HENRY SMITH
TURKEY CREEK
Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

My parents came to Cochise County in 1861. My father drove three stage-coaches in from California, each loaded with Chinamen, for which he received one hundred dollars per head, as I have heard him say.

We early set out fruit trees, and I have peddled many a load of fruit in Tombstone, Bisbee, and to ranches in the vicinity. Mother believed in the establishment of all that makes a farm home. We had the first bees of anywhere around, which she and the Riggs’ brought into the country.  There are our old rose bushes whose trunks are as large as those of a full-grown tree. We have three trees set out in ’79, still yielding pears. We were not the only ones who tried to establish a real home in the Arizona Territory.

We had cattle too, of course. Pasturage was very different in those days, with the grass hip high. I have seen the creek run clear to Willcox, steadily for a whole year. There were drought too, but not a steady drought, year after years, such as we now experience. There was a drought in the early nineties, during which cattle companies for miles around brought their saddle horses to our place to water, our well being the only one near which did not run dry.

The Indians were fairly well subdued before our arrival, although there were plenty of depredations on a small scale for some time after. Indians would kill a lone rancher or freighter or homesteader, steal his supplies and horses. Wagons they invariably burned; these would have delayed them too much to try and keep. When I was quite small a freighter, Charlie Reynolds, used to stop frequently at our place on his way to and from the old sawmill to Tombstone. Once he told Mother that this was to be his last trip—he had made a little stake and intended retiring. The Indians got him at Antelope Springs. It was indeed his last trip. Later, at the capture of Geronimo by General Crook, Charlie Reynold’s horses were identified among those held by the Indians.

Whenever Indians were known to be out, couriers used to ride by each ranch house and notify the residents. All then congregated at some house or locality easily defended. Once a courier rode by the place and said that the mountains were full of Indians. He had already warned many of our neighbors, and shortly after his arrival they began to come in, since our place was considered a fair location for defense. The courier rode on to warn others. About sundown, Buckskin Frank Leslie rode in and told us that it was a false report. No Indians were out. Our neighbors remained overnight, but as there was no sign of Indians, they left very early in the morning; many of them having pressing work. As we were eating a late breakfast, I happened to glance through the back door, from where I was sitting at the table. Just behind the woodpile a file of savages were stealing silently along the ridge. I could see neither end of the line, and sat petrified with astonishment for a few minutes. The Indians went straight up the canyon, cutting our fence as they went. Further up was a rancher named McGowan. Him they shot, not seriously, but he bled more than I have ever seen another person bleed. They made no attempt to molest us.

Another time when my parents had gone to the Riggs ranch, leaving us boys at home, we had quite an Indian scare. We were at the upper place—now my home. Some punchers rode in after their departure, and we had a few games of cards, interrupted by a courier announcing Indians, about two hundred of them, he said. We wanted to get to the home ranch, where the courier said others were gathered for defense, but Indians were too close behind the courier, and between us and the home ranch. We luckily had horses up. So we took to horse and rode up the side of the mountain to the ‘point’, as we called it. We stayed there until about twelve o’clock that night, when it became so cold we could no longer endure it. We then decided to try and make it to the home place in the dark. We detoured in the hope of avoiding Indians, but ran into them by detouring, since they had started for Mexico. We were right in their midst before we discovered them, and there was nothing to do but ride on, trusting to their dislike of night fighting. They seemed to be superstitious about fighting at night. At any rate none of the Apaches fight at night, to the best of my knowledge and belief. My hair rose steadily and grew several inches as we rode through a narrow pass with Indians on either side, standing solidly and silently. But nothing happened, and we reached home safely. The Indians were on down the valley, helping themselves to horses at the Spike S. About daylight or a little later they ran into Bill Daniels and Dave Malcolm out from Tombstone. They killed Daniels, but Malcolm escaped.

The Apaches were cowardly in open warfare. I know that once Fry and Bridger held off almost two hundred of them at Bridger’s homestead. Mrs. Bridger had a pet goat, and in fear that the Indians would make off with it, she suddenly ran out to secure the goat. The Indians shot at her several times, but came no closer to killing her than a bullet hole though one of her sleeves.

Johnny Fyffe, a Mormon who lives up the canyon, had a very narrow escape. With companions, whose names I have forgotten, he was surrounded by Indians. They killed his companions and wounded Johnny, who crawled into a thicket to defend himself. On three sides of the thicket were steep, rocky walls, over which a wounded man could not hope to escape. Having no desire to face a good fighter at bay, the savages took an easier method—they build a fire in front of his thicket, and took to the rocks themselves to take him as he attempted escape. But he outwitted them. He crawled through the fire and got away.

I believe that there is no truth whatever to the stories of buried treasure in these mountains. The outlaws spent their money freely, most of it getting away from them in games. None of the outlaws were a match for the professional gamblers, who I am sure profited more from stage and express-car holdups than the perpetrators themselves. I have seen gold piled on gambling tables so high the players could not see over it, and each player with his six-shooter across his knees.

