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Transcriber’s Note: This book was originally printed with two Chapter
XVIIs and two Chapter XVIIIs; I chose not to renumber the chapters. A
table of contents has been added for the reader’s convenience.




[Illustration: Lieutenant Decker smilingly extended his hand to his
astonished friend.

“You did not expect either of us, but we are here all the same.”—Page
184.

—_The Young Scout._]




                           THE YOUNG SCOUT.

                 The Story of a West Point Lieutenant.

                          By EDWARD S. ELLIS,

       _Author of “Adrift in the Wilds,” “A Jaunt Through Java,”
                      “A Young Hero,” etc., etc._

                            [Illustration]

                               NEW YORK:
                        A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.

                    Copyright 1895, by A. L. BURT.




THE YOUNG SCOUT.




CONTENTS.


        I. THE YOUNG CHAMPION.                 1
       II. A WELL EARNED REWARD.              10
      III. DANGER IN THE AIR.                 20
       IV. GERONIMO.                          32
        V. COMPLIMENTS AT LONG RANGE.         40
       VI. APACHE CUNNING.                    48
      VII. A SIGNAL.                          56
     VIII. MAROZ AND CEBALLOS.                64
       IX. MENDEZ, THE SCOUT.                 71
        X. THE EAVESDROPPER.                  78
       XI. CAVARHO AND MENDEZ.                85
      XII. A CALL AND A REPLY.                92
     XIII. THE TROOPERS.                      99
      XIV. WAITING FOR DAYLIGHT.             107
       XV. AN INTERRUPTED FLIGHT.            115
      XVI. THE RANCHMAN’S HOME.              122
     XVII. THE SHADOW OF DANGER.             130
    XVIII. A CRUEL BLOW.                     138
     XVII. “NOW FOR IT.”                     145
    XVIII. “SEE DERE!”                       157
      XIX. AN APACHE SIGNAL.                 170
       XX. ON THE MOUNTAIN SIDE.             183
      XXI. A GAME OF HIDE AND SEEK.          202
     XXII. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?                211
    XXIII. WHAT BEFELL MAURICE FREEMAN.      221
     XXIV. THE REALITY.                      231
      XXV. A REMINISCENCE.                   241
     XXVI. A SURPRISE INDEED.                252
    XXVII. CONCLUSION.                       265




CHAPTER I.

THE YOUNG CHAMPION.


One warm summer afternoon, a half dozen boys on their way home from the
Burkville School, stopped to rest under the trees, which afforded a
grateful shade at the side of the dusty highway.

No matter how tired such a lot of youngsters may be, they are sure
to be brimming over with mischief, and on the alert for boisterous
amusement. To picture them seated quiet, thoughtful and well behaved is
to picture what was never seen. No such an occurrence is on record or
within the memory of the “oldest inhabitant.”

Among the group who reclined on the grass was little Almon Goodwin,
a cripple, with a withered leg, which compelled him to use a crutch
in walking and debarred him from the more active sports of his
playfellows. His sunny disposition, genial nature and scholarly ability
made him a favorite with the rest, who were always glad to favor him
and to accept playful annoyances at his hands which would have been
quickly resented on the part of the other lusty youths.

The largest boy of the group was Buck Kennon, a new pupil, whose folks
had lately removed to the neighborhood. He was two years older than the
eldest of the party, and in growth and appearance seemed to be fully
sixteen years of age. He was a rough, coarse, overbearing lad, who was
feared and disliked by the rest. Three of the boys, who resisted his
tyrannous conduct, had been beaten into submission, and every one felt
that a most disagreeable and unwelcome member had joined the school.
They would have been glad to be rid of him, but there he was and likely
to stay with all his detested qualities.

The party had been lolling on the grass in the shade for some minutes,
when Buck snatched off the hat of the crippled boy and dashed off with
it. Almon hobbled after him, but of course could not overtake his
persecutor.

“That isn’t fair; let me have my hat,” called Almon, halting in his
pursuit; “why don’t you take some one else’s hat?”

The bully, seeing he was not pursued, now picked up a stone, flung the
hat aloft and as it turned to descend, let fly with the stone, which
was aimed so well that it passed through the crown, leaving a jagged
hole. The owner crooked his arm and raised it to his face. His parents
were poor and he could not help crying over the damage done to his
property.

“Oh, what a baby!” called Buck, making ready to fling the hat up again
for another shot; “I ’spose your mother will give you a whipping for
not taking care of that purty head piece.”

Before the hat could leave the hand of the bully, a boy dashed forward,
snatched it from his grasp, and returned it to the sobbing owner.

“Buck Kennon, you are a mean coward! Why don’t you let him alone and
take _our_ hats?”

The boy who had the courage to do this was James Decker, two years
younger than the bully and of much slighter frame. He was the best
scholar in school and liked by playmates and teacher. Having handed
the property of the cripple to him, he turned about and confronted the
big lad, who stood a moment amazed at his daring. The face of Buck was
crimson with anger and all saw that trouble was impending.

“What business is it of yours?” he demanded; “I’ll do as I please
without asking you about it. I’ll teach you better than to interfere.”

He made a snatch at the young champion’s hat, but James dodged and
in a twinkling snatched off that of his assailant. James was much
more active than his bulky pursuer, and, dashing a few rods, suddenly
stopped, flung the handsome hat in air, and then with the accuracy of a
rifle-shot hurled a stone clean through it.

“There!” he said, “see how you like it yourself.” The other boys
laughed in their delight, and the bully boiled with rage. He never had
had the tables turned so completely upon him. It was exasperating
beyond endurance. Like a mad bull, he rushed upon young Decker, his
fists clenched and his eyes glaring. He meant to teach the audacious
youngster a lesson that he would remember all his life.

James was through running away from his enemy. He might have dodged and
eluded him, or sped down the highway and escaped him altogether, but
the bully would take his revenge upon the cripple, for it was just like
him. Besides, a fight for the supremacy, must come sooner or later, and
it might as well come now.

So Decker braced himself for the shock, and, when the big fellow was
upon him, he struck him twice quickly and with all his strength,
directly in the face. The shock, made the greater by the momentum of
his own body, sent Buck staggering backward and almost upon his back.
The blow was a fierce one for a boy, and big as was the bully he could
not help howling with pain. He stopped, put his hands to his face as
if to assure himself that it was still on his shoulders, while Decker,
cool and collected, with one foot thrust forward, his fists ready, his
face pale and his eyes flashing, awaited the next onset.

“You are a coward!” he called; “if there was a boy here of your size,
you would run like a rabbit, but I’m not afraid of you.”

The fury of the bully was greater, if possible, than before, but he
had been taught a lesson. He now approached more warily, but with the
resolve that he would hammer this audacious champion till he couldn’t
stand.

“Decker, do you want me to help you?” called Almon Goodwin, hobbling a
few steps forward; “I can give him one whack with my crutch.”

“No; keep out of the way and don’t bother me,” replied James, never
once removing his eyes from his assailant; “I’m not afraid of him.”

Eyes glaring, nostrils snorting, Buck Kennon began slowly circling
around the lad, looking for a chance to leap upon him unawares; but
James was alert. He turned so as to confront him all the time, and did
not intend to be surprised.

Suddenly the bully lunged forward. James met him as before, but in one
sense Buck was braced against the reception which awaited him. He knew
he would be struck and the blows that landed in his face were as severe
as before, but they did not check him. He plowed ahead, and while
Decker was trying to fight him off the latter retaliated several times
and then clinched with him.

