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With his return, Yasin was a major symbol of greatness in affirmity: he was the mutilated king. People began to think about the man and the movement with renewed fervor. In a bold, deflationary gesture, the ailing sheikh likened himself to “a baby returned to his mother's womb”. Six years after returning home from his tour of Arab countries, he finally attained what he long said he wanted more than anything on earth. Shortly after the dawn prayer in a Gaza City mosque, he was struck to the ground by a missile fired from an Israeli Apache helicopter.

This chapter focuses on Native American interactions with the land. Many tribes believe in the sustaining power of the land. According to most Native American traditions, the land is alive. Every particular form of the land is experienced as the locus of qualitatively different spirit beings; their presence sanctifies and gives meaning to the land in all its details and contours. These spirits also give meaning to the lives of people who cannot conceive of themselves apart from the land. Apache stores of place, Navajo relationship with the land, conflict over sacred lands, and sacred architecture are discussed.

The key phrase in Miles's telegram to his commanding general was “it should be done peaceably if possible.” For a large military force suddenly to appear at San Carlos and Fort Apache and to begin rounding up the Indians for a forced march to the nearest railhead would certainly cause the greatest outbreak in the history of Arizona Territory. The Apaches feared treachery leading to mass hangings in reprisal for their many raids in the Territory. Chatto believed that they would not be removed from Arizona but would be given good Agents and an actual means of making an honorable living at Fort Apache. But just as Miles had lied to Geronimo at the surrender, so President Cleveland and General Sheridan lied to Chatto. The fight for credit for the surrender of Geronimo would be as hard fought and even more lengthy than the campaign itself.

This chapter explores both the alternate versions of spatial organization and power that persisted and evolved in the borderlands and how the nation-states managed to suppress them in the first four decades of the border's existence. In order to establish military authority and make the boundary line a meaningful marker of territorial sovereignty, the Mexican and U.S. militaries had to defeat two very different threats—the first from filibusters from outside the region and the second from Apache people who had long lived in the borderlands. While both of these struggles revealed how far the United States and Mexico still had to go before they could claim to fully control the borderlands, they also provided evidence of the subtle ways in which the boundary line had already begun to change the landscape of power in the region.

The flight of Geronimo and his renegades from San Carlos caused near-panic across southern Arizona and New Mexico. “Apaches on Warpath,” headlined newspapers, while editorial writers criticized the soldiers for bungling. But while civilians criticized, the Army acted rapidly to get the renegades back to the reservation. Britton Davis with his Scouts was joined by Lieutenant Gatewood, who brought a dozen White Mountain Scouts from Fort Apache, and by Captain Allen Smith with two companies of the Fourth Cavalry. This chapter describes the pursuit from May 1885 to December 1885, marked by the trail of blood left by the Apaches. With the soldiers hunting in vain, Josanie and his band reached the safety and warmth of Mexico, making Crook's command look ridiculous.

The end of the Civil War found Nelson Appleton Miles unwilling to quit the military life. On April 27, 1886, General Miles got his first taste of Apache warfare. Geronimo and Nachez struck across the border in the Santa Cruz Valley that morning, killing a number of cowboys and capturing the Peck ranch. This chapter describes Miles's hunt for Geronimo and the renegades with the aid of Captain H.W. Lawton. Lawton's command was not successful in its mission of wearing the renegades down and forcing them to surrender. Later, Miles abandoned all thought that his “athletes” could win a military victory over the hostiles, and turned to Crook's policy of diplomacy. He ordered Lieutenant Gatewood to that task, which Gatewood performed successfully.

For three centuries before the arrival of the Anglo-American in the Southwest, the Apaches dominated the region, striking terror not only into the hearts of surrounding Indian tribes but also into the hearts of the Spanish colonists who ventured into the area. All the Apache bands, including the Navajo, were distinguished from neighboring southwestern tribes by one other feature—their ferocity as warriors. Inhabitants of a hard, cruel land, they became, like it, hard and cruel to everyone except themselves. In fact, their economy, beyond some hunting and gathering, was based on booty gathered in raids.

Only Geronimo stood aloof from the fight for glory in the years immediately after his surrender—there was no glory for him or for the other Apache renegades. In captivity Geronimo, along with the other Apache prisoners, faced the philosophical question of restructuring his life. Geronimo apparently made a conscious decision late in life not to follow the “white man's road.” He did not return to the old ways, however; he became a showman. With special permission from the War Department, he attended the Omaha and Buffalo expositions and the St. Louis World's Fair as an “attraction.” At such events, Geronimo gloried in his reputation and used the opportunity to make money. Geronimo died at Fort Sill on February 17, 1909. In the decades that have passed since his death, Geronimo indeed has grown steadily in stature as a great American.