I used to see a great deal of so-called outlaws and bad men, most of whom were well educated, gentlemen, more refined than the unusual freighter or cowboy. My father kept a saloon for a while near the ranch, and of course, the outlaws spent some of their time there, as well as at the Galeyville and Charleston hangouts. Sometimes they would be at our place for two or three weeks at a time. I used to serve drinks when I was so small I had to stand on a stool to see over the top of the counter. I am still small, you will notice. The outlaws used to lie around on the beds and shoot at lizards, flies, and anything which met their eyes. The walls and ceiling of the saloon were soon full of holes, but no one minded little things like that. They had to have something to do to pass away the time! Once one of them went a little too far, though. I was pouring whiskey into a glass, from a gallon container. One of Curly Bill’s men lying on the bed, carelessly raised his six-shooter and shot the glass out of my hand. John Ringo, who was present, called his hand promptly and in no uncertain terms. It seemed that he had no fear that the man could not shoot straight enough, but only that I might have moved my hand at the wrong time, and might have been “crippled for life”. Any such shooting demonstration was forbidden ever after.

They were a peaceable lot, with no bickering or quarreling. Only one time I remember anything of the sort, a fist fight which was not, in all probability, half as fierce as I thought at the time. Father was away, and I fled to the hills in fright, hiding among the rocks. Soon I heard them calling me, “Come on, Kid. We won’t let them do it again,” and such things. I went in again, half afraid, and all was peaceable.

Before Dan Dowd got into the Bisbee scrape, he and some others held up a stage at Clifton. There was a Chinaman in the stage, who shot Dowd through the shoulder. His partners brought him to Turkey Creek, where he was cared for until the wound healed.

Not long before the Bisbee massacre, John Heath and a group ate supper at our place. Heath had a roll as big as a man’s arm, and he paid ten dollars for the supper.

The Bisbee robbery was planned by Heath, as it turned out later, although he did not participate. We know he was in it before it came out, because the kid who held the horses in a canyon near Bisbee for the five who did the actual hold-up, told us all about it very shortly after the robbery. He said that Heath brought drinks to the five men in the canyon before they started the fireworks.

Dan Dowd, and a fellow named Sample, shot up the street in Bisbee while three others robbed merchants, shoppers, and clerks indiscriminately, taking a few sacks of jewelry and other valuables in addition. Dowd and Sample had to do a little killing in the meantime, and feeling ran pretty high in Bisbee. At first Heath was not suspected, but he talked too much, and two and two together finally convicted him.

The five who participated in the robbery and murder were all caught and hung, to the deep satisfaction of Bisbee citizens. But Heath was convicted of second degree murder only, and a posse of Bisbee citizens came to Tombstone where he was confined, and hung him themselves.

I happened to be in Tombstone at the time. I was eating breakfast in a restaurant, the only customer, as it happened. The waitress glanced out of a window and remarked, “Here they come!” “What?” I asked. By that time I was out in the street, watching . They went to the jail, soon reappearing with Heath in their midst. They had a big, two-inch rope tied around his body to take him to the telegraph pole where the hanging was to take place. This was on Tough Nut Street. I was small, and easily wormed my way into the crowd, so that I saw all that took place, at first hand.

Heath laughed and joked. When they had selected their pole, they made several tries at throwing the rope high enough to get it over. That didn’t work, so some of them tried to climb the pole. That didn’t work either. Finally one of the men stopped over while another stood on his back, and this man succeeded in getting the rope over the pole. They put the noose around his neck and inquired if he were ready.

“I believe it is customary to cover the victim’s face,” he replied, and pulled out his own handkerchief.

Then he suggested that at a proper hanging hands and feet should be tied. When these suggestions were carried out he signified his readiness. He was certainly a brave man. The last sight I had of him was the rope twisting round and round the pole by the force of the wind, which was strong that morning.

John Ringo was the brains of the Curly Bill band, in my opinion. He was a very brave man and very smart, well educated, courteous, his personality was pleasing to all. Probably his outstanding characteristic was his absolute truthfulness. He prided himself on keeping his word, under every circumstance. He never acted like a bad man at all, at least not that I saw. He certainly had the Earps buffaloed, though. They really feared him. Neither he nor Curly Bill nor his gang would steal from poor men—they robbed only those who could afford it. We saw much of Ringo, little of Curly Bill.

Ringo’s death has puzzled many people. But we have never been much puzzled about it. We who lived here where the body was found, and who saw the surroundings and circumstances, are sure that he was murdered and did not commit suicide. Ringo had been “on a toot” with Billy Claibourne and Frank Leslie. They had traveled from saloon to saloon, starting at Tombstone, and going later to Soldier Holes and Pattersons. From Pattersons, Ringo went off alone, saying he was going to Galeyville.

