Chapter 11

As we rolled out of Maricopa Wells and went north a few miles, I noticed a band of much greener vegetation ahead of us. I knew that this must be the Gila River. In my time this was almost always a dry river bed, but in the 1860s millions of people had not moved into what was called the Valley of the Sun, so the water table was much higher.

As we approached the river crossing, we came upon a small farming community of Maricopa Indians surrounding a Catholic mission. I also noticed a lot of well worn, weather beaten, skeletal remains scattered about. When we pulled up in front of the church, an elderly priest came out to greet us.

“Buenos dais padre,” I said with a tug of my hat.

“Buenos dais,” he replied, “I am father Esteban, you are welcome here,” he continued in English, “is there something we can do for you?”

“Yes padre there is. Would you be willing to perform three weddings, even if all of us are not Catholic?”

“Well Bishop Mendoza would not approve, but he is far away, and the flesh is weak, so I think that it is better for me to break the rules than for others to live in sin,” he replied with a sly smile.

With that, Tara jumped off the wagon seat into my arms. “I hoped that you wanted to make us permanent, I will make you so happy that the smile will never leave your face,” she said.

“Rory, as the rest of us are getting married, you and Dove get the jobs of best man and matron of honor. Is that ok with you two?”

He started pumping my hand and Dove was hugging Tara, so I guessed I had my answer.

The rest of our party broke out with big smiles and had a big hug party.

Is short order we went into the church and had a short ceremony, that I’m sure would not have been approved of by the far away Bishop Mendoza. But the padre was happy, and all of us were happy, so who cared. The padre was also happy with the $20 I gave him in mixed silver coins.

As we sat in the shade with some wine and cheese, I asked, “Padre, what’s the story behind all those unburied skeletons out there?”

“That’s a sore spot between me and my flock,” he responded. “About ten years ago, back in 57, a group of Yuma, Mohave, Apache, and Yavapai young men got together and decided that a raid on the villages in this area would be a good idea. They hit this village and killed a lot of people. The survivors fled to Pima Butte and held off the attackers until the men from the surrounding villages could come to help. In the ensuing fight a lot of the attackers were killed and the rest were driven off. The local victors refused to bury the enemy dead and let the animals feed on them. To this day they refuse to do anything with the remains. It’s a way of punishing those who attacked them.” (Look up the Battle of Pima Butte)

“Well Padre I guess you reap what you sow.”

“So true,” he said sadly, “so true.”

After saying our goodbyes, we moved out, heading in a northeast direction towards the Salt River. We were aiming for the junction of the Apache Trail that went into the Superstition Mts. and the road that ran west to the farming community founded by Jack Swilling on the site of the old Hohokam irrigation canals. After several uneventful days we pulled up to a collection of buildings that included a livery- blacksmith combination, a mercantile, a saloon and a mix of huts and houses. We had arrived at what in the future would be called Apache Junction. From the merchandise in the mercantile, and the activity at the forge, it was obvious that servicing the local miners and ranchers was the reason for the existence of the place.