Twenty-two-year-old Aldo Leopold arrived in Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory, in July 1909, burning with the “fervor of a sawdust evangelist.” The Forest Service had sent him to his first choice—District 3, encompassing the twenty-one forests of the South and Southwest. His duties were outlined in his manual: preserve a perpetual supply of timber for home industries, prevent destruction of forest cover (which regulates the flow of streams), and protect local industries from unfair competition in the use of forest and range. The district chief was Arthur Ringland, a stocky, energetic Yale graduate only a few years older than Leopold. Ringland sensed the new graduate’s enthusiasm and assigned him to the wildest lands in the district—the Apache National Forest in Arizona Territory. The land had originally belonged to the Apache Nation, but in 1886, the US Army forced most of the members onto a nearby reservation. This left but a few ranchers, farmers, and miners in the region. The forest headquarters rested in Springerville, Arizona, a two-day stagecoach ride from the last railroad stop. No automobiles carved tire treads over these plateaus and canyons. Travel was by foot, horse, or mule. Forest Assistant Leopold, the newest greenhorn among many, wasted no time in purchasing a feisty gray stallion called Jiminy Hicks, a saddle, a rope, and a few good roping lessons. Within the month, he also acquired pistols and a “rubber butt plate” for those long days in the saddle. The rubber plate came in handy since Aldo put in a good deal of time astride Jiminy Hicks. Throughout July and the beginning of August, Leopold inspected trees, marked them for cutting, planted seed plots, fixed fences, and met the other rangers. Working under Supervisor John D. Guthrie, Aldo contributed his two bits on policy decisions about grazing permits, water rights, and timber sales. Guthrie’s long hours and dedicated stance inspired the young ranger. The simplicity of life on the range, where one had to live out of a pack, made Leopold feel tough and free. On his own time, he hunted, mapped out the forest for himself, climbed mountains, and tested trout streams.

Estella said yes. After such news, Aldo could hardly concentrate. He wrote home, “Somehow, this time, I don’t seem to be able to write.” On December 2, he wrote in his work journal, “In at least 6 lines of work today and nothing particularly accomplished in any one.” Aldo celebrated the holidays and his engagement at the Bergeres’ with his father beside him, warmly regaled with guitar music, Spanish and Italian carols, pasta, luminarias, and piñatas. Then came the promenade of New Year’s fiestas and parties honoring New Mexico’s statehood. Work looked pretty dull in comparison. On his return to Tres Piedras, Leopold found his desk buried under requests for grazing permits. Altogether, Carson headquarters had received applications for 220,000 sheep. The new plan allowed only 198,000, and it was Leopold’s job to reject the extra applications and to make the decisions stick. He and his rangers patrolled the forests, their six-shooters at their sides. Even so, they relied mostly on forceful words as a means of persuasion. When he met ranchers or sheepers to talk, Leopold carefully left his pistols in his saddle. By March, the business of permits was well under way. Hall had accomplished the job he came for, and he moved on. Ringland promoted Leopold to acting supervisor of Carson National Forest. Aldo boasted to his fiancée: “Of all the men in our class from Forest School there are only two of us Acting Supervisors, and none are Supervisors yet.” By fall, he was Carson’s full supervisor. Leopold hired more rangers to hold the grazing situation steady. He closely inspected the rangers’ stations, work journals, and reports. When a forester’s idea or accomplishment impressed him, he dashed off “Bully!” in the margin. That summer, Aldo built a house for his bride- to- be, assisted by Estella’s brother and his own brother Frederic, who was working at headquarters for the summer. Aldo’s correspondence to his beloved never faltered.

