When Data Speak Back: Resolving Source Conflict in ... - Springer Link

Int J Histor Archaeol (2012) 16:828–849 DOI 10.1007/s10761-012-0204-z

When Data Speak Back: Resolving Source Conflict in Apache Residential and Fire-Making Behavior Deni J. Seymour

Published online: 17 October 2012 # Springer Science+Business Media New York 2012

Abstract Contradictions exist among primary sources as to the locations of historical Chiricahua and Mescalero Apache encampments. Modern elders state that residential sites were situated in low settings at the base of elevated landforms, whereas textual sources and archaeology suggest otherwise for much of the historic period and before. This contradiction is resolved when it is realized that Chiricahua cultural-specialist knowledge relating to key aspects of landscape use pertains to the last 25 years before Geronimo’s final surrender and removal to the east. This was a time of substantial and increased pressure from the American military using more effective tactics following the Civil War. These tactics included cooperation with Mexico, use of Apache scouts, deeper penetration of the mountains, and more persistent pursuit. Land claims interviews of Chiricahua informants from the 1950s mention this shift from high to low and the reason for it. This case study illustrates the importance of (a) seriating source material rather than assuming long-term continuity, (b) subjecting all sources, including elder knowledge, to standard forms of criticism, and (c) analyzing differences between informant factions. Keywords Traditional knowledge . Landscape use . Seriating sources . Source criticism . Factions

Introduction In the American Southwest, it is routine practice to consult tribal entities, take into account the perspectives of indigenous cultural experts, incorporate ethnographic data, and seek connections between past and present. One reason this is done is so that descendant communities can be involved in the study of their past. Another reason cultural specialists are consulted is so that appropriate analogies can be drawn

D. J. Seymour (*) Jornada Research Institute, 2916 Palo Alto Dr. NE, Albuquerque, NM 87112, USA e-mail: [email protected]

Int J Histor Archaeol (2012) 16:828–849

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—analogical reasoning being a common route to inference building in archaeology (Ascher 1961; Binford 1981; Lyman and O’Brien 2001; Schuyler 1968; Wylie 1985, 1988). Yet, quite often resolutely contradictory statements and conclusions are found in apparently authoritative sources of the indigenous past. One example presented here comes from Apachean history and archaeology which illustrates differences between primary data sources on the location of residential encampments and fire-making behavior. Modern Chiricahua and Mescalero elders report that residential sites were usually situated at the base of landforms, on flats, rather than on inclines and rocky slopes (Holly Houghton, pers. comm.). Many historic photographs would seem to confirm this perspective (Fig. 1), as do some ethnographies and military reports. Yet, archaeological evidence from the mountainous Southwest presents a more complicated settlement history. Archaeological sites do not generally substantiate this official position, except very late in time (e.g., beginning in late 1800s) or among certain groups. This lowland settlement placement is also most typical for those who adopted the tipi or resided in peace or ration camps. In fact, most archaeologically recorded Chiricahua and Mescalero Apache sites in the southernmost portion of the mountainous Southwest occur on slopes, hills, rugged mountains, on saddles, and nestled amid the rocks (where they are unlikely to be discovered during compliance-based systematic surveys; thematic surveys are most effective; Seymour 1992, 2002a). Some historic records indicate that these sites may represent short-term or overnight stays on a slope while people waited for danger to Fig. 1 Late historic photographs show Apaches using tipis that are situated in low-elevation settings. Earlier in time, mountainbased groups constructed wickiups and often occupied higher elevation settings

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pass (Sladen 1896, pp. 41–42). Other large mountaintop sites are interpreted as aggregated settlements (e.g., Basehart 1960, pp. 60–61, 110; Matson and Schroeder 1957, p. 342) where multiple bands resided for special purposes. Others are resource procurement or caching locations where people stayed for a short period but returned periodically (Seymour 2013), and still others represent settlement overlays where smaller bands or local groups congregated occasionally but repeatedly (Seymour 2004; Seymour and Henderson 2010). The dominant archaeological pattern of upland occupation contradicts some modern elders’ statements of preferred lowland occupations. Here I examine this issue of conflicting knowledge bases in light of rarely used documentary sources. These are the Chiricahua land-claims interviews from the 1950s collected by Henderson (1957). These sources show specific behavioral changes within the historic period in the context of their opponent’s changing military strategies. Relevant passages in the land-claims documents corroborate the observed archaeological pattern and provide a historically informed, situation-specific explanation of an important general change in the Apachean settlement pattern within the historic period in the southernmost Southwest. Evaluating Information Sources Oral tradition and memory are not timeless and unchanging. Rather, in some cases the roots of these traditions can be identified in a particular social and temporal context. In this case, historic land-claim documents and the archaeological record form two independent lines of evidence showing that modern Chiricahua and Mescalero cultural specialist’s understandings, relating to key aspects of landscape use, likely pertain only to the last 25 years before Geronimo’s final surrender. The change in behavior arose to accommodate new social and political circumstances during a specific time in Apachean history. This historic-period shift in Apachean residence and fire placement is observable in the archaeological record and is consistent with documentary and ethnographic data. Yet, this shift is missed by many practitioners who regard modern oral traditions as timeless, their relevance and accuracy across different time periods sacrosanct and not subject to the same scrutiny as are all other forms of data. This remains true despite the fact that other researchers argue for the essential role of critical analysis in the archaeological use of oral information (Echo-Hawk 2000). Treating this modern cultural-specialist knowledge as untouchable and timeless is detrimental to understandings about culture change that are fundamentally important to archaeology. A more holistic and presumably more accurate perspective is achieved through assessment and judicious integration of archaeological evidence with elder knowledge, land-claims interviews, and ethnographic and ethnohistoric data from various periods. These forms of information are context-dependent and are recorded and developed as data sets within a particular social and intellectual context. This study emphasizes the importance of seriating information to identify and understand changes through time, and stresses the need to investigate differences among informants. This example also highlights the need to analyze these contradictory narratives and examine their compatibility with archaeological information. While the methodological precepts of archaeology require scrutiny of all sources of evidence, oral information is rarely openly challenged. Archaeologists avoid this topic because of a perceived sensitivity of indigenous knowledge keepers and the


