MRS. MAY BATES

Recorded by Helen M. Smith, Field Reporter

My Mother’s people lived in California, and I was born there, in 1878. My father, Bob Arthur brought us to Tombstone when I was very young; too young to remember anything that happened there. I do know from things I have heard my father say, that he was a personal friend of Ed Schieffelin. We remained in Tombstone about two years then returned to California. Very soon, however, my father was sent for by the Old Dominion Mining Company of Globe. He was a machinist and blacksmith, and he was to oversee the installation of the machinery at the O.D. Mine. The company built us a little house of logs, but I do not know where it was located with reference to the present layout of the town. It was perhaps two miles from the mine, on a hillside as all buildings in Globe were. I remember that there was a wash in front, and that Father built a rude bridge across the wash, since the only road which approached the house came from the other side of this wash. Immediately behind us was a hill, and there we had a dugout where we stored supplies, etc.

I was about six years old when we moved to Globe. I have many memories of events which occurred while I was still small, but I am not sure in some cases, as to their exact time. One of my early memories is of Mother calling me excitedly one day to see a strange sight. We were not at home, but I do not remember where we were or what the occasion was. I do remember that there was a small grove of trees near. An ox was suspended from two of these trees by wide bands around his belly. “Oh, Mother,” I cried, “What a funny way to milk a cow!” Mother explained to me that it was not a cow, but an ox, and that they were to put shoes on it. I thought it quite funny that an ox was to wear shoes. About that time one of the men took a leg of the ox, held it between his knees, and put on a shoe. I was allowed to watch the shoeing of the ox, and one of the men told me that the ox was to be used in pulling a freight wagon.

Another of my early memories is of a cyclone. I know that many people will not believe that there could be a cyclone in such a mountainous place as Globe, or that there has ever been a cyclone in Arizona, for that matter. However, I am sure that our experience would make anyone believe it possible. In Globe at this time there was a school and a few scholars. It must have been shortly after our arrival, for I was still considered too young to attend school. The teacher was a woman who had two children, a girl of about thirteen, named Blanche, and a boy too small to go to school. Mother cared for this boy, younger than I, during the day while his mother taught, and after school Blanche would come for him and take him home. One evening Blanche came for her brother and lingered to talk a few minutes with Mother before starting home. She and Blanche were on the front porch talking, the little boy was asleep on the bed, and I was lying beside him, having just awaked from my nap. Blanche started in the house, saying she must get her brother and go, but Mother called her attention to a dark, queer looking cloud which was approaching rapidly, and said that she had better not start out until they saw what was going to happen. Mother feared a heavy windstorm, through which Blanche would not be able to struggle with her little brother. They watched the cloud for a few minutes. Mother told me afterward that it was funnel shaped in the sky, with a long tail like an elephant’s trunk reaching from the sky to the ground, and writhing about like a snake. The wind began to rise, and suddenly the storm hit the cabin. The little boy was still asleep, but I began to get scared. Mother told Blanche that they must get the children immediately and go to the dugout. Father was away, but he had told mother many times that the dugout was safer than the house in case of a severe storm. Blanche wanted to go out the front door, but Mother thought it safer to go out the window by the bed because there were no objects on that side of the cabin which would be likely to hit us, and the dugout was close. Mother raised the window, told Blanche to crawl out and she would hand her one of the children. By this time the wind was howling fury, rain was pouring down, and it was completely dark. This all took place quicker than I can tell it. Blanche crawled out and stood shivering in the rain and darkness. Mother grasped me under one arm, the boy under the other, stood on the bed prepared to jump out. There was a flash of lightning, a crash, and a large tree fell heavily across that corner of the house, smashing in the roof and walls. Blanche screamed, but I do not remember that Mother made a sound. I was too frightened to scream. The roof and walls broke the force of the tree, but it fell heavily enough across the bed to pin Mother down, one of us still under each arm. The rest of the cabin was shaking violently in the wind. “Stand back!” Mother screamed at Blanche. “The rest of the cabin will go in a minute, and when it falls its weight will probably bring up the tree at this end, and I may be able to get from under it.” About that time there was another blinding crash, another heavy wind, and the other end of the cabin fell inward. The weight of the legs caused the end of the tree which was across the bed to spring up suddenly, Mother crawled or wiggled or somehow got through the window quicker than thought, scraping much of the skin of my face on a leg as she went. There was another crash behind us and the rest of the cabin was leveled. Mother somehow got the few necessary steps to the dugout, still with a child under each arm, and Blanche clinging to her skirts. We were all safe and unhurt with the exception of a few scratches, which didn’t count in those days in other places than Texas. We were wet to the skin, or indeed I believe I was even wet inside, shivering with cold. There was food in the dugout, and gunny sacks with which Mother wrapped us the best she could. We sat still shivering, with gunny sacks around us, and waited for the storm to subside. All our chickens were drowned and swept away by the water which ran down the mountainside in a deluge, and all our belongings were also washed away. We had a big shepherd dog of which we were very proud, and of course, we resigned ourselves to his loss. However, we found him after the storm under the bed, of which some part still remained. He was unhurt, but rather badly frightened.

