Sully Richardson stories

Sullivan Richardson stories

MORMON INDIAN RELATIONS

by Sullivan Calvin Richardson

5 THOMPSON RANCH MASSACRE

When the years of drought started in Northern Mexico, I had 47 head of cows and heifers, and I thought we could begin to live without worry from their increase. But when it was over, and the country began to smile, though I had taken quite a number on pay for teaching, we had only nine head to start with again.

During those years, feed was so scarce around Diaz, Charley Whiting and I thought we might save our best cows by taking them into the mountains near Colonia Pacheco. Eliza (Anna Eliza Jacobson Whiting) and Teresa (Amy Teresa Leavitt Richardson) felt they could do well making butter and cheese through the summer and would like to try. We drove a herd to Dry Valley northeast of Pacheco, nearly north of Pratt's Ranch, where we built a log house and corral. We contrived what conveniences we could fix up, then left Teresa and Eliza, with Will Donaldson and Little Charley (Charles Whiting Jr) to help with calves and ranch work.

In those swails and little valleys were the most interesting remains of ancient terraces I ever saw. In one where there is little drainage, rock terraces from eight to twelve feet apart, were so little disarranged, one almost looked to see the little old time natives at the next turn, still working in corn and beans.

Just south of Pratt's Ranch where the rocky side hills rise abruptly some 300 feet, are the remains of a well graded road, the lower side walled up with rock. And around the point of the hill in sight of the ranch were the walls of quite a city, still from three to five feet high. In one room was a large olla (earthen jar) about ten feet high and nearly eight feet through perhaps used for grain. On the flat in front, is a spring where one can ALMOST imagine the inmates of those dwellings going for jars of water.

That mountain range with such fine grass seemed a most wonderful, inviting, interesting place and opening for our future. But in riding the range, Uncle Charl and I often saw signs that indicated trouble. In one place, a fine fat animal had been shot down ...a piece of the choicest meat taken the rest left to rot in the sun.

The "Kid" was a young Apache that had been sent East to Philadelphia and educated. He later repaid it by breaking out with a little band and made himself an outlaw in his own tribe by running away with the squaw of another Indian. Then, after terrorizing the Arizona country, had for several years led a wild life in the strong holds and fastnesses of the Sierra Madre Mountains in Mexico.

However, there was enough outlaw work going on, so the signs did not especially indicate Indians. After the girls were as comfortable as we could make them, Uncle Charl and I each loaded our wagons with lumber and started back to Diaz. But at Casas Grandes we learned that the Kid and four or five followers had been seen crossing the valley above, going towards Pacheco, which would also mean the Dry Valley Country. We quickly hitched our four wagons together for Charley to take our loads on home, and on one of his animals, not so good in the team, with feet in better shape for riding, I started back to our girls in the mountains.

In Colonia Juarez, I borrowed a Winchester from Brother Harris. Near midnight I was on top of the mountain, and soon after found Joseph Turley at a late campfire. For some miles I had been suffering with a miserable cramp which the riding aggravated, so I stopped at his fire until four o'clock ...never once realizing what that stop meant for me.

At "The Park" I left the road and started over the ridges to Cave Valley. Soon after daylight I saw a fine deer, and thinking how acceptable at might be to some of the folks, got off my horse, took rest on my knee and snapped the gun at it. A second snap did not go off, and I threw in another cartridge. When it did not go off, I looked and found the needle of the Winchester was broken. I was without an arm of any kind.

I went to Cave Valley, told them about the Apaches, borrowed another gun, and rode on to Williams' Ranch to warn them. From Williams, I had ridden about two hundred yards when I met the little girl from Thompsons' with the dog. I turned off to tell her she must not be off alone, when she interrupted me with: "The In , Ingi , Ing , Ingines is awful bad over there:"

"Over where?", I asked.

"Over , Over to , You know: You've been there."

"Over to Thompsons?"

"Yes. They shot my brothers ...and my Grandma ...and then hit her in the head with a great big rock."

"And you have come alone, clear here?"

"Yes ...me and the dog. My brother is lying under a tree back on the road."

It might have increased the danger to the little girl to put her on the animal I rode; and she was so near the ranch, so I said, "The ranch is right there so close now ...just around those trees. Maybe I had better hurry on and get a crowd to go back, and you come right on."