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desire to be polite (Mason 2000, p. 262), to avoid annoying or offending indigenous groups (McGhee 2008, pp. 582, 594), and to evade the personally targeted opprobrium from some archaeologists. Yet, sound scholarship and the ethics doctrine of the Society for American Archaeology demand that archaeological evidence not be ignored and that unjustified confusion not be introduced simply to support an argument (see Wylie 2002b, p. 231). As Mason (2000, p. 260) notes “the blunt fact of innumerable and fundamental irreconcilabilities must be faced and not fudged.” Moreover, practitioners who are trained or work within non-archaeological intellectual traditions must understand the limitations and requirements of the scientific method and the reality that archaeologist’s knowledge claims must be tested with evidence presented by the material record. The debate about the role of traditional knowledge in archaeology is not simply about “expansive claims of authority made on behalf of science” (e.g., Wylie 2000, p. 228), rather it questions whether either indigenous people or archaeologists can deny each other the use of the past and the archaeological record in a way that is consistent with their philosophical or methodological precepts. As Schaafsma (2004, p. 624) notes, “It would appear that an attitude of mutual tolerance is in order and that the different systems of thought should be kept separate rather than combined.” Knowledge that is memory-dependent and faith-based (e.g., Mason 2000, p. 263) need not be substantiated by science in order to be effectively used for personal and identity purposes (Echo-Hawk 2000, p. 287); the reciprocal is also true. Many community-focused archaeologists, however, advocate the practice of accepting elder knowledge as a given, as a matter of faith, from which to begin work. For many of the guardians and transmitters of traditional history, “what has been accepted as truth from generation to generation is largely immune from critical questioning” (Mason 2000, p. 248). As Echo-Hawk (2000, p. 268) clarifies: “tribal historians and religious leaders frequently rely on oral traditions as literal records of ancient history, while most academically trained scholars respond with skeptical rejection of verbal literature as a vehicle for transmitting useful information over long time spans.” On the other side of the argument, many scientifically oriented archaeologists resolutely respond that “Tribal spokespeople have no business demanding that we modify our data and interpretations to fit their religious poetry…The two kinds of knowledge live in separate realms and serve different purposes” (Schaafsma 2004, p. 633). McGhee (2009) questions the intellectual viability of the concept of “sharing theoretical authority” between archaeology and forms of knowledge that lie outside the scientific intellectual tradition. Enmeshed in the political correctness of this dispute, some community-focused scholars routinely and often deliberately neglect basic and critical methodological archaeological principles by accepting information at face value and failing to subject all evidence equally to analysis and verification. Many accept “oral texts as the source of holistic truths rather than as documents that require evaluation for historicity” (Echo-Hawk 1997, p. 89). Yet until oral or traditionally held information is subject to the same scrutiny as other data sources, valuable elder knowledge will continue to be marginalized by many in the scholarly world, just as it is treated a priori as authoritative by those inclined to accept this information without scrutiny. For many it is easier to ignore such evidence than face censure for scrutinizing its relevance and accuracy with respect to a specific archaeological circumstance or issue.

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A scientific archaeology demands evaluation of all sources, including traditionally held data (also see Mason 2000, p. 261). As Echo-Hawk (2000, p. 287) acknowledges, “The intellectual legacy of academic scholarship requires that every presumption of historicity be subjected to critical examination no matter how much it may anchor any specific cultural pattern.” It is imperative—and ultimately more respectful —to openly consider issues of “readback” and the reciprocal dialectic in knowledge transmission between anthropologists and cultural experts (Mason 2000, pp. 257, 261; McGhee 2008; Wilmsen 1989, p. 4). It is equally important to consider the effects of interpretation of historical evidence through modern experiences, while also reflecting on the temporal and geographic applicability of a dataset. Modern traditional knowledge can be useful in archaeology but only if the causes of disparity and legitimate reasons for suspicion are identified (e.g., Mason 2000, p. 261). As a result of current research in Apachean archaeology we are now able to identify the particular context within which current traditional knowledge regarding encampment placement developed and from this show that it derives from a certain sociohistoric context that can be dated to a specific and relatively recent time. The social context before that differed and so the behavior and the resulting material record differ. The archaeological record allows us to differentiate these varied experiences over time and between groups, rather than over-generalizing the application of traditional knowledge to all times, places, and sub-groups.

Considering Change: A Revised Historical Narrative Regarding Fire Use The archaeological and historical records regarding the distribution of Chiricahua and Mescalero Apachean habitation sites and fire-making behavior provide an example of the utility of such critically assessed sources. My goal is to provide an applied context for understanding some of the theoretical and methodological issues relating to source criticism and use of traditional information in archaeology. In this example, archaeological data suggest that there was a fundamental change in landscape sectors used by the ancestral Apache in the southernmost portion of the America Southwest. Documents and oral information also support this archaeological observation, noting a shift from high-to-low elevations over time. Archaeological, ethnographic, oralhistoric, and documentary data all suggest this change relates directly to changing military pressure from enemies and neighbors. This noted pattern seemed counterintuitive: Why would people move to lower elevations where they would presumably be more accessible to the enemy? Landclaims documents from 50 years ago suggest the rationale behind this apparently maladaptive response. These documents record direct knowledge of and connection to the people and period in question. The land-claims documents provide a model of expected land use that, in fact, is supported by archaeological site distributions and functions. Because this shift in practice occurred in the historic period there is an especially rich and varied selection of source types to draw from in constructing interpretations. The ability to differentiate the single most-likely explanation from several theoretically possible explanations is one of the strengths of historical archaeology, where supplementary information sources help hone in on the most appropriate one.