Buck was stronger than his more youthful antagonist, and despite the
strenuous exertion of Decker, he went down on his back, with the bully
on top. In a flash Decker turned him, and over and over they went,
fighting like a couple of wild cats.

The probabilities are that, despite the courage and quickness of James
Decker, he would have come out second best in the furious struggle.
Could he have been able to hold his feet and prevent his foe from
closing in, he would have defeated him, but when it became a contest of
brute strength he must succumb.

Fortunately at this crisis, a newcomer appeared on the scene and
proceeded straightway to take a decisive part in it. The individual was
a portly, middle-aged gentleman, Mr. Elgin Willard, the most prominent
citizen in the neighborhood. He had lately been elected to congress,
and was taking a stroll, when he came upon the group of boys, all of
whom were so interested in the fight that they did not notice him,
until he made known his presence in what literally was a striking
manner.

Mr. Willard always carried his gold-headed cane with him. It was a
present from his admiring constituents and he was very proud of it. It
pleased them, and it pleased him, to take it with him to church, to his
office and wherever he went.

He arrived at the moment that Buck Kennon by sheer strength had twisted
James Decker off his breast and swung himself over upon him. Decker
held his assailant as close down as he could, so as to prevent his
doing too much execution, but Buck was savage and was forcing matters.
He was one of those boys who grow so fast that their clothing is always
too tight for them, so he was peculiarly exposed to the new attack that
was now made in hurricane fashion.

“Bless me! this is shameful!” exclaimed Mr. Willard striding forward;
“two boys fighting, and one of them twice as big as the other! He will
beat the life out of the little fellow! It was providential that I
arrived when I did! There!”

The uplifted cane whizzed through the air and came down with a whack
like the report of a fire cracker. It landed where it was intended,
and Buck Kennon, with a yell of pain, leaped to his feet, vigorously
rubbing the wounded portion of his body, caught up his hat and still
insisting in a loud voice that he had been killed, disappeared down the
road in a cloud of dust.

Now that he was out of the way, the Honorable Mr. Willard turned upon
young Decker, who was climbing to his feet and brushing his clothes.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, young man? What do you mean by
fighting that boy?”

“I was trying to prevent his licking me,” replied James so demurely
that the gentleman smiled in spite of himself.

“You ought to know better than to attack a boy of that size.”

“I guess he’ll know better than to attack me next time; I’m not afraid
of him.”

“Did he begin this fight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The coward! if I had known that I would have caned him harder than
ever,” exclaimed the congressman, turning and looking at the yelling
youngster, who was far down the highway, as if he meditated starting
after him; “why did he attack you?”

“Please, Mr. Willard, I’ll tell you.”

It was Almon Goodwin who came limping forward. Everybody knew the
cripple, and Mr. Willard said kindly:

“Why, Almon, I didn’t see you before; are you mixed up in this shameful
business?”

“The only shameful part of it is what that big boy did. He took off my
hat and threw a stone through it. Look what a hole he made, and it’s
the only hat I have; I cried and asked him to give it back, but he
laughed at me and was going to throw another stone through it, when
Decker there called him a coward, served his hat the same way, and
then Buck Kennon went for him. My! didn’t Jim let him have it! He must
have loosened all his teeth and made his nose flatter than it ever
was before. If he hadn’t got down, he would have given him the worst
licking he ever had.”

Mr. Willard turned toward young Decker, who had replaced his hat,
brushed his soiled garments, and was so well over his rough usage that
he smiled at the words of little Almon Goodwin.

“Young man, is that so?” demanded the gentleman in a stern voice.
“Did that bully attack you because you were defending Almon from his
persecution?”

“Yes, sir,” modestly replied Decker.

“Young man, come here, sir,” thundered the congressman.

James stepped forward, wondering whether he, too, was to feel the
weight of that black, shining cane.

“Give me your hand, sir; I’m proud of you, sir.”

And warmly clasping the hand of James, the happy Mr. Willard shook
it with fervor, while the other boys looked on and felt that it was
deserved.

“What is your name?” asked Mr. Willard, releasing the hand and looking
down into the handsome face of the boy.

“Decker.”

“The son of Herbert Decker?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, now, I must shake your hand again; your father is one of my
best and oldest friends; he did more than any other one man to bring
about my election to congress; I suspect it was he who started the cane
presentation business to me. Is he proud of you, James?”

The boy laughed outright at the overwhelming manner of the portly
congressman.

“I don’t think he is; at least I never heard him say so; when he
believes I need a switching, he doesn’t forget to give it to me.”

“He does, eh? Well, I shall see him about that at once. It must be
stopped; I won’t allow it; I don’t believe such a manly fellow as you
ever deserves it. How old are you?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Thirteen years,” repeated Mr. Willard musingly, and then with great
impressiveness he added:

“Young man, I’ve got an idea regarding you—an idea; yes, sir, and it
shall be carried out—yes, sir, it shall be carried out—yes, sir.”




CHAPTER II.

A WELL EARNED REWARD.


Buck Kennon smarted so much under the castigation of Mr. Willard that
he had hardly stopped his outcries when he reached home. In answer to
the demands of his startled father, he stated that a big man, with
a cane as large as a telegraph pole, had tried to kill him and came
pretty nigh succeeding.

Mr. Kennon was naturally stirred by the news and set out to
investigate. He was a sensible man, but could not be expected to
submit tamely to such an outrage upon his offspring. He learned, after
due inquiry, that the offending gentleman was Mr. Willard, the newly
elected congressman. Seeking him out, he received the facts from that
person, who expressed the regret that opportunity was denied him for
making his punishment more complete. Mr. Kennon, as I have said, was
a sensible man and told Mr. Willard that he had served his boy right.
In fact, he was so well pleased that he promised to vote for him if he
should run a second time for congress. Then Mr. Kennon strode homeward,
and, as he expressed it, made his hopeful “dance,” for his cowardly
behavior.

The occurrence became so generally known that it reached the ears of
Mr. Bryton, the teacher, who instituted a committee of inquiry of
his own, with the result that Buck was call upon to answer again for
his flagrant breach of discipline, so that it may be said, the mean
behavior of the bully received its full meed of punishment. The teacher
talked severely to James Decker, but felt obliged to add that, after
all, he could not blame him for his chivalrous course.

“It is always manly to defend the helpless, but I don’t like fighting;
it is brutalizing and I’m afraid if you keep on, James, you will end in
being a full back on some football club. Then all hope will be lost.”

Some nights after the exciting incident, Mr. Willard called upon his
old friend, Mr. Decker. As the gentlemen sat by themselves, smoking
their cigars and discussing public questions, the caller suddenly
remarked:

“Decker, do you know you have got a mighty bright boy?”

“Yes; James is a good lad.”

“He’s as full of pluck as an egg is of meat. You heard about his fight
with that big bully who tried to impose upon the Goodwin cripple boy?”

“Yes, James told me about it; I was glad you arrived when you did; for
you not only gave the scamp a good castigation, but saved James from
being badly beaten.”

“I don’t know about that; I think the bully suffered the most, even
though he was on top when I appeared on the scene. There’s another fact
which gives me pleasure.”

“What is that?”

“Mr. Bryton, the teacher, tells me that your son is his brightest
pupil.”

