About 1834 there was born near Tulerosa, New Mexico, a little Indian boy who was destined to become famous in early American history due to his cunning leadership. He was admitted to the council of braves at an early age and became a bold, courageous and fearless Apache chief whose band terrorized the American Southwest for years.
Geronimo fought first against the Mexicans whom he blamed for the murder of his mother, his wife and three small children. He led his band in two wars against the United States, plundered the very armies that were pursuing him, and always seemed just beyond reach.
His hatred of all peoples outside his own tribe, his constant raids, his killing, stealing and burning, made him one of the most hated and feared Indians of the early Southwest. He became known as “Geronimo, the Renegade.”
Eventually, however, U.S. forces captured him, and Geronimo became a prisoner of the army along with others of his tribe at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. The military provided food and shelter for the captives, and Geronimo had to be content with his lot.
The Frisco Railway had a station near Fort Sill and it so happened that the agent was a Christian. He, with his wife and four small children, lived in a section of the freight depot. Those traveling through on the trains were glad to see this famous band of Apaches, and the Indians were allowed to sell them their crafts—beaded moccasins, blankets, bows and arrows—when the trains stopped.
Geronimo was the greatest attraction, however; and by now he was getting old. He had learned to write his name and he would sell his autograph for a quarter to anyone who requested it. Hours before the trains arrived, he would come down to the station and lay on the platform dozing in the burning summer sun.
One day Freddie and Paul, the station master’s two little boys, stole down to the station to have a glimpse of the old chief, stories of whose life fascinated their young minds. He had lain so long motionless on the platform that they wondered if he had died. Cautiously they drew near and peered into the wrinkled, weather-beaten, leather-complexioned face now relaxed in deathlike sleep. But the old warrior was very much alive. Slowly one of his eyes opened and those lines, which his former cruelty had formed, fashioned themselves into a friendly, warmhearted smile.
The children’s first thought was to flee, remembering that their mother had told them Geronimo would kill little children. But it became evident Mother was mistaken, for in that old wrinkled face were displayed kindness and gentleness, and there was no fear that he would scalp two little boys. The old man sat up and spoke to them in his broken English something about being a friend.
It was after that Geronimo would come daily to the station and talk to the agent. He told him that after seeing the little white “papooses” he could hardly sleep at night because he was troubled with bad dreams. He would talk for hours about Christianity and the salvation of the soul. The agent gave him a Bible and the old chief would get the young Indians attending the government school to read to him from it. Then he would come back to the agent to have it explained.
Gently and patiently the young agent would explain to him how that God loved him in spite of his sinful past and that He had prided Christ His dear Son for his salvation. The old warrior was subdued and humble as he sat and listened.
“Is it possible that God would forgive me for my wickedness?” inquired Geronimo earnestly. “I wake up groaning and very sad at night when I remember the helpless little children. I would steal up to the homes of the white people and kill the parents, and then in my hatred I would torture and kill the little children. Would God forgive this?
“Is it possible when I die I will have a chance to go to the heaven your Bible tells about?” he went on. “I would gladly give the rest of my life if I could only bring back the lives of those I have destroyed.”
The agent was astonished at his confession and amazed at his sincerity. He pointed out to him that there was full forgiveness for him if he truly wanted the salvation of God, for “the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.” (1 John 1:77But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin. (1 John 1:7).) Then he read him Isa. 1:1818Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. (Isaiah 1:18): “Come now, and let us reason tether, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” He also read John 3:1616For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. (John 3:16): “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
“Is that all I have to do?” asked Geronimo; “just believe?”
The old Indian wanted little children no longer to be afraid of him. He was always pleased to talk about the Lord and attended the gospel services at the little hall where some Christians held them. His savage past was still a scar on his memory, but the blood sustained him, and now he had peace of mind—“peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” He meditated much on the love of Christ and loved to tell how a little child had led him to seek the simple truths found in his father’s Bible.
The old warrior’s sunset years were his best. He was 80 when he died in 1909. Those last years were not filled with memories of his courage in battle nor of his achievements in the Indian wars, but with the contemplation of those everlasting glories with Christ that awaited him beyond life’s sunset. He looked on to that heavenly land where Jesus dwells, where His love eternal reigns, and where he would stand with all His redeemed and sing the everlasting song of praise to Him who washed them in His precious blood and brought them there.
In robes of white, o’er the street of gold,
Beneath a cloudless sky,
They’ll walk in the light of their Father’s smile;
But will you be there and I?
ML-05/20/1979