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Apache Settlement in the Context of Spanish Conquest The shift from high-to-low elevations appears to be contrary to expectations until the behavior is explained by integrating ethnographic and historical sources. The longdistance visibility of smoke made encampments vulnerable. This reality was of little concern until animosity between neighbors heightened, which resulted in an increase in military pressure and a change in enemy pursuit tactics. Consequently, the residential pattern applicable from the 1600s to the 1870s is different from that before and after. Prior to this period (in pre-Hispanic times) evidence suggests that some ancestral Apachean groups used lower elevations, including valley and riverside settings, along with mountain zones (e.g., 1300s–1500s; Seymour 2002a; Sonnichsen 1986, p. 17; Thomas 1959). Through time, Spanish colonies and Pueblo villages were sources of reliable food and supplies for the Apache that could be obtained through trading or raiding (Griffen 1988, 1991; Opler 1996). Although raiding in the Southwest has preSpanish roots, it did not become a serious problem for the Spanish until the mid 1600s. During this period Spanish colonies took hold in more northern regions, providing concentrated resource nodes, and, significantly, the governors, at various times, banned trading between the Apache and colonists and Puebloans (Forbes 1960, pp. 158–161; Mogollon 1712; Seymour 2007, p. 482). The Apache and other mobile groups were left with raiding as the best remaining option to obtain needed supplies. Spanish campaigns against the Apache were generally in response to raiding, which created a cycle of retaliation. As a response to these Spanish retaliatory campaigns, Apache habitations shifted to higher settings in the mountains. During this period military personnel were successfully stymied by the rugged terrain, thus, these high-elevation encampments proved effective as a deterrent against most Spanish incursions. Another strategy used throughout much of the Spanish era was the placement of encampments in areas far removed from the Spanish. The remoteness of a location from neighbors’ settlements and travel routes allowed occupation of some low-lying areas (e.g., Florida, Alamo, and Hatchet mountains, and along Otero Mesa), owing to minimal European population levels, narrow travel corridors along few routes, and low-intensity tactics of pursuit and campaigning. Clearly the ancestral Apache effectively used the terrain and their detailed knowledge of the landscape to their advantage. As the relevant factors changed through time, and as enemies and neighbors developed more effective strategies, so did the Apache modify their behavior to maintain safety while employing subsistence practices (e.g., raiding) that made them inevitable targets of retaliation. Apache Responses to American Military Tactics Unlike their predecessors, the American military persistently pursued the Apaches by penetrating their mountain safety zones. Around 1870 new military tactics were initiated that were especially effective at defeating the Apache. Substantial success followed the initiation of cooperation with Mexico, routine use of Apache scouts, operation with smaller mobile units, and incorporation of pack trains (Debo 1976; Faulk 1969, p. 32). The international border could no longer be used as a safety zone halting military pursuit. Western Apache scouts who knew the sign, landscape, and

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favored campsites lead the military to Chiricahua hideouts. With pack trains the lightly equipped soldiers relentlessly pursued the Apache deep inside the mountains, leaving no place safe. Moreover, springs, mescal-gathering areas, trails, and other frequently visited locations were kept under surveillance, thereby intercepting the Apache more frequently, a strategy that had made some inroads in the Spanishcolonial period as well (Faulk 1969, pp. 61, 102; also see Griffen 1988, p. 42). The Chiricahua response to this new situation was to (a) use lower-elevation, brushy or heavily wooded areas where smoke and noise would dissipate but that were often still in the mountains, (b) distribute local group dwellings in a more dispersed manner when in larger residential clusters to reduce the impact of surprise attacks, and (c) post sentinels on peaks at lookout stations with line-of-sight to encampments, to decrease surprise attacks. Archaeological and ethnographic examples initially suggested this late settlement pattern (e.g., Cochise’s camps in the Dos Cabezas and Dragoons; Fig. 2), while sites dating to the earlier historic period substantiate the common use of higher elevations. Fire-Making Behavior: Spanish Period Documentary sources provide evidence that the Apache modified their fire-making behavior as well as encampment locations to accommodate their defense needs. These examples from the narrative documentary record corroborate archaeological evidence and later land-claims information. Early on, fires could be seen in the distant mountains. For example, as early as 1582–83 the Antonio Espejo expedition through New Mexico viewed columns of smoke in mountains adjacent to the Rio Grande.

0

ARIZONA

20

NEW MEXICO

SANTA FE

N Miles

ALBUQUERQUE

SOCORRO

PHOENIX GILA

TUCSON TUBAC

^4 ^1 ^ 5 ^6 ^2 ^3 TOMBSTONE

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^13 ^10 ^11 ^12 ^9 EL PASO

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CARLSBAD

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SONORA/MEXICO/CHIHUAHUA RIVER MODERN COMMUNITY

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PELONCILLO MTNS DRAGOON MTNS

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CHIRICAHUA MTNS WHITLOCK MTNS DOS CABEZES MTNS STA RITA MTNS

^7 HATCHET MTNS ^8 FLORIDA MTNS ^ 9 FRANKLIN MTNS ^ 10 ORGAN MTNS

^11 ^ 12 ^13 ^14

HUECO MTNS ALAMO MTN SACRAMENTO MTNS & OTERO MESA GUADALUPE MTNS

Fig. 2 Map showing mountain ranges in the southern Southwest with Apache sites referenced in this article


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Similarly in 1590–91, during the Gaspar Castaño de Sosa expedition, smoke from probable Apache fires were visible in what were likely the Guadalupe Mountains in ancestral Mescalero territory (Hammond and Rey 1966, p. 260; Matson and Schroeder 1965). Reference was made in the 1680s to “enemy smokes” in the Organ Mountains (Schroeder 1973, p. 7). In 1701 two O’odham captains reported Jocome and Apache smokes at two-day’s journey eastward in present day Arizona (Bolton 1948, pp. 274–275). In the 1780s, Spaniards noted the glow of ancestral Chiricahua Apache fires in various ranges at night (Thomas 1932, p. 283, 1959, pp. 19, 22), while in 1711, Piros from Senecú informed Valverde that they had seen nighttime fires in the Hueco Mountains east of El Paso (Hendricks 2010) within the Mescalero Apache homeland. Fire-Making Behavior: American Period By the American period the record changes. Chroniclers are not reporting domestic fires in far-distant mountains. This is consistent with a statement by a Chiricahua land-claims informant who indicated that they had fires by day, but not at night (Robert Geronimo, in Henderson 1957, p. 306). Night-time fires and those producing smoke during the day would call attention to the fire-makers—the crisp desert air providing clear views for 50mi (80 km) or more across the unobstructed basins. Domestic fires would lead the military to residential sites, indicating which range, and which part of that range, was currently occupied. Ethnographic sources containing recollections from this period confirm this, indicating “we never built big fires to frighten the game or betray our presence to the enemy” (Ball 1970, p. 17). Temporal Changes in Fire-Making Behavior These sources indicate that the long-distance visibility of smoke during the day and the glow of nighttime fires led to adjustments in fire-making as the security afforded by remote mountain encampments became compromised. Initially the rugged mountains had provided a shield against intruders as long as residents’ positions were not obvious. As military campaigns regularly began to penetrate the mountains, particularly with the increase of troops after the Civil War, the mountains could no longer provide assured protection. Upon entering the mountains intruders could find encampments by sighting tracks, hut profiles, dust, or smoke, as is apparent even from Spanish times (Naylor and Polzer 1986, pp. 595, 645, 646, 651, 652), but this was only after investing considerable effort to reach a substantial height. For example, in 1695, Captain Juan Fernández de la Fuente stated “When we climbed over the rim of the arroyo on top of a hill below a high peak, in some very brushy and broken terrain, we saw many uninhabited ranchos” (Naylor and Polzer 1986, p. 595). At another point he noted “the remaining rebels fled to the sierra, and we could not catch them, as the horses were tired and the ground was rough” (Naylor and Polzer 1986, p. 647). This refrain is a common Spanish-period explanation for not pursuing enemies into the mountains. Early accounts indicate that strategic high-elevation points tended to be used mostly by Apache and their allies (Naylor and Polzer 1986, pp. 590, 592, 640), and

