The Saint Paul Globe

APACHE KID DEAD.

Southwestern Terror Succumbs to Disease in the Sierra Madre.

The report has been current in the Southwest for some time that the notorious renegade savage, the Apache Kid, was for the first time in his life a good Indian, for the reason that he was believed to be dead. The foundation for this belief was simply due to the fact that for nearly a year past no ranche or cowboy has been found murdered upon the plains, or wife or innocent child discovered outraged or brained.

It is now known positively that the merciless butcher is dead. His bones lie bleaching in the sun on the lonely range of the Sierra Madre mountains in Old Mexico, a distance of 100 miles or so south of the international line.

After his last killings, near Ash Springs, in Arizona, he made his escape across the boundary into the mountains in the northern part of Chihuahua. An attempt was made by the Mexican troops to dislodge him, but his hiding place could not be found. Some weeks since a squaw, who was supposed to have been with him at the time, returned to San Carlos Indian reservation, from which she had previously been stolen by the wily savage. At first she disclaimed all knowledge of his whereabouts, but recently told her story. It was merely that the Kid had finally died from the effects of a loathsome disease. His remains were left lying where he breathed his last, and his unwilling companion lost no time in getting away from the cold body of her captor and returning to the reservation.

It was a favorite pastime of the Kid to come back to the reservation upon which he once lived and carry away attractive squaws who might strike his fancy. He would take them into his mountain retreat, from which they have sometimes escaped and returned to the reservation, but more frequently have never been heard of again, and the supposition is that when he tired of them he put an end to their existence. If any serious objection were interposed by any of the bucks he never hesitated to kill the Indian who was so foolish as to offer resistance.

There is every reason to believe that the story of the squaw is true. Since the day, over eight years ago, when he left the reservation on which he was employed in the capacity of sergeant of scouts and started upon his career of crime, he never before allowed a month scarcely a week, to pass that the people of the Southwest were not given good cause to believe that he was still alive.