By Ruben Leyva, Gila Apache
Where Part I explored the families who navigated the peace establishments of the Spanish and Mexican periods, Part II turns to those who carried these survival strategies into the U.S.–Mexico borderlands. These were the Bá̱ch'i — the so-called "outsiders," as neighboring Apaches called them — families who lived at the margins of settler society, near towns, presidios, and ranches. They adapted in ways that protected kinship and memory, not as a mark of surrender, but as a quiet assertion of sovereignty.
The term Bá̱ch'i, pronounced approximately BAH-ch'ee, was never a band name. It was a label applied to those who, by geography or circumstance, lived apart from the main body of the people. These families, often of Central Chiricahua or Chokonen origin, made their homes near Tucson, Nogales, the Huachuca Mountains, the Sierra Madre, and later in Southern California. They blended in when necessary, adopting Mexican dress, cutting their hair, and speaking Spanish. Yet, they carried their Apache spirit in language, song, and ceremony — often taught in secret, in arroyos at night, or whispered in the safety of their homes. Elder Juan Rojelio remembered how, as a boy, his parents rolled him in the soil of the Dragoon Mountains, so that no matter where life took him, he would know where he belonged.
My ancestor, Frank Leyva — known to outsiders simply as Apache Frank, not Chiricahua Frank like his brother Jim — embodied the quiet precision with which Bá̱ch'i families navigated the dangerous terrain of identity. Why was Frank seen merely as "Apache," while Jim was marked as "Chiricahua," and why did that difference matter? The answer lies in the survival strategies honed by families like ours, where the cost of a name could mean exile or endurance.
Frank, like other Bá̱ch'i, lived at the margins. Despite being on the margin, his brother Jim traveled to visit from the Mescalero reservation. Blending into Western Apache and sometimes Mexican life was necessary, according to Warm Springs informant Duncan Balachu. According to Fort Sill Historian Gillett Griswold, Apache Frank AKA 'Felaytay' was enrolled for a time among the Yuma —at the San Carlos agency— a classification that, on paper, distanced him from the Chiricahua identity that the U.S. targeted for deportation. The "Yuma" designation, likely a bureaucratic shorthand for Apache families associated with Yavapai or Mohave tag bands at San Carlos, reflects the administrative strategies employed to group people for census and control purposes. As noted in historical census data, such labels often merged distinct communities, providing some families, like Frank's, a shield from forced removal.
This administrative label helped safeguard him from the fate that befell his brother Jim, who was exiled as part of the Chiricahua prisoner-of-war removals. Frank's ability to remain behind was not a matter of luck; it was the outcome of deliberate choices, kinship ties, and the way his identity was presented to and perceived by the authorities. It was a survival strategy that allowed him to serve as a scout during the Geronimo Campaign, like Jim's, but unlike Jim, he was not exiled afterward.
Elder Juan Rojelio's story brings this logic into sharp relief. His blind great-aunt, the knowledge keeper of their family, warned him as a boy: "Never tell them who you are. Or they will send you to the Black." The Black symbolized the East, where Chiricahuas were sent as prisoners. This fear of exile shaped the Bá̱ch'i's choices. They did not deny being Apache. But they guarded the word Chiricahua closely, knowing that to speak it openly could bring ruin. Speaking a Western dialect, adopting regional greetings like Dagot'éé rather than Há̱įsh íshį́, or referring to the Mountain Spirits as Gaan rather than Gahee — these were subtle shields that helped protect their true identity while affirming their Apache belonging.
The Bá̱ch'i survived because they understood that identity could be both shield and lance. They lived not in denial of who they were, but in quiet defense of it, navigating the colonial gaze in ways that kept their families safe and their traditions intact. This strategy of quiet survival was not unique to my family. As Neil Goodwin recorded in his interviews for Like a Brother, elders spoke of families who "played the Mexican game"—not as a betrayal, but as a necessary disguise in a world that left no room for Indigenous sovereignty. By allowing the colonial state to categorize them as Mexican, settlers, or possibly another tribe, these families rendered themselves invisible as Chiricahua Apache, buying time, safety, and space for their kin. It was the state's imposed racial and political hierarchy, not these families' choices, that denied their Indigenous identity in the eyes of power.