Really, I am sure I ought not to have left her. Certainly it would have been serious even to leave her side if the Indians had been following her. But they had gone east over the hills, so the boy and girl had come unmolested until the boy had to lie down while she came on. She walked up to the house as Williams and I were talking. I hurried to Cave Valley and soon had a party of men on the way back.

Though shot through the body, the brother had walked about a mile and a half from Pratt's to Williams, then lay down in the shade of a tree while she went on.

Father Mortensen, who had had experience in the Indian troubles in Utah, went to work with the wounded; and surely there was still a great work for the boy to do on this earth, for he soon got well.

Before daylight, the Indians had come and hid in the rocks about sixty yards south of the Thompson house, and waited until the boys had their breakfast and started for the field to work. Then one came around the stack and shot the older, killing him instantly.

Another came around the corner of the log house and shot the younger through the body ...the ball coming out about three quarters of an inch from his backbone, but did not knock him down.

He stood half paralyzed until he saw the Indian throwing another cartridge in, and knowing he would shoot again, fell. The Indian turned and went into the house. The boy lay a few minutes, then crawled into the lumber chicken coop, and watched through the cracks.

The grandmother came out leading the little girl around the corner of the house, when an Indian came, caught the girl from behind her, and shot the grandmother. When the little girl jumped and tried to strike him, it seemed to please him and he started to take her to where the squaw was in the rocks.

He had cut a tug from a harness and hectored her by letting her start to run, then throw the tug over in front of her feet, holding each end, and trip her down. She would jump up and try to scratch and hit him. He would laugh as they worked their way towards the rocks. But when a call came from the house, he left her and went inside.

The old squaw squealed and laughed when the grandmother was shot, but her attention was not on the little girl. Being left to herself, the girl quickly went to where her brother had fallen and was called into the coop.

It was supposed the Indians had found money in a trunk. But when the excitement was over they came out, and as the boy and girl were not in sight, probably thought they were gone, and hurriedly packed what they wanted... ripped a feather bed open for the tick... cut leather from the harness, loaded cheese, etc. and left.

When they had been out of sight over the hill to the east for some time, the two watchers crawled cut and started for Williams.

The grandmother had shown signs of returning consciousness until one of the Indians struck her in the head with a large rock. Even after all this, she came too enough to sit up and lean against the wall. When we came, she still sat there almost as if alive.

If I had kept traveling as I fully intended, I would just about have been there with them at the time of the attack ...with a broken gun. I would probably have had no chance to use it, however good it might have been.

From Williams' we had brought a wagon along into which the bodies were put, then led by Robert and Vance, and one or two others, we started for Dry Valley.

The Indians had left almost in that direction, but I felt an assurance that the folks were safe. Yet it gave a most delightful thrill as we started across the valley to see one of the girls at the door of the log house.

With real thanksgiving, the animals were double loaded with necessities and those who couldn't walk, and we began that seven or eight mile trip in a race with the declining sun. The feeling was shown when Brother Vance started up the hillside with, "Don't think I�ll leave you! I'll be at your back ...or rather front... where no one can come on us with a surprise. We can't have any ambushing with this crowd!"

An idea of the reality was shown when about a third of the way over, Brother Vance called from the brow of the hill, "get into shelter! Someone is coming on horses."

At first Teresa objected to quitting the trail until she found the little ones and all the outfit were to be as nearly hidden as possible. She afterwards said one of the pictures of the trip was how quickly Gilbert was swung from my shoulders into his place; and all was quickly ready for what must be met.

Brother Vance again called, "OK! It's our own folks!"

When the outfit with the Thompsons were out of all possible danger, three of the brethren, not knowing what we had met, had come to our aid. Not being acquainted, the names of those who did so much for us left my memory before I wrote it. But not all could go in comparative comfort. However, the experience took the glamour from our mountain pictures and sent us back to Diaz, where Apostle Teasdale had almost insisted we should settle.

Uncle Charl came for us and we learned that Irena (Martha Irena Curtis Richardson), through prayer, had received a manifestation of our safety; so much so that she had slept in peace and contentment. When Uncle Charl went in to say that Apostle Teasdale had sent a runner to stop all worry, she could smile and reply that she had known it from the night before.

Teresa says one of the men who came for us was named Nelson, and adds in detail, "The girls had just got their washing out, and each made a little bundle of wet clothes to carry in their arms with their babe. Only one of the animals on which we came was gentle enough to trust them on, so they had to take turns riding it. That was a change they needed since they had their arms full of clothes besides their babe.