We saw much of the Apaches while we lived in Globe. Since Father was away much of the time, it was left to Mother to cope with them as best she could. Her best always seemed sufficient. The Indians had, of course, been tamed somewhat before this, but they still went on the warpath at times in small groups, and committed minor depredations whenever they thought they could get by. Fort Thomas was some distance away, and they could often do their deviltry and be back on the reservation before we could get word to the troops at the fort. One day when Father was gone, a runner came to our cabin and told Mother that the Apaches were on the warpath, and that all the women and children were to collect in a corral which was in a little hollow among the hills not far beyond the mine. There were few men in Globe at the time, but those who were there were to collect all available ammunition, and would patrol this corral and vicinity until the danger was past. Mother refused to go, saying that the corral was too available to the Indians, who could easily creep up on it under cover of the brush and rocks, or attack from the hills which surrounded it. When asked what she would do, she answered that she would remain at home and protect herself as best she could. She would not change her mind and remained at home where she did not so much as glimpse an Indian. Sometime during the night, however, she thought she heard a faint humming, which may have been the gunfire as the Indians rushed the corral. All the women and children were massacred, and only one or two men escaped in the darkness.

I do not remember being scared of the Indians. Mother had me trained so that whenever I caught sight of an Indian I immediately ran to tell her. I had a number of fine toys sent to me by our relatives in California, but I sometimes left these toys lying around the door, and eventually they all disappeared, stolen by the Indians who constantly appeared around our cabin. One day a group of Indians rode up to the bridge across the draw. One of these Indians came across with a flour sack in his hand and asked Mother if she wanted to buy some green coffee. (The Indians frequently sold much of the food issued them by the government). He said the coffee was government coffee, and good. Mother asked him how much, and he said fifty cents. She bought the coffee from him, and he still lingered. “What do you want?” Mother asked. “You make me, my men, coffee,” he replied. Mother explained that she couldn’t because there was no coffee parched, and it would take too long to parch it. “You make coffee for my men, I say,” he said threateningly. “You git!” retorted Mother. The Indian brought his gun to his shoulder and immediately Mother snatched it from him by the barrel, leveled it at him, and repeated her command for him to “Git”. He got—back to the other Indians. Mother had her own gun ready loaded and standing just inside the door, but she never had recourse to it unless driven. The Indians were more or less cowardly and the chances were good that she would handle them, but she thought there was little use in starting something that could result fatally for her if the Indians did decide to fight. After a pow-wow the chief came across the bridge, hands in the air, “Well?” demanded Mother, when he reached the door, “You give my man his gun,” said the chief. Mother said she would if the rest of the gang would stay where they were. She broke the gun, removed the bullets, placed them in her apron pocket, and handed the gun to the chief, with instructions to return to his men with his hands in the air, and that they were all to “git” and not come back.