Goodwin's interviewees also remembered how families would gather in the Huachuca Mountains, teaching their children in secret. One elder recalled, "We didn't say we were (Chiricahua) Apache. We knew what would happen if we did." Another shared, "In the evening, my grandmother would take us to the arroyo and sing the old songs so no one else could hear." These memories speak to the hidden continuity of language, ceremony, and belonging. The Bá̱ch'i did not deny who they were when it was safe to do so. They protected that identity, defending it in ways outsiders failed to see — in kinship ties, whispered songs, and the unseen bonds that tied them to their homelands.
Some Bá̱ch'i moved like water across the borderlands, from Tucson to Yuma, from Sierra Madre camps to San Diego. Frank Leyva's son, Leandro, whose mother was Chiricahua-Nedhni, was photographed with short hair and facial hair – a disguise that prevented a questioned identity. Leandro and his wife resurfaced in Ysleta, Texas. Some of the family in Ysleta, Tucson, and Yuma moved to San Diego, where I was born. They lived at the edge of two worlds, but their identity was rooted in kinship.
As scholars like Ernest Schusky and Lloyd Lee remind us, kinship—not rolls, blood quantum, or imposed categories—defines what it means to belong. Lee highlights census data that show a significantly higher number of people who identify as Navajo than the number of tribal enrollments. This was the sovereignty the Bá̱ch'i exercised: one expressed in quiet acts of endurance, in shared ceremonies, in the language and songs passed down where no one else could hear.
Like Gila Apache families in New Mexico, Bá̱ch'i families spoke Spanish. However, those Bá̱ch'i with closer ties to Arizona maintained their identity not through assimilation or erasure but through ongoing participation in regionally specific Apache ceremonial and linguistic systems. Their commitments to kinship, speech patterns, and feast traditions connected them to the Western Apache communities. This deep integration reflected a place-based continuity, a land-based connection that exiled communities at Mescalero and Fort Sill had to recreate in new geographies. It is common for Bá̱ch'i from the Arizona mountains to use the greeting "Dagot'éé" (How are you? Or Are you good?), pronounced roughly DAH-go-teh-eh, instead of the Chiricahua greeting "Há̱įsh íshį́?" (What are you doing?), pronounced approximately HAH-eesh EE-shin, because Dagot'éé is a more familiar regional term. Similarly, "Gaan," instead of "Gahee," would be used to refer to the Mountain Spirits out west.
So, we see how relocation and concentration have complicated cultures and dialects. Many Yavapai-Apache descendants historically spoke both Yuman (Yavapai) and Apachean (Dilzhé'é) languages, though today these languages are the focus of revitalization efforts. Some lean more heavily on an Apachean dialect, reflecting their Apache ancestral connections and the tribe's forced relocation to San Carlos in 1875. The proximity of Frank Leyva's Tucson Bá̱ch'i families may have promoted stronger ties to the San Carlos Apache dialect. This difference in speech does not make it less authentic; instead, it tells a story of adaptation that allowed Native speakers to continue speaking Apache through practice among the locals.
Grenville Goodwin interviewed the White Mountain Apache Black Rope, AKA John Rope, in his golden years. Rope had successfully served as an Apache scout hunting hostile Chiricahua Apaches. In 1879, at Fort Bowie, Frank Leyva and his family met with the scouts to discuss peace with the United States and relocation to San Carlos. Grenville's 1936 account stated the scouts were comprised of "Yavapais, Tontos, San Carlos, and White Mountain People." After initial talks, according to John Rope, the Chiricahua invited those they called 'bíni' ediné' (people without sense), possibly how the Spanish arrived at the derogatory term 'Tonto' (meaning foolish), today referred to as Dilzhé'é (those with high-pitched voices). The Chiricahuas invited the scouts to camp for singing and dancing with Frank's band, who included the leaders Juh (whose Spanish name was Lino Leyva), Haskenadiłta (Haské-Níí also known as Esquine - Frank's father-in-law), and Natcułbaye (Apache Elías), who, along with Geronimo, agreed to go to San Carlos.
The Scouts and women of Frank's band danced that night and shopped at the commissary the next day. This dance between Scouts and the young women of Frank's family was probably the reason for their intermingling at the San Carlos Apache reservation. It may also explain Griswold's description of Frank being enrolled with the "Yuma," with whom his family had allied, and possibly the origin of his name, "Felaytay."
This story invites us to see the full breadth of Apache survival, not as a contest of one path over another, but as a recognition of the many ways our people adapted, resisted, and remained. I share these reflections not as final answers, but as connections I have made through study, memory, and family tradition. I invite readers to engage with this history, to question, enrich, and help carry it forward. Together, we can honor those who survived at the edge of empire, hidden in plain sight.