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that throughout time, Apache encampments were guarded by sentinels positioned on these peaks. These sentinels could see people coming for days and differentiate between friend and foe based upon the dust plume (Ball 1970, pp. 79–80, 111, 185; Sladen 1896; Sweeney 1997). The Spanish were not eager to follow the Apache into the rough terrain, viewing these craggy canyons as inaccessible (e.g., Betzinez and Nye 1959, pp. 70, 87; Naylor and Polzer 1986, pp. 530, 531, 595, 642, 647, 652) and, as noted above, complaining about the lack of horses for an effective pursuit through such terrain (Schroeder 1974, p. 34). Although perhaps overstating the case, in 1695, Fuente noted in a campaign journal that the Apache and their allies “never leave the rugged sierras where they always have their habitations” (Naylor and Polzer 1986, p. 585). No doubt the Spanish saw the strategic advantage held by those who retreated into the mountains. It was largely during the American period that peaks were routinely ascended by military personnel, especially with the help of cooperative Apache scouts, such as Merejildo Grijalva (Sweeney 1992) and under the leadership of General George Crook (Debo 1976; Faulk 1969). When the American military used elevation to their advantage, they generally had greater success in finding Apache encampments, however, according to Geronimo, even as late as the 1860s the military did not always follow them into the mountains (Barrett and Turner 1996, pp. 88, 120). It seems that pressure was intensified shortly after this, for in 1871, after climbing to the highest point in the Dragoons, Captain Gerald Russell noted Chiricahua campfires (Sweeney 1991, p. 311). These clearest examples show that fire-making behavior changed late in history, in response to enemy proximity and the persistence of pursuit by the American military. By the American period, the army was routinely reporting smoke signals rather than domestic fires. Smoke signaling was seemingly a widespread indigenous practice in this region, and like their indigenous counterparts, the Spanish through time also used fire to communicate long-distance (see Cremony 1981, pp. 179–180, 183; Griffen 1988, p. 27; Matson and Schroeder 1957, p. 344, 348; Naylor and Polzer 1986, pp. 640, 648; Seymour 2002a; Sweeney 1991, p. 280). Smoke was intended to be seen from afar to indicate the presence of strangers or to warn allies of an impending attack. The Apache also used smoke signals to draw pursuing soldiers away from escape routes and domestic places. For these reasons, these types of fires were intentionally placed in high-elevation areas so all could see them.

Fire-Making Strategies and Their Relevance to Habitation Sites Spanish Period Habitation Sites During the Spanish-colonial period many habitation structures and storage features were in raised, rough, and remote terrain. One of these sites (the Hormiguero site; AZ CC:12:58) in the Peloncillo Mountains overlooks key indigenous and Spanish travel routes and dates to the mid 1600s and early 1700s (Seymour 2008, 2013). A moderately large habitation site (41EP396) dating to 1710-90CE period in the Franklin Mountains near El Paso is situated in a rocky saddle high above and overlooking the valley where riverside mission settlements were located (Seymour


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2002a, 2004). At the Cerro Rojo site (LA 37188) defensive walls, ramparts, and its remote location in the Hueco Mountains east of El Paso provide evidence of this huge 200-plus-structure site’s defensive posture during the 1400-1800CE period (Seymour 2002a, 2004, 2009a). Here a large burned-rock midden suggests that hilltop communal fires were not yet a concern in these especially remote locations. These three most-thoroughly dated ancestral Apache sites provide solid baseline information for the Spanish-colonial period, stretching west to east, just north of the modern international border from Arizona to Texas (see Fig. 2). American Period Habitation Sites By the American period, fires associated with residential sites and household activities were kept from enemy view by a variety of means. Small fires were generally built when people wanted to remain unseen, when there was a shortage of fuel, when there was a high wind, or when the fire’s purpose was limited. The most Apachespecific reason for building small fires is that they did not want to be found, owing to their intensified practice of raiding and the predictable retaliatory response by those encroaching on their territory (Seymour 1995, 2002a). The Cochise-Howard Treaty site and various other habitation locations provide evidence of this pattern (Seymour and Robertson 2008). Fire-Concealment Strategies Many lines of evidence indicate that the late historic Apache built small fires, with no rock rings, and placed them in areas where they were less likely to be seen from a distance. A passage in Captain Joseph Alton Sladen’s account of the peace-making encounter in 1872 between Cochise and General Oliver Otis Howard indicates that “The fire, when used at all, was made from some dry twigs, in a concealed hollow among the rocks” (Sweeney 1991, p. 72). Historically others made similar observations: “small fires [were built] in secluded nooks which cannot be seen by persons unless close by” (Cremony 1981, p. 215; Seymour 1995, 2002a). Archaeological evidence of fires is commonly found in concealed locations such as small rock shelters, for example, in the Dragoon Mountains (Seymour 1995, 2002b; Seymour and Harlan 1996). As the preceding Sladen passage indicates, smoke from fires could be controlled by use of dry fuel, small amounts of fuel, and fuel that was easily extinguishable and did not burn for longer than the specific task required. Archaeological evidence indicates that twigs, brush, and similarly flammable but short-burning and lowsmoke materials were often used for domestic fires. The resulting archaeological evidence occurs as fine ash and little or no charcoal, indicating complete combustion. Lack of oxidation of feature margins also indicates that the fires did not reach high temperatures. The absence of a discernible pit (fires were usually placed on the surface) also attests to the ad hoc nature of these features (Seymour 2010a). Separation of thermal features from habitation areas reduces the visibility of residential sites, which may explain why many camps in my sample do not have evidence of fire pits or hearths. The earliest known local-group residential sites, such as a fifteenth-century encampment in the Dragoon Mountains (the Three Sisters site),

