged a fireplace. Some cut green saplings and thrust the thick ends in the ground to form a circle. Next they bent the tops together and held them with buckskin thongs. Then they thatched the walls with deer skins or blankets.
Geronimo started building such a wickiup for his mother, Alope, and his three children. His two daughters, ten and five, and his seven-year-old son tried so enthusiastically to help him that the wickiup never would have been built if Alope hadn’t taken charge.
The Apaches had not stopped so far from Kas-Kai-Ya because they were afraid of the Mexicans. But, though Mexican women might roam at will in Apache villages, no Apache woman would think of showing herself in a Mexican town. Besides, trading was a man’s business.
Leaving enough warriors to protect a peaceful camp, the eighty men who were going in town to trade set out, led by Mangus Coloradus himself. They took only thirty horses, twelve of which were laden with trade goods. The rest of the trade goods and the pack horses and burros were saved for trading in Casas Grandes.
Every warrior except Geronimo had a hidden knife. Some carried hidden pistols, and a few had carbines, or short rifles, thrust inside their breeches. To enter the town openly armed would surely provoke a fight, and a fight would spoil the holiday. But even though they were supposedly at peace, no Apache ever trusted any Mexican and no Mexican ever trusted any Apache.
Geronimo carried only a buckskin pouch filled with yellow metal that, to him, hadn’t the slightest value. Made into arrow or lance heads, it blunted on almost any target. It was too heavy for hair or ear ornaments, and useless to the Apaches except as playthings for the children. But the Mexicans, who called the metal oro—gold—prized it greatly.
The traders reached the sun-dried brick wall enclosing the town of Kas-Kai-Ya and found a squadron of rurales drawn in formation across the gate. All these soldier police were mounted and armed, and their snapping black eyes were filled with hatred for Apaches. As Geronimo knew, there was good reason for this hate. Apaches had raided too long, too often, and too successfully in Mexico to win any friendship from rurales whose duty it was to stop them. Mangus Coloradus addressed the uniformed officer:
“Buenas tardes, Señor Rurale. We would trade.”
The officer made an effort to stare Mangus Coloradus down, and when he couldn’t do it, flushed angrily. But he replied civilly:
“Buenas tardes, good afternoon, Señor Apache. You may enter.”
The rurales drew aside, let the Apaches through the gate, and then reformed across it. The Apaches braced themselves to meet the horde of peddlers that screeched and squawked down on them.
Geronimo was confronted by a lanky man whose only garment was a tattered serape, or blanket-like robe, that was draped over one shoulder and pinned at the sides with thorns. His hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed in years, his beard was as tangled. His body was dirty. His eyes were both cunning and humble.
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