She remembered that log house filled with pans of milk, butter and so many things that bore evidence of struggles and work. The sights and events of that trip and being in constant dread of meeting Apaches all fade into insignificance with the sight, as we rode up to the ranch just at sundown, of lonely Old Father Thompson gathering in his herd of cows. To her, this seemed to be the most dreary, desolate scene she had ever looked upon.

He had been away at the saw mill during the raid, and had such a sad homecoming. Marks of blood upon the walls showed the awful signs of that horrid raid on every side.

Perhaps it was emphasized by that trip that her whole being was filled with mingled fear and faith. Her arms were seemingly welded to her little ones with a power that never could be loosened, but her whole soul almost melted at that picture, the most touching sight of her life.

Afterwards, signs of the "Kid" were often seen in the vicinity. One time, three prospectors were camped on a ridge seven or eight miles west of Pacheco. Their guns were leaning against a tree by the campfire. They were talking of the "Kid", when the one who was standing cooking, saw him rise from behind a small ledge about fifty yards away and raise his gun. With "There he is now" he sprang for his own gun, but as the shot was fired, he fell over the feet of his comrade, which probably saved his life.

The Indian dropped out of sight, but one of the three men got so excited, he started off on a run. The other two, with guns ready, watched for another sight of the Kid. When he did not show up again, they were sure he would sneak around to get them from some other shelter, and followed their companion.

From the brow of a ridge, they saw him nearly two miles away, going slanting up the side hill from the canyon still on a run. It was said he was so badly scared, he ran clear to Pacheco. Men from that colony soon met the others, and all returned to find nearly everything taken from their camp.

At another time, two boys were caught out from home so late, they thought to stay for the night at the house where the Thompsons were killed. But they found the place already occupied. An Indian was there, cooking in the fireplace, who talked as good English as they.

He began to talk of the people who had been killed there and told of that old woman who died so hard. He said there was lots of money in that old place. He asked where the boy and girl went, etc., until the boys concluded it was the Kid himself. He seemed to be watching for others to come. At last, when he went for water, the boys threw on their saddles and left.

But he came again later, and stayed for quite a while. For some time the colonists knew things were being taken from homes and fields. Once when three of the brethren were on the range, they found where another beef had been freshly killed ...the best parts taken... the rest left to rot. They thought it indicated Indians, but might be Mexicans, and started on their tracks. With a rifle, a shot gun, and a pistol for arms, they followed the tracks up a canyon, and at the forks, the trail went up on the mesa between.

On top, all would be in favor of those followed. A look out would give them every advantage, so they went up one canyon to where it circled in so near the other fork that a low saddle was formed. Near the top of it, they concealed their horses, then crawled up to the trail.

No one had passed, so they went cautiously back up to where they could look out upon the mesa, and scarcely a hundred yards away, a little band of Indians was waiting.

One was just coming from the brow of the mesa where he had been to see if anyone was following. Another went to take his place. A narrow escape for them, coming just when they did!

Being Indians, the brethren would have been glad to leave, but could not do so without endangering their lives. Had they been Mexicans, they would have taken them back at almost any hazard. But under the conditions, impossible to leave without being seen, they could only stay in concealment near the trail ...sincerely hoping the Indians would go off the other way.

At last, however, all was packed up ready, and the little band rode straight towards them, and were within a couple of rods, when the Indian in lead saw them. Then, there was no avoiding it and the three fired.

The leader, who was the Kid, was shot through. With the most fiendish looks, he caught his gun (which luckily he had put in the scabbard), but it caught and hung. He tugged and jerked 'til it was almost out, and then he began to reel and fell.

Brother Harris said if it had come out easily, he was sure one or more of them would have been killed before he went to the ground. The Indians left alive, went the other way as fast as horse flesh could carry them and the country was at last free from dread of Apaches.

The Mexican authorities came from Casas Grandes, followed by some of the brethren from Colonia Juarez, anxious to see that no injustice was done. But all decided it was really the "Kid" and exonerated the brethren.

(Note: Two ...perhaps more ...accounts of the final end of the "Apache Kid" have been given to the public. In one, he was said to have been shot by a member of his band, but the above may still be proven true by quite a number who personally knew. Besides, the three were present when the Mexican authorities passed the judgment that it was really the "Kid".)