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have fire pits situated adjacent to the hut outlines (Seymour 2002b). This association is not found later in time, even in settings suitable for both habitation and roasting, until the Reservation period. Interest in reducing visibility may also account for why many sizable thermal features (e.g., roasting pits, burned rock middens, and ring middens) that would generate considerable smoke are positioned at the base of elevated terrain (with dwellings higher up) while others are far from habitation sites (Seymour 2002a). Separation of highly visible tasks from habitation sites provided a measure of safety for noncombatants. Varied terrain and dispersed use and habitation areas were effective allies for the mountain-dwelling Apache, helping to disguise and dissipate smoke. Another reason habitation and fire-use areas were spatially separated in the same encampment is that thermal features were often located in different terrain sectors and landforms than huts. This practice relates to the Apache use of places as they are, rather than substantially modifying them to meet needs, as do more stationary groups. Thus, the inherent distribution of materials and resources and other natural attributes of the terrain itself determine where features are placed and activities are conducted, such that behavior is modified with respect to terrain sectors that are specifically suitable for the nature of these various tasks (see Seymour 2009b, 2009c). During the 1872 treaty talks, General Howard (1894, p. 4) provides some insight into the notion that different portions of the terrain were suitable for each type of activity when sitting around a fire on the flat mountain-basin floor he stated: “the bright scene [around the fire] ended when our party broke up, the women and the old men went away to the sloping debris for their night-camps.” This illustrates the Apache tendency to use different portions of the terrain according to its naturally occurring attributes, moving as activities change, rather than modifying the terrain to focus on one centralized area. Consequently, many work areas are also located at a considerable distance from the main habitation area, farther than most site-definition boundaries in culturalresource-management archaeology allow. In an example I have discussed previously (LA 139028; Long Canyon Tipi Ring Site), tipi rings are situated at a curve in the canyon bottom, hidden behind a projecting ridge. A single artifact was observed near these rings, while a work area rich in flaked-stone tools and debitage is situated on a knoll 200 m to the east (see Seymour 2002a, 2009a, b for a discussion of how it was determined that these loci were Apache). This location provided for better working conditions because the knoll would have caught the breeze and this location was in line-of-sight of a lookout location high above in a saddle to the north. Early warning of an approaching enemy would have allowed escape, a consideration that rose in importance in the nineteenth century (see Seymour 2002a, 2009b). In many instances, habitation and roasting sites were situated in different environmental zones. For example, roasting pits tended to be located nearer to sources of agave and other resources that were collected and roasted, where rocks, agave, and soft soil were present (Seymour 2002a, p. 369). This practice makes economic sense because low-density caloric foods do not justify transport costs prior to processing. This placement of processing facilities would have the further advantage of enabling workers to return to the main residence with condensed prepared foods rather than transporting the additional weight of unused portions of resources. As noted by one of


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Opler’s (1996, p. 357) Chiricahua informants: “we go to a place where the mescal is plentiful and dig a pit in about the center of the region in which we are going to get the plants. They are big and heavy, and we don’t want to carry them farther than we have to.” Many camps did not require fires because the food was prepared in one location and transported to another. Where inhabitants did not stay long in any one location, each encampment might not require thermal features for warmth or cooking. Accounts from the 1872 Cochise-Howard Treaty negotiations also indicate that fires were not generally used when fleeing or hiding. Discernible evidence of shortterm residence might sometimes be found, but Sladen indicates that distinguishable modifications to the terrain did not always occur during an overnight stay: We were still on the steep slope of the mountain. Beneath our feet was nothing but shelving rock…I saw that we were to bivouac here…Not an inch of level ground could I discover in the darkness…spreading out my blanket, I lay down upon the steep hillside, moving here and there a stone a little larger than the rest, as it made its projections uncomfortably manifest in my back, and working around until I made a depression for my hips, I lighted a pipe, wrapped myself in my blanket against the piercing cold of the mountain…No fire was allowed, nor, indeed, so far as I could discover, was there either material or space for one…Each one seemed to drop down and make his bed, where his or her horse stopped (Sladen 1896, pp. 41–42). Fire-Concealment Strategies Related to Habitation Another late-1800s strategy related to the concealment of fires involved a notable shift to low-elevation areas for habitation. In the land-claims materials Robert Geronimo (Henderson 1957, p. 404) noted that the “main camp [was] down in [a] big canyon where they could hide their fire. Of course in old time[s], [they] had fires in high elevations.” Other ethnographic materials document this same tendency, where Charlie Smith (Ball 1988, p. 102) noted: “The next night we stopped in a deep canyon where we could build a fire for cooking without danger of its being seen.” This is confirmed by another informant who noted use of a deep canyon: “She selected a camping place some distance from the water, and not visible from it. At its back was a cliff, at its front a mesquite thicket. Through it ran an arroyo deep enough to conceal fires and afford exits in case of attack. Only at midday did she permit fires to be lighted, and then only of very dry wood” (Ball 1970, p. 17). Encampments were often still in the mountains and foothills but were shifted to lower topographic features, as in valley bottoms, canyons, and arroyos. An archaeological example of the late-occurring tendency to shift to lower locations in deep mountain valleys is provided by many of Cochise’s encampments, including in the East Stronghold of the Dragoon Mountains. Here hut outlines with late nineteenth-century artifacts are in low-elevation settings, with thermal features on the valley floor. In this valley huts related to the post-1870 period are loosely clustered around a clearing in the valley center. Other hut outlines are scattered across the lower benches and slopes, while ceremonial storage areas are situated partially up the slope, in rough rocky terrain, beyond the habitation area and in zones with long-distance views.