My wife’s father, Bill Sanders, not Ringo, who did not even speak, headed toward Galeyville. Several miles below, Mr. Sanders met Frank Leslie. Leslie asked if Ringo had passed that way, and upon receiving an affirmative reply he hurried on as though he wished to overtake him.

A little below our home place and on the bank of the creek there is a stone seat built into a large live oak tree. In this seat Ringo was found dead the next day by Jim Morgan, a freighter from the sawmill. Mother heard the shot which killed him, about noon of the day before his body was discovered. She thought that my Uncle Will had killed a deer, but he too heard the shot and feared an Indian attack, which brought him hurriedly to the house. None of us knew what to make of the shot, but decided that it might have been one of the neighbors hunting. That evening I drove the cows home just below the stone seat, never dreaming of what it contained. I was but a boy, and no doubt I would have made tracks toward home, had I known the truth.

Ringo had his six-shooter in this right hand, and the gun had apparently fallen as he shot, catching in his watch chain. The watch was still running. I believe that Ringo was shot and the gun placed as it was afterward to look like suicide. I do not remember who was on the coroner’s jury, but the verdict was suicide. Ringo was buried near where he died, and his grave is covered with rocks. It is on what is now the Sanders place; and is visited by tourists and others curious or interested in his story. My wife has a guest book which all sign who visit the grave. There is no truth to the story that Ringo’s body was exhumed and interred elsewhere. We have been here continuously since his burial, and know that he still lies where he was laid after his death.

There were no powder marks of any kind on his body, and to us all signs point to murder, except for his gun, which we believe was deliberately placed as it was. Billy Claibourne said on his death bed that Leslie murdered Ringo, and that he was an eye witness of the murder. Leslie was a man who killed for the thrill of it, and the fact that he was on Ringo’s trail is strong circumstantial evidence to those of us who knew him. (I would call Leslie a genuine badman, treacherous and dangerous.) I have even heard that Leslie afterward boasted of the fact that he “got” John Ringo, although I do not know this to be the truth.
I do know that John Ringo was a man, in the days when it took a man to follow his way of life. I believe that in another way he might have made something important of himself and might have been a power for good in the world. He was very able, this I know.

I remember an incident, rather irrelevant to what I have been telling, which illustrates the difference between a ‘would-be’ badman, and the real article. One of the ‘would-be’s came into the Soldier Holes roadhouse while Ringo was there. This ‘would-be’ started shooting out the lights, and such amateur stuff, telling the world he was out for blood. Ringo laid him across his lap and gave him a good spanking.

“Go on home to Mother,”  Ringo said when the spanking was done. “Tell her not to let you wander too far from home next time.”

We knew Zwing Hunt too. We know that he was not killed as reported, but escaped to Texas, where he lived before homing in Arizona. I saw a letter which he wrote to a friend here afterward. I am sure it was his because of the expressions used, beside the fact that his name was signed to it.

Zwing Hunt became an outlaw after he and Billy Grounds had attempted a hold-up of the Charleston plant, and killed the chief engineer. The hideout of the two was discovered through an attempt Hunt made to get possession of some money owed him, so that the outlaws might escape from the country.

A posse under Deputy Breckenridge went out to take them. Grounds was killed and also several of the posse, although the fight lasted only about half a minute. Hunt escaped, but was shot through the lung as he did so. Some of the posse trailed him, and soon overtook him. Hunt was taken to the hospital where he slowly recovered from his wound. While he was at the hospital a cowboy friend came and took him for a buggy ride, but neither returned to the hospital. There was a pursuit, but it was anything but a hearty one, and Hunt was not overtaken.

They stopped at our place and Mother gave them cotton and bandages for Hunt’s wound. Then they went on to Buckles’ ranch, where they stayed while Hunt was resting up. His brother came from Texas and stayed with him for awhile. After Zwing was able to travel, they started for Mexico, they said; and soon Zwing’s brother rode into a soldier camp and said that they had been attacked by Indians, and that Zwing had been killed. The troops went back to the scene of the fight with the brother, and found a dead man there, which body they buried. Breckenridge afterward went to this spot and dug up the body, which both he and others with him said was Zwing.

I think that this whole story was cooked up so that there would be no further search made for Zwing. At any rate, quite a story of buried treasure was started when it came back that Zwing told relatives that he and Grounds had buried a fortune in loot, and that the treasure was located in a canyon near a peak called Davis Peak. No one knows where that peak is, but a great many people have tried to find it. My father-I n-law, Mr. Sanders, hunted for it all around here, and even in Texas. I haven’t spent much time that way—I couldn’t find treasure if I knew where it was. I have no idea whether there is any foundation to the story or not. At least, no one has found anything of the sort as far as I know.