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You see that there? That’s Sinter’s Cross,
on the bluff by the stream,
a cross has stood there with his name
since eighteen eighty-three.
That was the year John Sinter fell,
but I’ll not skip ahead,
I’ll do it right and tell the tale
of how the man got dead.

Sinter was a farm boy, like most,
from Ohio he came,
the sixth of seven, he’d be passed
on no land in his name.
Not that his parents’ farm was worth
much money anyway,
it was clear, to improve his lot,
he’d have to move away.
But folks said that the vast frontier
was now disappearing,
that what was left was just desert,
not for fit for sheep-rearing!
The companies still selling land
did tell him much the same,
but Sinter poured through the listings,
his efforts weren’t in vain.

He found a plot that just might work,
north Arizona land,
seemed to have enough streams and trees
to support a farmstand.
It was close to some tall mountains,
was not an easy till,
but he had a wife to support,
and men survive on will.
He bought two railroad tickets and
started out on his way,
hired a packhorse for his goods,
had to walk to the place.
’Twas a stretch of mountain meadow,
beneath San Francisco peaks,
set up their tent and John set off,
fresh timber did he seek.

He set to building a cabin,
summer sun on his back,
and to a nearby stream his wife
manage to clear his track.
It wouldn’t be an easy life,
but they were still content,
five hundred acres to grow crops,
their lives now up to them.
What neither of them would know then
was high up on the slopes
six renegade Apache camped,
from the Res they had flown.
Like Geronimo they would fight,
they pledged to die with arms,
to take back all the land they’d lost,
they meant to do folks harm.
And when they rode up to their tend
they didn’t try to hide,
John felt relief that his dear wife
was off by the Creekside.

They rode up with annoyed faces,
stared daggers down at him,
John has a pistol in his hand,
but still his fate looked grim.
The mounted men were all well-armed,
with rifle and knife-blade,
he might get one, but knew he’d not
get the best of the trade.
One barked loud in his own language,
them lifted up his gun,
they made hand motions to make clear
they wanted him to run.
At first he turned, as if to go,
then dashed behind the tent,
the chest inside could block bullets,
John fired straight for them...

CONTINUES IN PART II.
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