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 sticks The 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 Road Beyond York’s Ranch the ambush lay,-- Till a near, swift-moving dust-whirl showed Where the buckboard came. Na-chis crouched low And gripped his rifle and grimly smiled As 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 chance And thrust the whip in the driver’s hand And wheeled the mules: “Back! Back to the ranch!” He cried as he jumped; “I’ll hold them off. Whip for your life!” The bullets sung Like swarming bees through the narrow pass, And whirred and hummed and struck and stung.

But he turned just once--to wave his hand To 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 grim Sprawled in the cactus and sand below; And seven souls of the Devil’s kin Went with him the road that dead men know.

Ay! That was Knox! When the cowboys came On the day-old trail of the renegade, Na-chis the butcher, the merciless, This was the tribute the chief had paid To the fearless dead. No scarring fire; No mangling knife; but across the face His own rich blanket drawn smooth and straight, Stoned and weighted to keep its place.