“Since he has told me and his mother the same thing, there must be some
truth in the statement. It is a source of gratitude to me that James
does so well.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“I have hardly given the matter thought. He is only thirteen years old,
and there’s time enough to think of that. I presume he will be a lawyer
or doctor or minister, though,” qualified the parent. “I’m afraid that
he may not take quietly to a calling of peace.”

“There’s no reason why he should not. What I meant to say is this: if
I am elected to serve a second term, I shall have the appointment of a
cadet to West Point; James will be of the right age; if you desire him
to go there, I will make the promise now to appoint him.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Willard; I will talk over the matter with his
mother and with James himself. If they all like it, I will be glad to
avail myself of your kindness.”

“Take my advice and accept; I have already had a number of
applications, though the appointment is nearly three years off. I have
made no promises and, understand, that it is yours, if you wish it.”

Some days later the gentlemen met again.

“Mr. Willard,” said his friend, “James is eager to go to West Point;
his mother held off at first, but has given her consent, and I favor
the scheme very much. So I accept your promise with thanks.”

“We will consider it settled then. Keep the matter a secret until after
the next election, for I shall make any number of enemies because of
the disappointments.”

“Mr. Willard, let me make a suggestion to you.”

“I shall be glad to hear it.”

“As you say, you will receive many applications for this appointment,
and if you fail to promise every one before your election comes around
again, each man will be your opponent. It has become quite fashionable
to select the candidates for the Military Academy by competitive
examination. Do so in this case.”

“But I wish your son to receive the honor and that may jeopardize his
success.”

“If he cannot secure the appointment by a fair contest against all
comers, I don’t wish him to get it. I have been told that less than one
half of those admitted to West Point succeed in being graduated, and in
many cases the vacancies are unfilled because of the poor material sent
by congressmen.”

“That I know to be a fact, and you have named the right cause. A
brilliant lad may prove to be physically weak, while one physically
strong is mentally deficient. The government has reason to complain
that so much time, labor and money are wasted because of this state of
things.”

“It seems to me that the true means of meeting this objection is
through competitive examinations. The advantage is not only that the
government secures the best qualified young men, but you will escape
a great deal of fault finding. You can let it be known that, when you
have an appointment at your disposal, that you will decide it by a
competitive test. That places all on the same level, and though some
parents will be dissatisfied, you will receive much less blame. So you
see, Mr. Willard, that it will be a wise procedure, whatever view you
take of it.”

“I am glad of your suggestion; I think I shall follow it. The only
objection I feel is that possibly your boy may be crowded aside by some
one else.”

“I shall not complaint if such proves the fact. He has several years in
which to prepare himself; he possesses a fine physique; he is anxious
for the appointment, and, if all this is not sufficient to secure it,
then it will be certain to go to some one who is better entitled to the
same.”

The disastrous consequences of Buck Kennon’s collision with James
Decker had a most salutary effect upon him. He was subdued and
thoughtful, and ceased in a great measure his oppressive course toward
his classmates.

It is probable that this would have been the fact, had not his father
and teacher taken a hand in reforming him. He could not forget that,
though he was able to outwrestle the young champion, the latter really
inflicted the most punishment, and what struck Buck as strange, young
Decker did not show any fear of him. James was too manly to exult over
him, but he gave Buck to understand that if he acted again as he had
toward the crippled Almon, a second fight was certain. On the whole,
Buck decided that it was wise not to invite another bout at arms.

Mr. Willard followed the suggestion of his friend, Herbert Decker. He
announced, shortly after his second election to Congress, that the
West Point vacancy in his district would be filled by competitive
examination, on a certain date which was named, so that no possible
misunderstanding could follow.

In accordance with the custom, recommended by the authorities, this
date was so arranged that the appointment would occur one year before
the time of the application of the candidate at West Point. Young
Decker, by a little figuring, discovered that, if he should be the
successful contestant, he would attain the required age just one week
before taking his eventful journey up the Hudson, to learn whether
Uncle Sam would pronounce him qualified to become one of his future
generals and leaders of his armies.

And now let us pass over the intervening years to the day fixed for
the test of scholarship and ability. Mr. Bryton had been selected
by Congressman Willard to pass upon the merits of the thirty odd
candidates who presented themselves on the decisive day. The honorable
gentleman himself was present, and expressed his pleasure as he looked
into the faces of the boys, who were mostly alert and fully alive to
the task before them.

To his eye James Decker was the brightest and must promising of
all. Looking down from the platform, he caught his eye and smiled
encouragingly. James was tall, handsome, and manly. His frame had
expanded and hardened a good deal in the intervening years, for he was
one of those boys who possessed a healthy mind in a healthy body.

He was the captain of the leading baseball club and its best player.
He had become that which his teacher dreaded, full back on a football
eleven, but he never indulged in “slugging,” or received any serious
injury. He was a good runner and swimmer, and, when Buck Kennon looked
at him, he thought that he would as soon tackle a full-grown grizzly
bear as engage him in a test of physical ability. Conditions had
greatly changed in the few years since that first collision of the lads.

“Of course,” remarked Mr. Willard to Teacher Bryton, “I wish this to be
a competitive examination and, therefore, to be perfectly impartial,
but—that is—I am very hopeful that—or—James may be successful.”

“He has every chance in his favor,” replied the examiner, with a quiet
smile at the earnestness of the gentleman.

“He has maintained the high standard he showed when I first made his
acquaintance?”

“Fully so; there is no boy in the school that is his equal.”

“I would have no anxiety if it was confined to this school, but you
know it takes in my whole congressional district. More than half these
boys are from outside Burkville, and there’s no saying what will be the
result; there may be one or two prodigies among them.”

“That is possible, though I think, if your district had any prodigies,
I would have heard of them; I am not afraid,” said the teacher, with
a glow of pride, “to pit my school against any similar institution in
city or country.”

“You are warranted in saying that; you deserve credit for the fine
reputation you have given it.”

At this point Mr. Bryton announced that the hour devoted to the subject
of history had expired, and he would collect the papers. He passed
round the room and took the documents in turn from the young men, whom
he told that the next hour would be devoted to grammar.

The questions on the subject of grammar had been written on the
blackboard, but were hidden from sight until now. Drawing aside the
large map which had concealed them, the teacher directed the boys to
go to work. From his elevation on the platform, he could detect any
attempt on the part of one to help another, and this was his principal
occupation, except when talking with his friend at his elbow.

“Suppose you take a look through the papers,” suggested Mr. Willard.

“Would you like to examine several of them?” asked Mr. Bryton, but the
congressman spoiled the compliment by exclaiming:

“Gracious! I couldn’t tell whether half the answers are right. What
little I ever knew about history was forgotten long ago, and, as for
grammar, I doubt whether I can tell a conjunction from a noun.”

“You do yourself injustice,” laughed the teacher, who selected James
Decker’s papers from the collection. His experienced eye ran rapidly
down the pages, making little jots in the way of memoranda, until he
reached the end.

“How has he made out?” anxiously asked Mr. Willard.

“His papers are perfect; I have marked him one hundred.”

“Good! none can beat that.”

“Some, however, may equal it. Let me look through these, which are very
neatly prepared.”

Sure enough, those papers also were perfect as were the third. Mr.
Willard began to feel uneasy.

“The questions are comparatively easy; the real test will be in
mathematics, which is the favorite branch at West Point. That is the
last subject and will occupy two hours this afternoon.”