The Indians made a cheese out of mesquite beans, which was very good, and which Mother always bought when a chance presented itself. It had something of the flavor of oranges.

One day I was playing just outside the door. Suddenly a big Indian appeared from the side of the house. He snatched me up and covered my mouth with his hand before I had a chance to make a sound. He started running with me, not across the bridge, but out to one side of the cabin, and over a little hill. I could not scream, but I could kick and twist, and I managed to hamper him considerably in his escape. Mother had a queer feeling about me, looked out and saw I wasn’t there. The next object that met her gaze was this big Indian, naked except for a G-string, disappearing over the hill. Mother started running after him at top speed, not even pausing to get her gun. She was almost up with him when he looked back and saw her. He tried to increase his speed, but I was no light weight, and Mother caught up with him. The wind was blowing hard, and the two flaps of his G-string were blowing back between his legs as he ran. Mother made a grab for his arm, but it was slippery from perspiration. In desperation she grabbed the flaps of cloth blowing back between his legs and gave them a violent jerk. The force of the jerk swung him half around, and he almost fell. “You give me my baby!” she cried. “No,” he grunted sullenly. “Me take to reservation. Keep in wigwam.” Mother began kicking and hitting him, all the time trying to pull me from his arms, as he grunted sullenly. Mother said afterward she never knew why he didn’t use his tomahawk—his only weapon—on her, but he didn’t. At last she told him her husband and some other men were coming, were just over the hill, and he would be killed if he did not immediately surrender the child. Whether he believed the story or whether he just thought he had cut off more than he could chew, he released me, and Mother and I returned home.

Eventually the mine closed down, and the Arthur family decided to return to California. Some of Geronimo’s tribe were on the warpath, and we were warned that it was dangerous to attempt to travel. We started anyway and when it was time to camp for the night we were near a camp of Indians, on the reservation. Father asked the chief for permission to camp there, which he readily gave, and sent squaws to carry wood and water for us. We were too heavily loaded, and Father gave the chief a mattress and his son a violin, which the boy seemed unable to leave. He also gave the Indians other heavy articles which he thought would need to be discarded. We camped there several days, and while we were there witnessed the funeral of an Indian boy who had been bitten by a rattle snake. A platform was built and raised in the air to some heighth. The boy was laid on the platform, together with such of his belongings as could be placed with him. His horse and dogs were killed and placed under the platform, as also other articles too large to be placed on the platform with him. Indians remained around this platform all night, and kept up a howling which sounded much like coyotes from a distance.

When we continued our journey we were warned that a river we must cross had been rising rapidly, and that heavy rain might make us some trouble along some distance of the way. We soon found this true. I remember in crossing the river that we saw vegetables, chickens, and various and sundry articles of food as well as other things floating down the river. Mother rescued several hens from the water, managed to bring them to, and we took them with us in a box fastened under the wagon. They furnished us with eggs on the trip to California. We also secured some vegetables from the river.

I remember a trail over mountains somewhere near Phoenix, which was so dangerous that we often were forced to get out and walk. Father told of the mail stage going over the side of the trail at one of the danger spots, on one occasion.

We had not traveled any great distance from Globe when we came to a small cabin. Father stopped to water the team. This cabin was tenanted by an old man, whose actions deemed queer to Father. However, he allowed Father to water the team, and even allowed us to go inside the cabin. We soon noticed that an Indian’s feet were sticking out from under the bed. When the man was satisfied that Father was not an officer, he told us that his wife and children had been killed by Indians, and that he killed Indians whenever opportunity offered, in retaliation. He had just killed two who came to the cabin, when Father came up, and he had shoved them hastily under the bed. He enticed all passing Indians into the cabin, up to the number of two or even three, and he said that at that time he had not been discovered, nor had he allowed any to escape. We were glad to get away from that cabin.

We returned to Arizona from California, later, and settled in Phoenix this time. I went to school in Phoenix, grew to womanhood, and was married there. I was the first member married out of the Woodmen’s Circle Lodge in Phoenix, and the youngest member of three lodges near there.

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

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