ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSON SHROPSHIRE
Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

I left Texas on the first of September, 1885, but it took me most of the rest of that year to reach Arizona.  I started out with a man named Ed Morrow. He was from Philadelphia, and was a Royal Arch Mason. We had a good outfit—an almost new rig pulled by a good horse and a good mule. Our saddle horses followed behind. After a day or so we met a man going to Ascension, Mexico to work in a mine there. He persuaded us to go with him, telling us of the money to be made there. I was no miner, but I was given a job wrangling horses for the mining outfit. Most of my worries were in regard to what I would and could do if Geronimo attempted to steal the horses under my care. Like many worries, they never happened, although Geronimo once shot at my camp.

Before long I said to myself, “to Guiana with mining.” I went to work for a man named Lockhart—the first ranger in Arizona, afterward—then in New Mexico. I was helping him move a large herd of cattle from one range to another. The boss of the herd tried to keep the boys from shooting and raising cain all the time, to keep the Indians away, I suppose. Afterward I helped drive one of his herds to El Paso to market.

El Paso wasn’t much of a burg at that time, but there were quite a few soldiers at Fort Bliss. All we boys shot around more or less while we were in El Paso, and had a general good time. Officers there tried to quiet us down, but there were quite a few of us, and we wouldn’t stand for arrest. When finally the officers threatened to call the troops, our boss made us quiet down. They started us on the back trail as quick as they could, to keep us out of trouble, I am sure. We were still in good spirits, and sang, shot, roped all the cattle we came across on our homeward way, and raised cain generally.

There was a ranch in the Big Florita Mountains in New Mexico, owned by two men, partners. One of them was named Shye, but I don’t recall the name of the other. They had a ranch-house which was built up against a hill. One evening while they were eating supper, Mrs. Shye happened to glance at the window, and saw an Indian peeking in. It was Geronimo and some of his band. The Shyes were the only ones at the house, his partner having gone to Deming for supplies and taken his family with him. The cowboys were all out with the herd, but when the Indians set fire to the house the cowboys saw it, and set out for Deming for help. Because the house was against the hill, the Shye family was able to get out at the back and take to the rocks and brush without attracting the attentions of the Indians. Mrs. Shye and Larry, their eight year old son, crawled away together, while Mr. Shy went another. The Indians managed to shoot Larry in the thigh, although that fact was unknown to them. Mrs. Shye hid Larry in the rocks and crawled away until she thought she was safe to get up and walk toward Deming for help. She had no idea of what had happened to her husband, or that the cowboys had seen their distress.

Shye’s partner was coming from Deming on his return to the ranch, but when the cowboys found him he and his family were dead, killed by Indians. They never did find any of the Shye family, and Larry recovered nicely from his wound, while Mr. Shye and his wife were unhurt. A young lady, Ella Birchfield, living in Deming, had planned to go out to the ranch with Shye’s partner, but for some reason decided against it at the last minute. She would also have been killed if she had gone.

I drifted on up to the San Simon Valley and went to work for the San Simon Cattle Company, whose headquarters were the Seneca ranch. Their range ran for about seventy five miles. The Indians were not troublesome except that they would steal all the horses they could possibly get their eyes on. They killed a few beeves for food, but the real loss was in horses. One evening while I was staying at one of the Company’s horse camps with a boy named Frank Ray, I noticed a bunch of horses running in. I told Frank, “Indians are after the horses. I can tell by the way they set.” We got the horses in the corrals, but the Indians didn’t try to follow them.

We had a mean horse there, which we named Geronimo. One evening while the windmill man, name of Bradford, was there, I got to roping Geronimo. I used a rawhide rope with a knot in the middle, a favorite of mine. Bradford asked for the rope to keep as a souvenir, and I gave it to him. I wonder where it is now?

We worked day and night in those days—I have often danced until sun-up. I was considered the best round dancer in the country. I can close my eyes now and remember the nice waltzes we used to do—they were just like a dream. We went to dances horseback, in wagons, buggies, ox-carts. The only thing we cowboys feared was a woman, but we were drawn by some kind of fascination into their company whenever possible. There were many dances in Bowie, at the old railroad hotel which is still there. I remember the “Lavis girls”--Minnie, Mamie and Lily, all married now, who used to figure prominently in our plans for a good dance.

There was a man who lived in San Simon, called Uncle Gus Chenoweth. He was a government scout, and something of a preacher. He went all over the state, riding a mule, his gun thrust down in his boots. He tells a story which I will not vouch for, but which is interesting. He was in the northern part of the territory, when he was attacked by Indians. The mule whirled suddenly, throwing Gus off. He pulled his gun from his boot as he fell, but the boot stuck in the stirrup and he could not loose himself. The mule continued to whirl with Gus’ foot hanging in the stirrup, and Gus whirling with the mule. Gus says he shot seven Indians while whirling. I don’t believe it.