It proved to be as the examiner had stated. Although six candidates
held their own in all other studies, yet in the severest test of all,
mathematics, James Decker drew away from them and came out ahead of
every one else.

It will be understood with what pleasure Mr. Willard sent in the name
of Decker to the secretary of war, as his nominee for the vacant West
Point cadetship.




CHAPTER III.

DANGER IN THE AIR.


The selection of a candidate by competitive examination for the United
States Military Academy at West Point has not the slightest effect
upon his admission to that institution. When he knocks at the door he
stands precisely upon the same footing as if he were a country lad from
the backwoods of Illinois or the plains of one of the territories. His
selection simply carries with it the probability that he is the best
qualified of the numerous youths living in his congressional district
who are seeking the appointment.

James Decker joined the little multitude that were put through the
severe ordeal which awaits every candidate who has a chance of becoming
an officer of the United States army by means of the best military
institution in the world. He was hopeful but anxious, as is every young
man. The first damper he received was when two other lads, who seemed
to be fine specimens of young American manhood, and were his companions
in the preliminary efforts were rejected. One was from California and
broke down on the mental test. The other was a tall, stoop-shouldered
youth from Kentucky, who was declared physically deficient.

The ordeal through which James passed brought out the cold perspiration
all over his body. He was literally tested from the crown of his head
to the soles of his feet. When the medical board found no physical
defect, he was set to work answering questions relating to his
scholarship. This occupied three days, and when completed, the great
burden was lifted from his shoulders, by the notice that he had passed
successfully and was a plebe.

This was the opening of a most trying experience. Hazing is reduced to
the minimum at West Point, but enough of it remains to test the spirits
of a proud boy. The plebes have to play the part, more or less, of
servants to the upper classmen, who are sometimes so oppressive that
the young cadet rebels. He is foolish to do so, but occasionally it
is inevitable. James was on the point more than once of challenging
his persecutor to a bout at arms, but he gained a great victory over
himself by passing through the first year without anything of the kind.

The collision came during his second year and was settled one bright
morning in spring, by a battle near the ruins of old Fort Putnam, in
the presence of some twenty members of the different classes who were
in the secret. Young Decker’s opponent had made himself unbearably
obnoxious, and when he was utterly and overwhelmingly defeated, many of
his own classmates were glad of it. The violation of the rules did not
reach the authorities, and Cadet Decker was involved in nothing more of
the kind during the four years spent at the institution.

Young Decker maintained a high grade of scholarship throughout his
course. Once he stood second in his class, but dropped slightly, and
when he was graduated his standing was five. This entitled him to enter
the corps of engineers, or to take his choice of the branches below
that.

“The cavalry is the arm of the service that suits me,” he said to his
roommate, who was from Alabama.

“It isn’t half so good as the engineers or artillery,” remarked his
friend, who expected to be assigned to the latter. “I look upon the
engineers as the real, ornamental branch of the service.”

“And that’s the reason I want none of it,” replied Decker; “I am going
into the army to make a record and win promotion.”

“The engineers have a good thing; you are sure to be assigned to one
of the large cities on the sea-coast or to Washington, where you have
plenty of society and many social privileges, with little hard work.”

“Promotion is slow in the artillery; the only chance is a foreign
war, and I don’t see any prospect of that. The Indian troubles in the
Southwest give the cavalry plenty to do. Geronimo and the rest are
making things lively, and whoever goes down there won’t be allowed to
rust to death.”

“No,” smiled his friend, “it will be a poisoned arrow or a rifle bullet
or scalping knife. Then the climate is something like that of hades.”

“All that may be as you say, but after an experience of a few years
there a fellow will be able to appreciate the soft snaps elsewhere.”

“But some of those posts in Arizona and New Mexico,” persisted his
classmate, “are enough to drive a fellow wild. A cousin of mine, now
a captain of cavalry, told me that the years he spent at Fort Grant
were such that he would not go through again for the biggest fortune in
the world. The hot sun, the daily parade and grind, the same old round
of duty day in and out for weeks, months and years in that confounded
climate were enough to drive a person crazy.”

“Didn’t he have any campaigning?”

“Not a bit of it; everything was as calm as a mill pond.”

“That’s the difference; it would be the last place I would go, if it
were not for the prospect of something in the way of fighting. I have
been studying matters and making inquiries, and there is reason to hope
that things will hum in the Southwest before you and I have time to
grow our mustaches.”

“Well, Decker, you are welcome to it; give me the artillery.”

So it came about in the natural order of things that Second-Lieutenant
Decker was assigned to Fort Reno in Arizona. Full of ambition and
hope, he bade his friends good-by and made the long journey to that
section, his spirits unaffected by the flaming weather and the desolate
appearance of the half civilized region through which he was compelled
to pass, a portion by stage and much by horseback.

The letter which Lieutenant Decker wrote to his old classmate, who had
a pleasant berth at Washington, was not precisely what he expected to
write when bidding him farewell.

“But for the prospect of active service,” he said, “I would agree
with many of my old friends, including yourself, that I made a great
mistake. This is one of the most frightful regions of our glorious
country. If it was not that the atmosphere is dry no one could stand
it. Human beings would be driven out as from Sahara, but no one knows
what he can undergo until he makes the experiment. Trouble is certain
to come with the Apaches and I am as confident as ever that if I can
bring my scalp out of the flurry I shall win promotion, which you know
is the dream of all of us.”

Having located the brave young lieutenant in his new quarters, with his
dreams of glory, some attention must now be given to others with whose
fortunes he became closely identified before he had spent a year at
Fort Reno in Arizona.

Maurice Freeman was a veteran of the Southern Confederacy, who had
moved into the section nearly two years before Lieutenant Decker was
assigned to that post. His family consisted of his wife Molly, his
little boy Fulton and a girl Fannie. It was on a pleasant day in
winter, when the climate in that region is delightful, that Freeman
set out to ride to Fort Reno, ten miles distant from his ranch.

The ranchman was accustomed to make periodical visits to the military
post, where he had a pleasant acquaintance with the officers and
received a cordial welcome and courteous treatment. There were many
little articles which he could obtain there that were useful to his
family and which, therefore, rendered unnecessary, except at distant
intervals, his journeys to Prescott, Phœnix, Tombstone and the other
comparatively large towns.

Freeman was riding at a brisk pace, for his animal was excellent and
the weather favorable. Ascending a gentle slope, some distance from
Salt River, a tributary of the Gila, he checked his pony and looked off
over the broad stretch of country spread out before him, with a winding
branch of the Gila showing at varying distances across the undulating
plain.

But the scene was so familiar that it excited little interest and he
had not paused to admire it; he was looking for friends or enemies, as
the case might prove to be.

His scrutiny of the sandy expanse was not in vain, for the first
sweeping glance revealed three horsemen to the northwest, all galloping
at a swift pace, and heading toward him.

“Who can they be?” he asked himself, shading his eyes with his hand and
peering intently in that direction. “If I had a glass, I could make
them out, but they will soon disclose themselves, for they seem to be
in a hurry.”

It was early in the afternoon, and since nothing was to be gained
by remaining where he was, the ranchman spoke to his horse, which
instantly broke into an easy, swinging pace toward the others, who were
studying the single man as closely as he was trying to make them out.

“Just what I expected,” exclaimed Freeman; “it’s Lieutenant Decker
from the fort, and he has Mendez and Cemuri with him. Decker would
rather fight than eat, and if I’m not mistaken he will have enough of
it before he sees much service in this part of the world. Geronimo has
been quiet so long that it’s time he was heard of again, and when the
old fellow moves the fur will fly.”

