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[First Page] [59], (1) Lines: 0 to 3 ——— 12.6pt PgV ——— Normal Page PgEnds: TEX [59], (1) 6 Apache Cowboy Life on the White Mountain Reservation I slowly ride up the slope toward mighty White Mountain, sacred peak of the Apaches. Far below, the Indian tents disappear and the valley river soon becomes nothing but a distant shimmering streak. My horse digs its hooves into the red sandy slopes and makes its way between ancient juniper pines with silvery-gray trunks and evergreen oaks. Soon we are surrounded by ponderosa pines. The high, tall trees grow dense around us and completely block off the view from all directions. It is evening before I catch sight of the campfire that rises like a thin red pillar between the dark tree trunks. I hop down from my horse and walk toward the circle of light. About a dozen quiet, motionless Apaches are sitting around the fire staring into the flames; they hardly blinkaneyeasIapproach.“Hello!”Iheardsomeonesay,andthenSid, the only white man in the group, stands and gives me a handshake. He is a husky fellow in his fifties, a real cowboy through and through, with a bold, rash demeanor typical of a southwestern pioneer. Sid is in charge of the cattle drive here in the mountains, although the livestock itself belongs to the White Mountain Apaches, partly to the tribe and partly to individual Indians. Cattle ranching is still something that the Indians haven’t quite managed on their own. The Apaches who are quietly sitting around the fire are the tribe’s best cowboys and are working with Sid. There are in all many thousand head of cattle roaming the expansive White Mountain forests and foothills, which rise about ten thousand feet high. The land is rugged and beautiful and its wilderness is peaceful. The Indians don’t have any permanent dwellings this far up, and uninvited white people don’t have access to the mountain, 60 Apache Cowboy Life [60], (2) Lines: 34 ——— 0.0pt PgV ——— Normal Page PgEnds: T [60], (2) where deer and wild turkeys and bears and cougars and mountain lions roam. Sid and his Indians have a lot to handle to ensure that the cattle business thrives. The half-wild cattle need to be found and rounded up from incredibly vast areas, calves need to be branded, those that are to be slaughtered need to be separated from the herd, the rest of the drove need to be herded to better pastures, and so on. Carefully weeding out the best of the herd is equally important to ensure that the beautiful Hereford breed continues to grow pure, healthy, and strong. Cattle ranching, which is of course based on beef production, has its busiest periods during the big fall and spring roundups. The entire mountain is then combed for cattle, and those that are to be sold are herded down to the lowlands. But even now at the end of July, the cowboys have their hands full, using a reserve of about a hundred horses to help carry out their daily work. I throw my sleeping bag into Sid’s tent. I’ll be staying with Sid and his Apache cowboys for a while. Then I go around and greet the Indians, and then the dogs, four wonderful animals who are invaluable in helping out with the work. After a chat with Sid about cattle, cowboys, Indians, and pioneer times, I crawl into my bed. In the middle of the night, I wake with a start. Sid is sitting straight up firing his gun off one shot after another and swearing to beat the band. Outside I can hear the fierce trampling of hooves. The entire herd of horses has been stomping all over our tent. One of them nearly trampled on Sid’s head, and another had chomped hold and dragged off a sack of oats that had been lying right by the entrance. At daybreak, we’re up and ready to move our camp to higher ground, about seventy-five hundred feet. It’s a wonderful morning with clear, blue skies across the forest and dew still on the grass and heather. Herbert, the horse-tender who smiles at everything a person says, including dreary news, has already been busy rounding up the horses. They’re now stomping around in an enclosure, an area fenced off with a single rope stretched between tree trunks. The quiet Indian cook, Sotta, who looks like a thin Chinese and...

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