I worked steadily for the San Simon Cattle Company for ten years, and off and on for some time after that. I had several narrow escapes during that time. I remember once I went down into New Mexico on a trip. Near Las Cruces I stopped at a camp to talk with some acquaintances of mine, Fred Everdone and Jack McClain. It was late and they urged me to stay all night. I decided it was a good idea, and started to take the saddle off my horse. Suddenly a feeling came over me that I should ride on home—I was working for the ‘Diamond Bar’ outfit at Indian Springs in Cook’s Peak Mountains. I went into Indian Springs. Next morning I couldn’t find more than three or four of my horses. I rode back and saw that they had been run off by Indians, of course. The horses had scattered, but the Indians had got away with a few of them. I rounded up all I could find, took them to camp, and then started trailing the others. I trailed them into Mule Spring Road, where McClain and Everdone had their camp. At camp I saw McClain’s fine span of mules dead. I went into the cabin and saw the men’s belongings and tools scattered about, but no sign of the men. On looking into the other room I saw Fred lying on the floor, shot in the forehead. McClain’s dead body was also in the back room. Afterward I found where one of them had been shot on the side of the hill, and then carried into the house. Blood and brains there were covered over with dirt. That was a close call for me. I suppose if I had stayed all night, I too, would have been killed.

A hold-up, called the first Stein’s Pass robbery, took place in about ’86, I think. Bob Hart, Larry Stein, and Joe Johnson held up the train at Stein’s Pass, and got a lot of money. They went through St. Louis Pass into Mexico, and were trailed by Bob Paul, the United States Marshall, after them on account of robbery of the mails. Paul went to Juarez, got some Mexican soldiers, and surrounded the outlaws in an adobe hut with a grass roof. The lieutenant went too close to the house, and was shot and killed by the outlaws. The soldiers shot through the windows for a while and then set fire to the roof. The outlaws came out fighting, and were all killed. Bob Hart died snapping his pistol after he had shot all his ammunition.

Sometime along in ’98 or ’99 the Halderman boys in Turkey Creek killed a beef which did not belong to them. A fellow named Ainsworth was constable in Pearce, and went to arrest them, taking Teddy Moore with him. The boys asked to get their coats before going with the constable. He allowed them to go in the house for their coats, but they got guns instead, and killed both men. They were the first men to be hung there.

Black Jack’s gang, sometimes called the ‘Hi-5’ gang, committed many depredations. Sometimes they worked singly, sometimes together. Black Jack’s captain was called Code Young. Once a fellow named Loomis, who was looking for the gang, was traveling through Skeleton Canyon in the Animas Valley. He met Code Young, but did not know that he was a member of the gang. Young said he was looking for work, and Loomis directed him to the San Simon Cattle Company. Loomis got Young afterward, however, when Young was trying to pull a hold-up. All the outlaws got theirs sooner or later.

When I came to this neck of the woods I worked over around Bisbee first. For a while I was cattle inspector from Hereford to Rodeo. Tovres (?) had a packing plant in Bisbee which kept me pretty busy during that time. In the early 1900’s I went to live in Douglas. I didn’t like the hotel service and was looking for a family to room with. I met the brother of the girl I was afterward to marry, and he suggested that I room with them. I agreed, and he told the family they were to have a roomer for the front room, which now they did not receive with any great joy. I borrowed a delivery wagon from the undertaking parlor to carry my trunk to their house on 9th Street. Ruby—my wife—was looking out the window when it, and I, drove up. She said to her brother’s wife, “Look at that man. I won’t fall in love with him if you won’t!” They laughed about it, but Ruby married me on February 4, 1904, just the same.  We still live in the house on 9th Street, although it has been remodeled and changed considerably. We have raised our family here in Douglas, while I have followed various activities to make a living. I was constable here for some time, and had my share of rough experiences during that period.

Once, just after I had been sick for more than a week, I was told that a Mexican was making trouble over on 4th Street. I shouldn’t have gone, being quite weak, but I went, armed, of course. I tried to take the Mexican without arms, but he grappled with me, and finally pulled a knife on me. I was forced to shoot to save myself. The bullet hit him in the open mouth, going in between his teeth roots, which broke the force of the bullet. He said he swallowed it, and he did spit it up several days later after he had been taken to Tombstone. However, the doctor said it lodged low in his throat and festered there, when a little coughing loosened it and brought it up. However, the story went around that I had shot a Mexican in the mouth, and that he had swallowed the bullet.

Anyway, here I am still alive, and expect to remain so for some time, unless I should dance myself to death.