Lieutenant Decker, as might be supposed, was fond of scouting through
the country, as his superiors permitted, and when rumors came to the
post that the Apaches were becoming restless once more he was reckless
enough to declare that he hoped the news would prove true.

“I don’t know anything more irksome,” he was wont to repeat, “than
to be stationed at one of these posts, with nothing going on but the
same monotonous drill and parade, day after day, week after week, and
through the months from one year’s end to the other. If Geronimo will
stir up things, I’ll do my part to keep them going.”

Mendez and Cemuri, both of whom were in middle life, were among the
very best scouts that had served under Generals Crook and Miles. They
were White Mountain Apaches, whose loyalty was never under a cloud.
They had given invaluable help in more than one critical emergency,
and, esteemed as they were by our officers and soldiers, they were
intensely hated by their own people, who when forced to cease their
hostilities, were sullen, ugly, revengeful, and given to brooding over
their wrongs.

What more natural than that while hating the white race, they should
regard with unspeakable detestation those of their own people who had
aided that race in conquering them? Mendez and Cemuri knew that they
took their lives in their hands, when they helped the white men to hunt
down the Apache desperadoes, a score of whom were enough to throw the
settlements, over an area of hundreds of miles, into consternation and
terror.

The fact that Lieutenant Decker and these two friendly scouts were
riding thus far from Fort Reno, was evidence that they were out on the
same duty that had taken them scores of miles, many a time within the
past weeks.

The young man made a military salute as he recognized Captain Freeman,
and all four drew down their horses to a walk and quickly came to a
standstill. The lieutenant’s white teeth shone under his dark mustache
as he smiled, and, looking at the oval face, much bronzed under the
Arizona sun, the clear bright eyes, the slightly aquiline nose and
the fine figure, Captain Freeman thought he was the handsomest young
officer he had ever met.

Mendez and Cemuri remained a few paces in the background, as the two
white men halted with their knees almost touching each other. The
Apaches had nothing to say unless appealed to, but were always ready
for action, when called upon.

“On another scout, lieutenant?” was the inquiring remark of Freeman.

“Yes; we have been off toward the Gila; these fellows say that Geronimo
and about twenty of his band have been there within the past three
days, but we didn’t get a glimpse of them. I’m afraid it’s a false
alarm.”

“You’re _afraid_ it is! Don’t you hope so?”

“Well,” replied the young officer, removing his cap and drawing his
handkerchief over his forehead, “I suppose I ought to feel that way,
for the worst devils with copper skins are those that bear the name of
Apache, but when you have to fight it’s a pleasure to know that you are
not fighting ninnies and lambs.”

“But no pleasure, as I view it, to fight savages, who violate every
rule of civilized warfare, who are more cruel than death itself,
treacherous, fierce, relentless and merciless to men, women and
children. Lieutenant,” added Freeman gravely, “I must say that while I
believe you are a brave young man, I don’t like the hope you show that
those miscreants should break loose again. I surrendered with Lee at
Appomattox and was all through the war. I was wounded and saw hundreds
killed, but I would rather go into a battle like the Wilderness or
Gettysburg or Antietam than know that a single band of hostile Apaches
were raiding through this section. When the North and South fought,
each knew the bravery and chivalry of the other, and we never hit a foe
when he was down. Here we are fighting rattlesnakes.”

“Well, captain, I often felt sorry that I wasn’t born twenty years
sooner, or that you had waited that long before opening on Fort Sumter,
but the unpleasantness between the sections is over; promotion is slow,
and unless we can have something to stir us up, there’s no saying how
long I shall have to wait for my first lieutenancy or captaincy, to say
nothing of the eagles of the colonelcy far, far beyond.”

“Your talk shows that you are young,” said Freeman, who, despite the
reproof in his voice, could not help admiring the manly youth of whom
he was very fond; “five or ten years from now your sentiments will be
more in accord with mine.”

“I can’t deny that your strictures are just; you have a wife and two
children——”

“And there are many others with similar ties; some had them once, but
have them no longer; you know the cause.”

“Of course, and therefore I am the more anxious to get at those
miscreants. So long as they can range up and down the country, burning,
shooting and killing without receiving punishment therefor, so long
will they keep it up; but, captain, the thing has got to end some time,
and the sooner the final struggle begins the sooner will it terminate.”

“There’s a big field for discussion, which it isn’t worth while for us
to enter; but sometimes I wonder whether, if the right course had been
pursued, this trouble would not have ended long ago.”

“Of course it would,” broke in the lieutenant with some heat; “if the
management of the Indians had been left to the army, there would have
been mighty little fighting, for the redskins would have been treated
honestly, and that’s all they ask. It’s the Indian ring at Washington
that raises the mischief; they’re continually poking their nose into
our affairs, and when Crook or Miles gets everything running smoothly,
those scoundrels arrange for a big swindle and divvy.”

The lieutenant looked round at the stolid faces of the two dusky
scouts, as if to learn whether they were listening.

“I don’t think there’s any danger of their reporting me, but I wish
we could have the whole gang of plunderers right here and put them in
front, when we start on a chase after Geronimo and his hostiles.”

“It would be a mighty good thing if you could,” assented Freeman, who
had seen much of the frightful mismanagement of Indian affairs; “but
it is as it was during the civil war: the men who yell the loudest for
a fight are those who stay at home. No fear of any one of them showing
himself within reach of a hostile. However we have got to take things
as they are. We are confronted by a condition, not a theory. We are in
danger from the worst warriors that ever scalped a woman or dashed out
the brains of a baby. If the Apaches are likely to make a raid through
this section, I must look after my family, who are peculiarly exposed,
as is the family of Captain Murray.”

“Yes,” said the lieutenant thoughtfully, “you and he are neighbors, and
both of your homes are in great peril—halloo!” he added looking around;
“Mendez seems to have discovered something.”




CHAPTER IV.

GERONIMO.


Having descended the elevation to meet his three friends, Captain
Freeman, like them, was on a broad open plain, which bore some
suggestion of a valley. For a mile to the westward a ridge rose to
a height of several hundred feet. On the other side of this ridge
and close to it, wound a tributary of the Salt River. The stream was
narrow, but of uncertain depth, being shallow in many places, while in
others it could be crossed only by swimming.

To the westward the sandy plain extended, slightly undulating, until
it faded from view in the distant horizon. Ten miles to the northeast
was Fort Reno, and at a somewhat less distance, and almost due south,
in the Sutra Valley, were the ranches of Captain Freeman and his friend
Captain Murray, a Union veteran of the war. The two were strongly
attached to each other and their families were intimate.

The reader will note the peculiar condition of things. If Geronimo or
any of his fierce Apaches made a raid into the section, they would come
from the westward, that is from the direction of Prescott or Phœnix,
or possibly from the south. Should they succeed in passing the scouts
that were out searching for them, the country to the east would be
exposed, and in that section were a number of families, besides the two
already named.

The great point, therefore, was to prevent the red men from penetrating
so far to the east. If they could be checked or turned back, the
scattered settlers would be safe but if the subtle and merciless
warriors flanked and passed in behind the soldiers and scouts, serious
mischief was sure to follow.