On January 15, 1915, a week after returning from his father’s funeral and two days before his twenty-eighth birthday, Leopold handed in a memo on how to restore game in District 3. He proposed that Forest Service policy should: • Consider game animals as forest “products” (just as trees are); • Manage the wild species scientifically for count and quality; Set aside land for game refuges where hunting permits would be sold and limited; • Use the profits to pay rangers to work on predator control and enforce state game laws. A plan that covered these points, claimed Leopold, could successfully bring game back to the forests of the Southwest. Ringland gave the memo his ardent approval. He recognized that, in essence, Leopold was asking the Forest Service to expand its definition of its responsibilities, and the proposal had importance for forests nationwide. Ringland advised Leopold to schedule a meeting with a representative from the Washington, DC office, Leon Kneipp. Kneipp rejected Leopold’s plan. The Forest Service would not sink any money into an expensive gamble. Kneipp felt that rangers should protect game out of a sense of public duty, and not expect any pay or time off from their tasks to do so. Nor would the Forest Service set aside land for game refuges until the public demanded it. Needless to say, Leopold was disappointed. The rejection came at a time when he faced head on the shortsightedness of the Forest Service’s policies in the grazing office. Leopold could see no way to encourage new seedlings without granting fewer grazing permits. His supervisor, John Kerr, cared only about revenues. He pushed Leopold to increase the number of permits, as well as to work out the forms and petty details. The two ended up in daily headlocks. Frustration built up in Leopold like a mountain storm. Ringland hated to see one of his most innovative foresters wasted in paperwork. He knew he would lose Leopold if he didn’t act quickly to find a position that suited Aldo’s ambitions and abilities.

In September 1939, Germany invaded Poland. During the dark months of 1939, 1940, and 1941, Europe exploded with tanks, bombs, and guns. The violent side of Hitler’s new German policies proved worse than Leopold had imagined possible. A letter arrived from Leopold’s host in Germany, Alfred Schottlaender. Schottlaender’s wife had turned him in to the secret police for making antiHitler comments. He had been interned both at Dachau and Buchenwald but had managed to escape to Kenya. He was writing to ask Aldo to help his brother, who was still in Germany. Leopold contacted those he knew, and a place was found in South Africa for Alfred’s brother. “My dear friend Leopold,” responded Alfred, “[You] have given me back the faith of faithfulness, truth, and friendship still existing on earth, which I nearly had lost after having lived to see such terrible disap­pointments in my own country which I loved so much and served all my life.” Violence seemed to be the common link between the many ways humans acted toward the land and toward each other. Leopold began to refer to con­servation as a movement toward “nonviolent land use,” where changes are made gradually and carefully, keeping the land community stable. Then the exploding violence hit the States: the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. The next day, Carl enlisted in the marines. On the edge of twenty-two, he had just begun graduate studies in wildlife ecology in Missouri. He hurried to marry Keena Rogers before leaving for combat. Luna enlisted in the army and was sent to California as an army engineer. Starker, who had married and was expecting a child, kept working, but dreaded the mail, which could carry a draft notice any day. Many of the Professor’s graduate and undergraduate students quit school to enlist. Vivian Horn resigned to do her part for the war effort. Sometime in 1942, a round robin of letters was begun between the department and those who had left. Each recipient added comments and sent the letter on to some­one else.

The chapter opens with discussion of native Catholicism among the Apache, and of the syncretic church imagery epitomized by the Apache Christ behind the altar. The discussion then pursues the “rebuild my church” mandate that St. Francis received in a vision and the application of the same by Franciscans and others who undertook the restoration of the huge stone church and the congregation in Mescalero. The discussion of a trainee program at this and other sites introduces a section regarding the influence of church restoration on the alcoholism and sobriety of one of the workers. The chapter then discusses the difficulties of transition from Franciscan to diocesan pastorship. It concludes with a historical section on the freed Chiricahua prisoners of war who settled at Mescalero, and on Father Albert Braun, whose vision and initiative resulted in the construction of St. Joseph. The chapter includes a visiting guide.

On July 19, 1909, Aldo Leopold was appointed as forest assistant at the Apache National Forest just outside Springerville, in the Arizona Territory. During the two decades he spent with the U.S. Forest Service, Leopold got married to Estella Bergere and suffered from a case of acute nephritis (Bright's disease). Leopold's approach to game management was based on principles of forest management. For his successes in the Southwest, Leopold received a letter of congratulation from Theodore Roosevelt in January 1917 and a gold medal from Hornaday's Permanent Wild Life Protection Fund in July. In January 1918, Leopold left the U.S. Forest Service to take the position of secretary of the Albuquerque Chamber of Commerce. In August 1919, he rejoined the Forest Service as an assistant district forester. In April 1924, he became assistant director of the Forest Products Laboratory in Madison, Wisconsin. In 1928, the Sporting Arms and Ammunitions Manufacturers' Institute approached Leopold with an offer to conduct a nationwide survey of game conditions. Leopold agreed.

