THE MERCY OF NA-CHIS
Felix Knox was killed by a band of renegade Apaches under Na-chis, son of the famous chief Ca-chis, near York’s Ranch in south-eastern Arizona. Knox made a brave fight and when found his body was not mutilated, and the face had been covered to keep away the coyotes and vultures.
Knox the gambler—Felix Knox;Trickster, short-card man, if you will;Rustler, brand-wrangler—all of that—But Knox the man and the hero still!For life at best is a hard-set game;The cards come stacked from the Dealer’s hand;And a man plays king of his luck just once—When he faces death in the last grim stand.Knox had been drummer in Crook’s command;A devil of daring lived in his drum;With his heart in the call and his hand on the sticksThe dead from their sand-filled graves might come:Crippled for life he drummed his last;Shot through the knee in the Delshay fight—But he crawled to a rock and drummed “Advance”Till the Tonto renegades broke in flight.That was the man who shamed Na-chis!Two miles out on the Clifton RoadBeyond York’s Ranch the ambush lay,—Till a near, swift-moving dust-whirl showedWhere the buckboard came. Na-chis crouched lowAnd gripped his rifle and grimly smiledAs he counted his prey with hawk-like eyes—The men, the woman, the little child.They halted—full in the teeth of the trap.Knox saw—too late. He weighed the chanceAnd thrust the whip in the driver’s handAnd wheeled the mules: “Back! Back to the ranch!”He cried as he jumped; “I’ll hold them off.Whip for your life!” The bullets sungLike swarming bees through the narrow pass,And whirred and hummed and struck and stung.But he turned just once—to wave his handTo wife and child; then straight ahead,With yell for yell and shot for shot,Till the rocks of the pass were spattered red;And seven bodies bepainted and grimSprawled in the cactus and sand below;And seven souls of the Devil’s kinWent with him the road that dead men know.Ay! That was Knox! When the cowboys cameOn the day-old trail of the renegade,Na-chis the butcher, the merciless,This was the tribute the chief had paidTo the fearless dead. No scarring fire;No mangling knife; but across the faceHis own rich blanket drawn smooth and straight,Stoned and weighted to keep its place.