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Ethnographic sources indicate that distantly separated small habitation loci were established at this time as a way to spread out risk in case of surprise attack (Ball 1970, p. 9). The trees, thick brush, and steep, boulder-strewn slopes with precipitous drops provided cover, while lookouts on nearby high points provided early warning of intruders. Placement of fires in canyons among the trees and construction of housing on lower slopes and flats helped dissipate the smoke, muffle the noise, and hide the inhabitants, while limiting routes of access for aggressors and maximizing chances of escape in the forested and boulder-strewn mountains (Seymour 2010b, p. 148). The enclosed and relatively narrow-mouthed canyon would help contain livestock as well (e.g., Barrett and Turner 1996, p. 98). Small residential loci recorded in the Santa Rita, Dos Cabezas, Chiricahua, Whitlock, and Peloncillo mountains of southern Arizona also provide evidence of this pattern. Late-nineteenth-century artifacts at several sites and house rings strewn at irregular intervals across the low-elevation terrain are accounted for quite well by this late historic model (Seymour and Henderson 2010). Historic documentation of Cochise’s use of the Dos Cabezas Mountains provides independent confirmation of the historical context of these sites (Sweeney 1991). Late-nineteenth-century residential sites documented in the Guadalupe Mountains of southern New Mexico are other examples from the Mescalero-Siete Rios area where documented battles with American troops brought these residential locations into the historic record (Adams et al. 2000). A number of studies completed on Apachean residential site distributions, landscape use, and cultural geography provide in-depth discussions of these complex issues (Seymour 1995, 2002a; 2009b, c; 2010b). The site examples summarized here are intended to show that this is not simply a theoretical issue but rather encampment character and location illustrate the tangible temporal distinctions noted in the ethnographic, land-claims, and oral records. The residential pattern suggested by some elders does not fit site distributions for the Spanish period and earlier. Sites that are consistent with the pattern suggested by modern elders date largely to the later part of the nineteenth century. The seeming contradiction between oral tradition and the archaeological record is resolved by this documented temporal change in Apachean settlement pattern that was made clear by land-claims records which document oral information from eyewitnesses and their children and explain the strategic basis for this difference.

Reconciling Narratives Uncritical use of documentary and oral traditional sources can result in inaccurate understandings of the past. This is, in part, because textual and traditional evidence, like all data sources, and especially other narrative sources, can be interpreted in several ways and apply differentially to specific time periods owing to shifts in behavior. Indeed, contradictory statements require resolution if we are to pursue empirically grounded interpretations. In this regard, historical archaeology has the advantage of being able to use multiple independent data sources, including traditional histories and other orally derived information. These varied perspectives are especially helpful because interpretations are evaluated in the scholarly community on the basis of the number, quality, and strength of links among divergent data sources (Fogelin 2007; Salmon 1976; Wylie 2002a).


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The archaeological record is an effective way to anchor documentary and oral content in time and space, giving it greater meaning and relevance for archaeology and, potentially, for descendant communities. Yet at the same time, several documentary sources may comment on the same phenomenon and therefore are not effectively distinct (e.g., Seymour 2009d; Wylie 1999, pp. 37–41, 2000, p. 233). It is also true, however, that oral accounts recorded at different times over an extended period that match in form and content may help strengthen their cumulative narrative authority (e.g., Bahr et al. 1994; Whiteley 2002, p. 412). Still, documents may just as likely originate from the same preconceived notion, stacking culturally embedded assumptions or newly received knowledge onto otherwise autonomous observations. These and many other factors can contribute to a documentary, oral, or ethnographic record that appears more robust than it is. A more informed view acknowledges that the oral information of today is generally not an eyewitness account. Effective use of oral tradition must recognize that “It is not the ancestors who speak but their progeny;” oral tradition represents “contemporary commentaries on ancestral action” (Mason 2000, p. 244). The traditional record usually extends beyond living memory and as an animate thing, changes to suit modern contexts (e.g., Mason 2000, p. 257; Vansina 1985). The degree of difference is evident when contemplating the consequences of extreme mobility in the face of enemy pressure, the Chiricahua Apaches traversing 90 miles a day or the agonizing act of a mother smothering her crying child when hiding from an overwhelming enemy force (Ball 1970, 1988; Betzinez and Nye 1959). Thus, while “oral tradition reflects the way in which a specific culture defines itself through its past and the way it relates to the world in its present form” (Anyon et al. 1997, p. 80), the often substantial differences between past and current lifeways deflate the claim that that no one can know the indigenous past better than indigenous people themselves (also see Lowie 1917, p. 163; Mason 2000, p. 243). Conversations with many Southwestern indigenous people reveal that the archaeologist’s expectation for them to know their deep history can be a burden and an embarrassment. As Lipan elder at Mescalero, Ted Rodriguez, said with reference to loss of official tribal knowledge regarding Otero Mesa: “To not know these things, it was embarrassing” (Frick-Wright 2012). Archaeologists often expect them to know their traditional past in ways relevant to archaeology, despite recognition that historic circumstances have often truncated that type of connection. “They have lost their songs” one O’odham interviewee said, characterizing the break with what he regarded as “genuine” knowledge about the past (Seymour et al., Remembering Those Who’ve Lost Their Songs: A Collaborative Perspective on Heritage and Identity at San Xavier del Bac, unpublished). An Apache source acknowledged for the Land Claims interviews that they had lost geographic and landscape knowledge owing to the danger of being shot if they ventured too far from the reservation. This loss also followed the cessation of ways of life, such as raiding and warfare, that had previously brought people much farther afield (Seymour 2012a, p. 391). These statements are consistent with Ezell’s (1963, p. 23) finding that recollected details of geographic locations and movements specific enough for ethnohistoric reconstructions in Halchidhoma-Kaveltcadom oral traditions were valid for only about a century. The types of information valued by descendant communities and transmitted through time often differ from that requested by the archaeologist, being anchored by