Tidings that Geronimo had left the reservation and was on the war path
was brought to Fort Reno by Mendez and Cemuri, who had caught glimpses
of several of the terrible raiders. It must not be supposed that the
colonel at the post contented himself with sending out Lieutenant
Decker and the two scouts alone, for that would have been a piece of
folly which the experienced Indian fighter could not have committed.
The supposition was that twenty at least of Geronimo’s savage followers
were ranging through the country, and fully that number of white men
and scouts were seeking to checkmate them.

Decker and his two White Mountain guides formed only one of several
parties engaged on the same business. These parties expected to keep
within signalling or communicating distance and to join forces, should
it become necessary.

It has been said that while Lieutenant Decker and Captain Freeman were
holding their brief, spirited conversation, the two friendly Apaches,
sat their horses a short distance back, taking no part in what was
said, and for a time not even speaking to each other.

It would have been an interesting study, however, could any one
have watched them. They continually turned their heads, as if
trying to decide from what point of the compass, some slight almost
indistinguishable sound came. Their fine sense of hearing was
supplemented by a vision trained to the highest conceivable point, and
the keen black eyes were scarcely at rest for an instant. Here, there,
everywhere the penetrating glances shot, flitting from point to point
so quickly that it would seem they could not grasp anything in their
field of vision. All the same, however, nothing escaped them.

It should be said that each of the four men was heavily armed. Freeman
and the young officer carried respectively a fine Winchester and
revolver, while the scouts had a formidable knife apiece in addition
to those weapons. The officer was in uniform, with his sword, and
Freeman’s costume suggested that of the professional cowboy, with the
broad-brimmed hat, loose, flowing shirt, cartridge belt, excellent
accouterments for his horse and large spurs for himself.

[Illustration: “’Pache ober dere,” was the reply, accompanied by a
pointing of his dusky finger at the ridge.—Page 35.

—_The Young Scout._]

Mendez and Cemuri made some pretense of wearing civilized costume,
though their clothing could hardly have found a purchaser at a
second-hand sale. They never covered their heads, the long, coarse
black hair dangling about their faces and shoulders, with occasionally
a stained feather projecting from the crown. No paint disfigured the
countenances, which in fact could not have been made to look uglier,
but they had the cartridge belt, trousers and leggings of the cowboy,
most of which they would have been glad to dispense with, but respect
for the prejudices of their white brethren forbade.

Mendez was glancing toward all points of the compass, in that quick,
fitful way named, when he suddenly fixed his eyes on the ridge to the
westward. The fact that he did not change his gaze for fully a minute
was proof that something had attracted his suspicion, and the faint
exclamation which followed was proof that an additional discovery had
been made or that the suspicion had become conviction.

The two white men instantly ceased talking and looked at him. He did
not turn his head, but peered with the same intensity as at first.

“What do you make of it, Mendez?” asked the lieutenant.

“Huh! ’Pache ober dere,” was the reply, accompanied by a pointing of
his dusky finger at the ridge.

The other three were gazing in the same direction. Whether Cemuri was
equally fortunate could not be decided, for he gave no sign. Neither
the lieutenant nor captain detected anything with the naked eye.
The former drew out his fieldglass and directed it at the point of
interest, holding it leveled for several minutes.

The ridge like the plain was of sand. Not so much as a mesquite bush
was to be seen in any direction. Here and there grew a species of sand
grass, which seems to thrive where there is no earth nourishment, while
an occasional prickly cactus added to the desolateness of the scene.
There was nothing, therefore, to interfere with the vision in any
direction.

“I’m blessed if I can see anything unusual!” exclaimed the lieutenant,
passing his instrument to Freeman, with the remark, “Maybe you can do
better.”

But the elder was no more successful than the younger. The latter
turned to Mendez, upon whose face were the faint indications of a
smile, and asked:

“What was it you saw?”

“One—two—tree ’Pache crawl up ridge—look ober—see dere eyes!”

It seemed incredible that the scout should have been able to detect
this fact—if it was a fact—at that distance, and yet we have the record
that Tycho Brahe, hundreds of years ago, did as well in the same line
and his visual powers could not have received finer training than those
of this White Mountain Apache.

“That won’t do,” remarked the lieutenant, smilingly shaking his head;
“I had the record at the Point of being able to see a professor further
than any of the cadets, but I wasn’t equal to that.”

“By heavens! he’s right!” exclaimed Freeman, who was still holding the
instrument pointed toward the ridge; “_he_ doesn’t need a spyglass.”

“When you are through, let me try it again.”

Freeman handed the glass to the lieutenant, who, being shown the exact
point toward which to direct it, did so with much doubt and misgiving
as to the result.

“Just as I supposed!” he muttered impatiently; “all imagination——”

When he first used the instrument he saw nothing besides the bare,
sandy elevation, but the words were yet in his mouth, when, on the very
crest of the ridge, something resembling a crow came into sight. His
first thought was that one of those birds or a buzzard had hopped up
from the other side, and was peering over, but a moment’s scrutiny left
no doubt that it was the head of an Apache Indian, for it could belong
to no other tribe and act in this manner, the circumstances being as
they were.

While Decker was studying the miscreant, who took care to expose only
his forehead down to his eyes, a second head appeared at its side, the
movements being precisely the same. The third, however, of which Mendez
had spoken, did not show itself.

The hostiles must have believed their presence unsuspected, or at least
not known of a certainty to the four horsemen, for they lay on their
faces and peered for a long time over the crest of the elevation.

“I apologize, Mendez,” said the lieutenant in his cheery manner; “your
powers of vision surpass anything I ever met. Will you please tell me
when the Apache on the right winks his eye?”

The scout, however, was too dignified to pay attention to this
attempted witticism. He gazed long and steadily at the two heads
faintly showing, and then Freeman, who was watching his countenance,
noted that his eyes were wandering along the ridge, evidently in search
of other ominous evidence.

All at once his gaze was arrested. He was looking at a point fully a
hundred yards to the right of where the crowns of the enemies had been
discerned and had detected something.

“What is it, Mendez?” asked the lieutenant, bringing his glass again
into use.

“’Pache,” was the response; “look dere!”

The scout was right, as Decker was quick to learn. In this instance,
however, the buck did not content himself with simply peering over the
elevation. He seemed to be creeping forward until he reached the crest
of the ridge, when he raised the upper part of his body, so that his
face and shoulders were in sight. In this posture he was evidently
studying the four horsemen.

“Mendez,” said the lieutenant; “you have the best pair of eyes I
ever heard of, but no person has eyes which cannot be helped by a
glass like this. You know that as well as I, for I’ve seen you use a
fieldglass. Now, since that buck off yonder isn’t afraid to show his
ugly countenance, see what you can make of him with the aid of the
instrument.”

The scout complied with the request. As the officer had stated the
scout knew how to use the glass and it brought a revelation. He leveled
it at that hard, wrinkled, peering countenance lifted above the distant
ridge, and scrutinized it with the intensity of a man seeking to read
his own fate.

Only a few moments were thus occupied, when he passed the instrument
back to its owner who observed the peculiar half-smiling expression on
his usually stolid countenance.

“Have you ever seen that buck before?” asked the lieutenant.

“Seen him—one—two—tree—hundred times.”

“Who is he?”

“Geronimo!”




CHAPTER V.

COMPLIMENTS AT LONG RANGE.


Geronimo, as every reader of these pages knows, has been a “good
Indian” for many years. He makes his home among civilized people, has
acted as usher at the dedication of a schoolhouse and believes in
education. No fault can be found with the old chieftain in these times,
but only a few years ago, he was the most terrible scourge of the
southwest border.

