OUTDOOR SOUTHWEST - Desert Magazine of the Southwest

siasm than ever. But this was an era
when all Indians were still bad Indians;
the general public had little feeling for
them, little sympathy. The dark-skinned
Apache doctor, more educated than
most whites, made no headway. He
spent his personal fortune trying, and
was frustrated at ever turn.
"Then I will take my campaign to
my own people themselves," he decided,
and spoke of it publicly. "1 will lead
the Indians in a social revolt."
Naturally he'd start with his own
tribesmen, the Apaches. So he journeyed
to Arizona, hired a hack and
driver and went back to Iron Mountain
where he had been captured as a terrified
little boy in a Pima raid. He wept
there for his mother, who had tried to
save him. Then he spoke to a group of
Apache men. He told them they could
do what he had done; they could demand
their rights and rise high, equaling
or bettering the palefaces in social
status and prosperity. They were real
Americans, and he was here to help
them, he would lead them to a level
undreamed of.
He waited for their reaction. It came
—and it stunned him.
They began to laugh, in derision.
"You are a fool," their leader finally
explained. "You are Dr. Tom-Tom
beating the wind. You yourself have
everything. Why are you concerning
yourself about us?"
There in a drama-charged moment
came the whole crux of the matter.
These Apaches, savages for centuries
behind, simply had no conception of the
missionary instinct. You have everything
— house, horses, food, women,
wealth—why are you trying to help
those who have not? You are a fool!
He was appalled.
He was seeing the one powerful driving
force between savagery and Christianity;
between the life of fang and
claw and the love of fellow man.
The discovery broke him. He did
not give up easily, in fact he went on
trying for some years. But he made
no headway. Those very Apaches disowned
him—a fact which causes some
modern historians to say that Montezuma
was not an Apache. They meant
spiritual disowning; they were ashamed
of a man so weak as to want to help
somebody who had less than he.
Back in his fine medical practice in
Chicago, he wrote documents, he made
speeches, he published tracts, he did
everything he could to promote his
cause, trying to blind himself to personal
rebuffs from the red folk. Even
the whites were apathetic.
Finally he became ill. And with that,
he became despondent. His wife, a
Hungarian woman named Maria, could
not help him. He loved her, he insisted,
but he was going back to Arizona once
more. No, she was not to accompany
him, she must stay in Chicago and collect
the bills owed him.
He came to Phoenix, again hired a
hack and was driven to the Apache
desert reservation near old Fort Mc-
Dowell. He dismissed the driver, hired
an Apache girl to build him a typical
poor-looking wickiup, and arranged for
her to bring him a little food each week.
many states. Also a few Apache tribesmen
gathered, with their squaws. Had
they came to scoff? To jeer at Dr.
Tom-Tom-Beating-The-Wind? Maybe.
But after the white ceremonies, some
of the dark squaws began chanting over
his grave at sundown. And it was not
a chant of derision. It was a sacred
thing, a proclamation that this good
man had been more important than they
realized, and had at last been accepted
as one of their tribesmen again. He
would go down in history as their
prophet.
In that they were correct.
Then, wretched with tuberculosis, the For by 1950 many of Montezuma's
distinguished Chicago physician, widely
known as a stomach specialist who
treated the elite of white society, wrapped
himself in an old blanket and lay
down in the wickiup to die.
A missionary found him, and sent
for Maria. She came, but she could do
little. On a cold, rainy desert day in
January of 1923 the crusader passed
on.
He had been a prominent officer in
the Masons, so the Masonic funeral was
impressive, attracting mourners from
DR. CARLOS MONTEZUMA AT 50 YEARS OF AGE
recommended reforms were in force. By
1960 many more were, and all the
Southwestern tribesmen were profiting
thereby. The Apaches, fiercest of all,
have become important cattlemen, for
instance. Long ago he recommended
that dirt farming not be forced on these
fine horsemen, but that cattle raising be
encouraged.
"He was an Indian ahead of his time,"
a modern Apache said recently. "He
was not beating the wind. He was
beating the heart." ///
October, 1961 / Desert Magazine / 19