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contemporary realities that may differ substantially from those of the past. Though it appears that modern laws and regulations require Native Americans to know archaeologically relevant aspects of their deep past, we must work to reinterpret these laws and regulations for informants, regulators, and judges in a way that is consistent with professional archaeological practice and does not erode indigenous rights. Archaeological evidence often provides an independent way to evaluate historical or ethnographic information, to choose among interpretations, and to clarify relevant temporal and geographic parameters. However, direct analogy to the present or to late history is, in many aspects of their past lifeways, misleading, unless it can be demonstrated that the factors underlying the specific behavior remained constant. A related and succinct example that illustrates the types of drawbacks that accompany the practice of using modern perceptions uncritically relates to Western Apachean territorial boundaries. Boundaries reconstructed from the mid-nineteenth century for land-claims work are now viewed by some as “traditional” (e.g., Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2007, p. 48; Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006) even though historical data indicate that these land-claim boundaries have little time depth and were responses to the legal mandate prohibiting and even penalizing overlapping tribal boundaries. Just as Chiricahua and Mescalero residential site placement shifted in the late 1800s, so too did Western Apache residence along the lower San Pedro begin in the nineteenth century. Broader historical and archaeological research shows that these boundaries intruded upon and replaced Sobaípuri-O’odham, Jocome, and Chiricahua Apache territories that persisted for centuries longer (Seymour 2012a). Yet, once an idea is codified as “traditional” by the scholar, content takes on a religious and political life of its own, rather than as a testable hypothesis. As Feinman (1997, p. 369) notes, too often “Traditions and cultural practices described in more recent texts are applied to the deeper past, resulting in a tendency to compress spatial and/or temporal diversity as well as to minimize the extent of recognized change” (Fig. 3). The apparent timelessness of “traditional knowledge,” as Feinman (1997, pp. 372– 373) suggests, “may reflect the political pressures that contemporary groups place on archaeology to find uninterrupted parallels between the present and their pasts.” Yet, conflicts arise as forms of evidence other than modern elder knowledge (e.g., Fig. 3 These O’odham women said they had intended to wear traditional dress to this ancestral location but after doing so, realized on their own that this dress was not traditional after all, but rather, was a later historic addition to their actual traditional dress


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archaeological, documentary, early ethnographic, or land-claims evidence) confront the assumption of depth of a specific tradition in a specific geographic area. This divergence is not a problem until (a) the professional and ethical reputations of those presenting other forms of evidence are impugned, (b) specifically relevant work of other researchers is ignored or distorted, or (c) such claims are used for political ends that are at odds with those of other groups. With regard to this latter point, other groups may have legitimate traditional claims to an area, either as an exclusive or co-use area, as evidenced by their own oral traditions and historical, ethnographic, and archaeological data. As Myers (1986, p. 150) correctly notes: “What we as anthropologists write on paper…becomes itself a ground for people’s claims [on] each other.” Surprisingly, Wilmsen (1989, p. 4) refers to these types of contributions as “benign” stating: “These anthropological interventions were what we would call benign; they were interceded to further the cause of the peoples on whose behalf they were made.” Although this is a commonly held perspective it could also legitimately be viewed as hubris by anthropologists who think we can benignly, or benevolently, engineer social processes that are barely understood. In attempting to do so we may inadvertently distort the record and cause future problems for the groups we study or for others. These unforeseen consequences of well-meaning distortion and selective exclusion in modern studies or uncritical use of ethnographic or litigation documents present challenges now and for the future. This current study of temporal changes in southern Apachean landscape use during the historic period shows that when there is continuity in the basis for a behavior, continuity in practice can be expected, but when prevailing conditions change, it is wise to consider that the human response to those circumstances might also change, resulting in altered archaeological patterns and revisions in oral history. From this standpoint I argue that modern indigenous understandings of the past do not have timeless applicability, despite the tendency of oral traditions to annul time (e.g., Martin 1987, p. 16; also see Whiteley 2002, p. 406) and notwithstanding modern sensibilities about pan-indigenous practices. Traditional histories may pertain to temporally and geographically restricted behavior, especially when the practices relate to such basic needs as defense and subsistence and when they pertain to small geographically isolated groups. Our unique perspectives as archaeologists provide context for understanding the factors behind these changes. Investigating the circumstances of validity of indigenous-cultural-expert knowledge is crucial for understanding how certain aspects of Apachean life were shaped by their contact with enemies and neighbors. Recognition of the importance of their exceptional social landscape provides a basis for understanding the archaeological record and responses to hostile pressure. Acknowledgment that there are different forms of knowledge (e.g., oral history versus traditional history e.g., Echo-Hawk 2000, p. 270; Mason 2000, p. 240; Vansina 1985) and that these are transferred through time in different ways provides a viable starting point for critical analysis. Acceptance that archaeological inquiry is different from other applications for traditional knowledge promotes further discourse. It is common practice for archaeological data to be incorporated with other forms of evidence into a rendering of history. Yet recently the nature of this linkage between sources has not been rigorously approached, effectively analyzed, or even recognized as a methodological problem. Consideration must also be given to the reality that cultural practices change independently of one another, so while a basket-making tradition may