The outrages committed by him and his desperadoes are matters of
history, as are the hardships and sufferings undergone by our soldiers
in their desperate efforts to run him to earth. There was a universal
sigh of relief among the ranches and settlements of Arizona, when it
became known of a certainty that Geronimo and his principal associates
had been taken eastward and would never again be permitted to place
foot west of the Mississippi.

We are writing of the trying period preceding the capture of this
Apache, when the mention of his name caused an involuntary shudder on
the part of the bravest man.

Mendez had given such incontestible proof of his astonishing power of
vision, that when he handed back the fieldglass and announced that the
Indian, a mile away, was that ferocious chieftain no one doubted him.

The lieutenant passed the instrument to Cemuri with the request that he
would make use of it. The fellow hesitated but did as desired. A moment
after he pointed the glass westward, the Indian, as if aware of his own
recklessness, sank down until as in the case of his companions, only
the top of his head and forehead was visible.

But the second scout secured a good view the moment before this took
place.

“Mendez right—he Geronimo,” remarked Cemuri, as if that being settled
no further interest attached to their arch enemy.

“Since that is the case, it is probable that his whole band is with
him. If I had the rest of the boys at hand, we would sail in and hustle
those bucks westward faster than they came eastward.”

“But you haven’t them at hand,” observed Freeman, “so there isn’t much
chance of doing anything against the party.”

Having “located” Geronimo and his band, the next question for the
lieutenant to decide was what should be done. Brave as was the young
officer (and his companions were equally brave) it would have been
madness to attack a company of Apaches, fully armed and on the warpath,
and who outnumbered them four or five to one.

Those cunning warriors were at home in this sandy waste and nothing
would have pleased them better than to be assailed. No doubt they were
keeping well out of sight in the hope of drawing on the little company
of horsemen, who, had they ridden over the ridge, as there seemed a
likelihood of their doing, would have entered a trap from which there
was no extrication.

“We must make connection with some of the boys who are scouting,”
remarked the lieutenant; “then when we are strong enough we’ll give
Geronimo a tussle. If it should be my good fortune to wipe him out what
a feather it would be in my cap!”

“And if it should be his bad fortune to wipe _you_ out,” suggested
Freeman; “where would be your feather?”

Decker shrugged his shoulders.

“Honors that are not hardly earned are not honors. We’ll ride to the
right, and see whether we cannot gain a better sight of them. It may
be that this is only a part of the main band, and if so we’ll have a
fight.”

The scheme seemed to be the only one feasible and was followed. The
clear sunshiny afternoon was drawing to a close and nothing could be
hoped for, in holding their motionless position in the midst of the
low, valley-like depression.

The young officer struck his horse to a moderate gallop, with Freeman
at his side and the scouts following closely at the rear, grim, silent
and watchful. The hostiles whose heads had been showing above the
ridge vanished from sight and there was no saying what their course of
action would be.

Had not the contour of the country been favorable, there would have
been an imprudent risk in the course of Lieutenant Decker; for it is
evident that it would have been easy for the hostiles to shift their
position along the ridge so as still to confront the whites who would
have ridden into the trap that has already been described.

But a comparatively short distance to the right, the moderate elevation
sloped down to the level of the plain, permitting a view of the winding
stream which further to the left passed out of sight behind the ridge.
The Apaches could not advance upon this without being observed, though
(so wonderful is their cunning) had they been given more time, they
would have formed an ambush, where neither wood nor elevation gave
screen or protection. It would not have been the first time that
members of that tribe have performed this seemingly impossible feat.

The promptness of the four horsemen prevented such a trap. They swung
forward at a swift gallop, until the ridge was flanked and their
position admitted a view of both sides for a considerable distance.

The result was interesting. Four warriors were in plain view, all
mounted on their tough ponies and facing the white men and scouts.
A space of a fourth of a mile separated the parties, when they thus
confronted each other.

The Apaches immediately began tantalizing the whites, in the hope of
inducing them to attack. They swung their blankets aloft, shouted, and
Geronimo, riding out a short distance from his companions, deliberately
fired his rifle at the horsemen. He had a good weapon, for the singing
of the bullet was heard as it passed over the heads of his enemies.

“I can be as polite as you,” remarked Lieutenant Decker, bringing his
Winchester to his shoulder and letting fly.

He aimed at the chieftain, and nothing would have delighted him more
than to see him pitch from the back of his pony, but the distance was
too great to make the aim accurate and the leader suffered no more harm
than had his enemies at his hands.

“Mendez,” said the young officer, turning to his principal scout; “do
you think it likely there are only four of the Apaches? If such is your
belief we’ll charge them.”

The sagacious scout grimly shook his head.

“More—plenty more—hide in sand—want us to fight ’em.”

“But where are their ponies?”

“Hide ’em easy—lay down—cover ’em wid sand—go in water—only nose stick
out.”

Nothing would have pleased Geronimo more than to be attacked. In his
broken English he called out taunts so insulting that the swarthy cheek
of Lieutenant Decker flushed. How he would have leaped at the chance of
a fight with him on anything like equal terms!

The chieftain now rode his pony more than a hundred yards in a straight
line toward the group. His animal walked slowly and his rider continued
to shout his taunts.

Lieutenant Decker, holding his horse well in hand, advanced the same
distance toward Geronimo.

“What do you intend to do?” sternly asked Freeman.

“I’ll take care of myself,” was the quiet reply.

“I don’t know whether you will or not,” added Freeman, with no little
misgiving.

Decker continued his guarded advance until like his enemy, he judged he
had gone far enough, when he too halted.

“I’ll go as far as he dare,” he muttered; “if he will only come far
enough to be beyond the support of his men, I’ll meet him and we can
have it out between us.”

Geronimo had ceased his taunting shouts, and, with his horse perfectly
motionless sat like an equestrian statue with his gaze upon this young
David. Then he did a singular thing.

All four, while watching him, discovered that instead of holding his
pony stationary, as at first, he was backing him. The well-trained
animal, keeping his nose toward the foe, was stepping slowly backward,
the movement of his legs and the change of position being clearly seen
by all.

Mendez and Cemuri looked at each other and smiled; they knew what it
meant. Geronimo was seeking to lure the young officer away from his
supports, or, better still, striving to tempt forward the whole four,
under the belief that the two forces were equal.

“Don’t go any nearer!” called Freeman, growing impatient with the
recklessness of the officer; “he’s trying to draw you on.”

The lieutenant made no reply. His spirited horse, of his own volition,
took two steps forward, but his rider checked him.

“Thank you, Geronimo, but the fly isn’t ready to walk into the spider’s
web.”

Seeing the failure of his scheme, the Apache chief, with the quickness
of a flash, raised his Winchester again and fired directly at the
officer, whose escape was quite narrow, for the interval admitted of a
fatal shot, provided it were well aimed.

As if to imitate every action of his enemy, Decker brought his rifle to
a level and sighted carefully at Geronimo. It required no phenomenal
marksmanship to bring him down, and he was hopeful of doing so, but at
the moment of pressing the trigger, the chieftain disappeared as if by
magic.

He knew what was coming and saw his danger. He flung himself over the
side of his pony, whose body was thus interposed as a shield. Not to be
baffled, the officer sighted as best he could and fired.