The mochilla lay beside the migrant trail, an abandoned black daypack still heavy with goods. The Border Patrol agent carried it to the shelter of a corner of rocks, where no one could spot him while he searched it. He dug through the contents. There was a package of refried beans in gaudy plastic, a bag of instant oatmeal, fruit punch in a bottle too small to slake a serious thirst, and other convenience food. Also a half-pound or more of white grains in a punctured bag; the agent wet a finger and tasted: only sugar. Then he heard voices approaching and scrambled up the slope to hide in the brush. There were three of them: a rangy young man with a shadowy face in the lead, an older guy in a ball cap, and a pretty young woman with raven hair behind. They were Americans, not migrants or narcos. Their skin, their clothes, even their posture gave them away. They were too relaxed, too careless to be anything else. The agent stepped out from his hiding place. They slowed but did not stop. “You all out hiking?” “Yep,” said the young man with the shadowy face. “Where you from?” “Tucson,” came the clipped reply. Then the hikers, unsmiling and eyes straight ahead, passed him at a fast clip, the chill of the encounter resisting the afternoon heat, the desert absorbing the silence. The hikers had come from the direction of the Rat’s Nest, a maze of drainages half a dozen miles above the Line, and they disappeared toward Apache Pass—not the famous Apache Pass in the Chiricahua Mountains in eastern Arizona, but a lesser pass on the shoulder of Bartolo Mountain, well south of Tucson and only nine or ten miles north of Mexico. The agent knew they weren’t out for a hike. No one comes just to hike in the contorted and contested, bone-dry mountains along this stretch of the border. Everyone has a purpose. They come to smuggle or to be smuggled. They come to scurry in moonlight and to drag themselves under the blaze of the sun across dozens of miles of steep shadeless rock.

The rains have forsaken El Cuervo for nearly a year, and the mountain-ringed plain that used to be a prairie is as naked as a parking lot. Not a blade of grass is in sight, scarcely a bush. A few low mesquites, defoliated and dormant, hug the parched ground, the wind having packed into their thorny embrace the dried-out stems of last year’s tumbleweeds. Except in the burrows of the kangaroo rats, nothing can be hidden here. A lost coin or key would shout its presence, much as the potsherds do on the mounds of the ancient pueblo by the arroyo. Every edible thing has been consumed, every plant nipped off at the level of the ground. Even the soil is leaving, blown away, tons to the acre, by winds that sweep down from the Sierra Madre, a dozen miles to the west. If you were to make your way to the top of one of the chipped-tooth peaks of the sierra (no small task), you would be able to look down into great canyons. One of those canyons belongs to the Río Gavilán, where in 1936 Aldo Leopold glimpsed a kind of ecological heaven that no longer exists. From atop the peak you would also see for great distances, certainly as far as Janos, the crossroads and market town through which nearly every visitor to this northwest corner of Chihuahua passes, and on a dustless day you might see the gritty penumbra of Ciudad Juárez and El Paso, far on the northeastern horizon. The air is dry, and here it is empty of pollution, which makes El Cuervo and its environs a good place for looking long distances, even into the past. One way to understand changes in the land is to visit a place that shows how things used to be. That’s what Leopold realized when he visited the Río Gavilán. He saw it as a fragment of the Southwest that had escaped the pressures of white settlement, and he recognized it as a mirror of how Arizona and New Mexico used to be, back in the days when the Apaches still roamed their homeland in freedom.

In this book we have argued for a multitheoretical, multilevel approach to the study of communication and other forms of organizational and social networks. We began by exploring several problems within the existing corpus of network research. We then showed how the MTML model provides a network research strategy that resolves most of these problems. (For ease of presentation, this review of the essential arguments and social theories includes citations only to references that have not been cited in earlier chapters of this book.) The first problem is the fact that the vast majority of network research is atheoretical. One reason for this is that there are very few explicit theories of social networks. Another reason is that researchers are generally not cognizant of the relational and structural implications inherent in various social theories. Even research that does employ theory typically does so without much attention to the network mechanisms implicit in the theories. A second problem with network research is that most scholars approach networks from a rather myopic, single-level perspective, which is reflected in the fact that almost all published research operates at a single level of analysis. Thus, they tend to focus on individual features of the network such as density. For the most part, researchers tend to ignore the multiple other components out of which most network configurations are composed, structural components from multiple levels of analysis such as mutuality, transitivity, and network centralization. Employing single levels of analysis is not inherently wrong; it is simply incomplete. Importantly, these components suggest different theoretical mechanisms in the formation, continuation, and eventual reconfiguration of networks. Typically, better explanations come from research that utilizes multiple levels of analysis. The third problem centers on the fact that most network research focuses on the relatively obvious elementary features of networks such as link density and fails to explore other, more complex properties of networks such as attributes of nodes or multiplex relations. But the members of networks often possess interesting theoretical properties, which help to shape the configurations in which they are embedded, and networks are themselves often tied to other networks.