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have deep roots and rich cultural meaning (e.g., Croes 2010), other aspects of life, such as landscape use, may have changed substantially, particularly as people became more stationary or as their homelands changed (also see Seymour 2012a). For certain Apache groups, spiritual images and basketry have deep roots, while many other organizational and material aspects of life changed considerably (see Seymour 2012b). Not all cultural experts share the same slice of knowledge, understand the past in the same way, or are committed to the goals of a scientific archaeology (also see Seymour 2012a). While a consistency in perspective can be expected in a consensus-based society and when a formal tribal perspective has been advanced (e.g., Mescalero Apache Tribe (n.d.a), Mescalero Apache History. Unpublished, on file with the tribe.; Mescalero Apache Tribe (n.d.b). Statement of Cultural Affiliation With Prehistoric and Historic Cultures. Unpublished, on file with the tribe), there are actually many different views, including on historical residential site placement and tribal origins. In fact, the very nature of many forms of indigenous-knowledge transmission results in partitioned and seemingly inconsistent information. The official tribal history and the sanctioned elder authorities are not necessarily those conveying the most accurate information regarding a specific archaeological research issue or area, despite the fact that these authorities may be expressly versed in sanctioned knowledge that is internally important and relevant to their tribe. The distinction between the knowledgeable individual and those of recognized authority is apparent in the official Mescalero Tribal position that the Apache have always been here in the Southwest (Mescalero Apache Tribe n.d.a) versus a description of the migration south from the Subarctic by a leading Mescalero singer or holy man (see Carmichael and Farrer 2012; also see Cole (1981; 1988) for a Chiricahua statement). As is apparent in my own collaborative work, community objectives and traditional local knowledge often differ from those of the larger tribal nation, and internal community politics and historical factors effecting community compositions do not always lend to a unified historical rendition. The role of tribal cultural experts in compliance with modern federal regulations here in the Southwest is not too different from the Spanish period where canes of office were bestowed on local headmen to legitimize their leadership within the colonial system. Today the official keeper of knowledge with the Apache and O’odham is often set within a centralized body reflecting explicit links to strategies of colonialism, whereas community sensibilities and traditional practice may recognize authority on a local level (Seymour 2012a; Seymour et al., Remembering Those Who’ve Lost Their Songs: A Collaborative Perspective on Heritage and Identity at San Xavier del Bac, unpublished). These characteristics related to the partitioning of cultural knowledge can convey the historical authenticity of the source because it was often small isolated mobile groups or communities practicing different customs and sharing and conveying different experiences that made up the knowledge base. The Chiricahua land-claims documents clarify that not only do men and women differ in the knowledge they control, but those of the same gender having different experiences diverge markedly in the both perceptions and knowledge, as do people of different factions. Apaches who were part of one local group were not familiar with the traditional use areas of an adjacent group, and so key information about large portions of ancestral territory were forgotten or at least excluded from the official record. Individuals whose parents were more sharing of past ways were far more knowledgeable about their immediate


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ancestors. Sometimes those most knowledgeable said the least, whereas those best read in the historical literature were most vocal. My observations are that people related to Geronimo have a very different perception of the final few years of the “Apache Wars” than do those unrelated to this historical icon. Differences between factions and tribes will not necessarily be clearly expressed, owing to the value placed on consensus, the desire to avoid allowing outsiders to pit the interests of one group against the other, the wish to respect the position of sanctioned cultural specialists, and the reluctance to acknowledge outsiders’ authority on traditional matters. The risk is that modern investigators are building cases on the basis of a sliver of unrepresentative evidence, recollections specific to time and place, versions that were conveyed to achieve a specific unstated goal, information that was partially gleaned from the literature, or on statements by people who were simply being agreeable rather than agreeing. Clearly, as Mason (2000, p. 261) advocates “some sophistication in ethnographic data evaluation is virtually mandatory.” In the example presented here regarding Apache residential site placement, a formerly neglected documentary record of informant interviews can provide a bridge between different data sources. Rather than presenting a challenge to the use of traditional knowledge, such considerations provide a basis for understanding how this special knowledge fits when incorporated in a methodologically appropriate and timesensitive manner. Such considerations preserve archaeology’s authoritative voice (e.g., Wilcox 2010, p. 223) in scientific inquiry through application of accepted methodological standards and by restricting participation in the intellectual argument to those who play by the same rules (McGhee 2010, p. 241; Mason 2000, pp. 244, 263). Alternatively, it opens the discussion to those who present viable arguments and guidelines for a change in methodology by introducing new theory. These considerations also preserve the integrity and authority of the indigenous elder. Such specialists convey information as it is relevant to and understood in today’s world, pertinent in tribal and community contexts, and applicable to the behavior now being codified into the archaeological record. In many instances some of the deeper traditional history is also preserved.

Conclusion Methodological considerations, routine in archaeological practice, have been devised to resolve apparent conflicts and contradictions in data. These procedures allow different types of evidence, not taken at face value, to be integrated in a holistic way, in a manner that upholds the precepts of both archaeology and history. In fact, engaging in source criticism is at the core of scholarly practice for historians and ethnohistorians. As Echo-Hawk (2000, p. 271) says: “A standard rule of historiography is that source materials, whether consisting of written records or oral documents, should be critically evaluated rather than simply taken at face value.” What is being suggested here is that many practitioners do not follow this scholarly practice nor are the basic precepts of archaeology tackled theoretically, but, rather, these thorny issues are ignored altogether. Without such rigor arguments tend to become gate-keeping devices and ethical impeachments, ways of impugning the reputation of other professionals. The examples presented herein reinforce the importance of addressing source conflict and critically assessing each source.

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I am arguing that it is methodologically unacceptable to incorporate traditional knowledge without source-criticism while at the same time requiring that all other sources be critically analyzed. If they are to be used, these traditional data sources must be subjected to “the same rough treatment meted out to secular data” (Mason 2000, p. 260). This is why ethnic identities or belief systems are not equivalent qualifiers in archaeology to formal training (see Mason 2000; Wilcox 2010, p. 223). Rather, in archaeology, traditional data sources are but one evidentiary source to be subjected to scholarly investigation: they are data that speak back, but, nonetheless, they are data. With respect to the historic Apache, when the documentary, ethnographic, and oral records are seriated and chronometric and relative dating results are applied to archaeological finds a shift can be seen in residential patterns and locations of fire making. This shift explains the archaeological distribution of sites and clarifies discrepancies between certain aspects of the oral, ethnographic, and ethnohistoric records. In this instance, we are fortunate that the land-claims interviews of eyewitnesses and their children captured important statements about a fundamental change in residential patterns among certain Apachean groups. Explanations for this change are provided by extracting the behavioral and social factors behind the observed material and spatial patterns found in the documentary record. The resulting behavioral inference is that this residential shift to lower elevations is related directly to pressure from enemies and neighbors with respect to fire-making activities. This inference is drawn from ethnographic data and oral accounts which in turn is consistent with archaeological observations. The shift occurred very late in history so modern elder knowledge regarding this issue is representative of only about the last 25 years before Geronimo’s surrender and incarceration. Acknowledgments The title of this paper incorporates a comment by Michael Wilcox (2010, p. 224), that “artifacts, features, and human remains do not “speak back” in the same way that ethnographic subjects do.” I would like to thank a number of people for providing comments on various drafts of this paper, including Jeff Boyer, Mark E. Harlan, David V. Hill, Styve Homnick, Rosalind Hunter-Anderson, Robert McGhee, Alison E. Rautman, Michael B. Schiffer, and various anonymous reviewers. I alone am responsible for its content.

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