W.A.WOOD, M.D.

Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

I was born in a little place called Wyandotte on the line between Kansas and Missouri, near where Kansas City now is. This was in the year 1847. My grandmother raised me, and helped me to fulfill my ambition to become a doctor. In 1874 I decided to come west to practice my profession, believing that there was greater need of what I could do there than in my home state. I did find much to do, and if my memory had not completely failed me, I could fill a book with my experiences as a physician among Indians, outlaws, and settlers in Arizona.

I reached Tucson in May of '74. There was a cattle company there, which to the best of my remembrance was called the Green Cattle Company. I was employed by them as company physician, being given my board and room for my services to their cowboys and families. I practiced medicine for miles around, in addition, and made considerable money. I cannot remember any of the details of my life there, although there is a hazy picture of the ranch house in my mind. I know that I spent two years there, after which I returned to St. Louis for some surgical study.

Soon I returned to Arizona, this time bringing with me quite a stock of medical supplies, having learned that it was difficult t secure such things in the west. I made both my trips out in a covered wagon, as well as the return journey. When I needed medicine and supplies I used to send to St. Louis for them. They would come to the end of the road in freight cars, after which they traveled the rest of their way to me as best they could. There were no hospitals available to me and very little in the way of supplies. A doctor certainly had to exercise his ingenuity in those days.

After my return to Arizona I worked from St. John to Tucson, back and forth as occasion arose. I usually traveled alone, not having any fear of the Indians. My confidence in them was justified, for they never offered me any violence, that is, as an individual. I have been in fights with the Apaches in a group with other men, and also with troops, but never alone. The Indians have peculiar ways. The men would seldom come for treatment or co-operate in any way with a doctor. The women had much more confidence. The Indian believed that one treatment, or one bottle of medicine, or one application, should cure. They believed that if there was a headache, the head should be treated, if pain in the foot, that part should be treated. They were never willing to submit to a general examination. It required the exercise of considerable tact to do anything of any worth for the relief of an Indian.

One night an Indian came to my camp after night and wanted me to go to his teepee on the reservation at once. I went with him, and found his wife about to be delivered of a child. She would not permit an examination, so there was little I could do except wait. Soon she gave birth to a fine big boy. I soon saw that there was to be twins, which fact I communicated to her.

"Another", I said, and held up two fingers.

"No", she ansered, very definitely.

I told her husband that there was to be another baby in fifteen or twenty minutes.

"No," he also answered; and nothing I could say would convince any of the Indians present that such was the case. The husband said women gave birth to only one child at a time, and that he knew enough of his tribe's history to know that such had never happened.

When presently the mother gave birth to another boy, I was regarded by the Indians with some awe. Some of them thought it super-human that I should have been aware of the fact before it occurred, while others believed me in some way responsible for the event.

I recall an Indian fight in which I took part, although I cannot remember the exact locality. I was in a small settlement some way below St. John, when the Indians made a raid and carried off some cattle and supplies, killing several people doing. With about fifty other men, I followed the savages the next morning. We did not overtake them during the day, and near nightfall when we reached a partly constructed shack covered with poles, we decided to camp for the night. There was a spring near the place where we refreshed ourselves and our horses. I can see this place as clearly as though it were before my eyes—mountains rising above the desolate little half built shack, the spring below it with thirsty men and horses clustered about it. Suddenly a shot sang above the heads of the men at the spring. The Indians had attacked from the top of the mountains. Cover was none too good for so large a party as ours, and by the time it was dark two of our men had been killed and one or two others wounded. We fired at the spurts of light from their guns as they fired, but we had no way of telling whether or not our fire was at all effective, except that they did not attack us hand to hand.

By pitch dark the attack ceased. Believing that we would be safer if daylight found us in some spot easier to defend, we tried to retrace our steps. We knew that troops from Fort Thomas were somewhere in the locality, and we hoped to reach them. After proceeding on our way for an hour or so, we were attacked from the front. We expected a charge, but after a few shots, the Indians withdrew. We found the troops the next day, and they set out on the trail of the Indians.

I tell this incident because it was little different than scores of other experiences of other people during the early part of my time in Arizona. Pioneers might expect a certain amount of their time would be spent in fighting the Apaches, and that these fights would take a certain toll of lives.

One afternoon a man rode into my camp on the Gila and fell off his horse in front of my door. He had been shot in the arm and was weak and pale from loss of blood. I extracted the bullet and gave him treatment for his wound. He stayed with me for some time, but always he kept a sharp lookout for pursuers. I knew he was a fugitive, either from justice or perhaps from his own outlaw band; I knew somehow that he was an outlaw. When he left me he pressed upon me much more money than my services had been worth. I never knew who he was or where he went. I was not overly curious, my work being to heal and not to judge. I know that he was quite likeable, fairly young, of dark complexion and a size over the average.

Food in those days simply could not be beat. I ate plenty of buffalo meat in my time, lots of elk and venison. We had beef and game, corn bread, sometimes potatoes and beans. Most of the cooking was done outdoors on flat rocks, and deliciously done, too. We don’t have food like that these days.

Around 1900 I came to Pearce region in Cochise County. I was a physician there for years, during which time little happened of any interest. The Indians had ceased to be troublesome. Law and order had come to Arizona to the extent that the outlaw and the bad man were no longer common.

As to my achievements, they seem to have been little enough. True, I have saved many lives, but so does any physician anywhere. Financially I have achieved nothing. I was well paid when I was paid at all, in early days, but much of my service has brought me nothing at all. Pearce was a poor locality for any prospect of financial success, but was the scene of most of my later practice. However, there is in any physician’s life so much of satisfaction in the fact that he is of service to the world, that he cannot feel entirely dissatisfied with any result to himself personally.

Copied from microfilm by Wilola Follett, transcribed by Vynette Sage, made available and maintained on the internet via Jean Walker.

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