He did not harm the chieftain, but the bullet passed through the brain
of his pony, who, with a cry of agony, reared on his hind legs, pawed
the air and rolled over as dead as Julius Cæsar. His agile rider, who
had no saddle, leaped free and ran hastily back to his companions, amid
the jeering shouts of the youth who had unhorsed him.

“Geronimo is a squaw! He runs from the white man! He dare not come
forward and fight him! He is afraid he will be hurt!”

All which, if it were so, did not change the situation or give any
additional advantage to him who uttered the taunts.




CHAPTER VI.

APACHE CUNNING.


Enough has been told to prove the surpassing cunning of the two White
Mountain Apaches who served as scouts. Once they had been among the
fiercest of the followers of the fearful scourge of the border and were
fully trained in his ways.

Captain Freeman was an old campaigner and had lived sufficiently
long in Arizona to learn much of the methods of the hostiles, while
Lieutenant Decker had made the matter his study for weeks.

And yet, despite all this and the fact that each one of the four knew
that the Apache leader and his warriors were doing their utmost to lure
the horsemen to their ruin, the red men came within a hair of doing so.

Only by the merest chance or accident or providence, as it may be
termed, was the ingenious scheme detected in time to thwart it.

Naturally the eyes of the three horsemen in the background were fixed
upon Decker and Geronimo, with glances at the warriors beyond, who were
in direct range of vision, and who were watching events with apparently
the same interest.

What induced Maurice Freeman to withdraw his gaze from his young
friend and their enemies he could never explain, but he did so for a
single instant, looking to the left of the ridge, and somewhat toward
the spot where the four had been in consultation when they first
discovered the Apaches. His eyes were roving over this sandy stretch
when he saw something move. At first glance it was as if some burrowing
animal had stirred a hummock of sand, while the animal itself was
underneath and out of sight.

Wondering what it could mean, and vaguely suspecting mischief, Freeman
forgot the lieutenant and Geronimo for a minute, while he watched the
strange manifestation.

To his amazement, several places in the sand were similarly agitated,
the disturbance showing that whatever caused it was approaching the
horsemen.

Suddenly the truth flashed upon Freeman. The curious movement was
caused by several Apache warriors, who, it may be said, were burrowing
their way like moles through the sand, and making so little display of
what they were doing that even Mendez and Cemuri did not detect them,
and only the merest accident, as has been shown, revealed the dangerous
artifice to Freeman.

The Apaches had but to approach a little closer, when they would secure
an aim which would empty every saddle.

“Lieutenant!” called Freeman, “we must retreat at once or we’ll be
surrounded!”

Decker did not pause for an explanation, but whirled his horse and came
tearing back on a dead run. Before he could rejoin his comrades, they
were on the move, the scouts, now that their fears were aroused, having
been quick to learn the nature of the peril.

The flight was so sudden that the Apaches, stealing up in this
ingenious manner, did not suspect the meaning of the sudden flight
until all four had ridden some distance. Then the miscreants, of whom
there were four—just enough to carry out the scheme—still groveling in
the sand, took quick aim and fired at the fleeing horsemen.

This time one of the bullets passed through the fleshy part of Cemuri’s
thigh, inflicting a painful wound, though he made no reference to it,
and it was not discovered by his companions until some time later.

It may be admitted that only one fact saved the four from death. Each
was mounted on a horse, the equal if not the superior of any ridden
by the Apaches, although, as is well known, those people are always
provided with good animals when on their raids. If pursued, they have
the advantage of fresh horses, continually renewed while on the run
before a superior body of pursuers.

The parties had been too near each other, and without giving any time
to discussion or consultation, the four devoted the next fifteen
minutes or half an hour to skurrying off as fast as they could.
Finally, thanks to the fleetness of their animals, they drew rein and
dropped to a walk.

Before this the Apaches had discovered that it was useless to try to
overtake the little party and had given up the attempt. For the present
nothing was to be feared from them.

“There is reason to believe they will not push any further eastward,”
said Freeman, giving expression rather to his hope than his conviction.

“Why do you think that?”

“They have learned that their presence is known in this neighborhood
and that a force will be sent out from the fort, if it has not already
been sent—halloo!”

The speaker, happening to glance at Cemuri, was shocked to observe the
startling effects of his wound. The exclamation of Freeman caused the
others to note the same, and the horses came to a halt.

“That looks bad,” remarked the lieutenant; “let me examine it.”

“Huh! no hurt—soon be well,” said Cemuri, with a look of contempt, and
displeased at the expressions of sympathy.

“It may get well if it’s attended to,” was the comment of Decker, who
insisted upon an inspection of the hurt.

It did not seem to be dangerous, but it was clear that it required
attention. From the clothing of different ones were torn sufficient
bandages to stanch the flow, and despite the indifference of the scout
he must have felt extreme pain.

“I remember just such wounds in the army,” commented Freeman; “little
was thought of them at first, but many a death came from their neglect.”

“His people are tough and have little faith in surgery.”

“Which may all be the case and not affect the truth of what I have
stated.”

When the rude service was finished, the lieutenant said:

“Cemuri, you must go to the fort as soon as you can.”

The dusky face showed anger and the scout shook his head.

“Me no pappose—me warrior—me scout!”

“And a very good one too—so good that we want to save your services to
us. I don’t believe that wound will kill you, old fellow, unless it
is neglected, but it is going to lay you up for a time. You won’t be
able to do yourself justice till your leg gets well, and that will take
place sooner at the fort than in the saddle.”

Cemuri looked appealingly at Mendez. Why did he remain mute and not
come to his relief? His opinion would have great weight.

But Mendez shook his head.

“Leg no good, for one—two—tree—many days—go to fort—do what _he_ say.”

The last prop knocked from under him, the brave fellow submitted. He
was sullen, and without a word started his horse eastward toward Fort
Reno.

“I meant to give him some orders,” remarked the officer with a laugh;
“for the colonel ought to know the particulars, but the fellow is
huffy.”

“He will give the colonel all the news, have no fear about that.”

When Cemuri had ridden some distance, and had time to rally from
the irritation into which he was thrown by the command of the young
officer, he must have felt that it was all for his good. He was
suffering much; he had lost strength and was so weak, despite his
indurated frame, that he felt dizzy and weak, with occasional spells
when it was hard to keep in the saddle.

Night was drawing on, and he could not hope to reach the post until
long after darkness had come. But his horse was strong and fleet, and
such a thing as failure to complete his task did not enter his thoughts.

The stream which had been in sight so long now made a sharp curve
northward, so that it was speedily left out of sight. The ride to the
post was over the same open plain which had been traversed most of the
day. The sky was clear and the moon rose early, making the ride as
pleasant as if the sun were shining.

The American Indian, as all know, can bear with equanimity more
suffering and grievous wounds than his white brother, but there is of
necessity a limit to the toughest frame that nature ever put together,
and Cemuri, the White Mountain scout, began to suspect that he had
struck or was about to strike that limit.

He had ridden less than three miles at a swinging gallop when he
drew his horse down to a walk; the jolting of the speedier gait was
unbearable. As he made the change of pace, he first looked around to
be sure no one saw him. Then he gave expression to his views in the
form of an English expletive, altogether too vigorous to be recorded in
these pages.

In one respect the scout was specially favored: his pony was not only
well trained, but possessed unusual intelligence. He had given his
master warning many a time of the approach of danger and he now did it
once more.

The slow, steady walk through the soft sand was suddenly checked, the
pretty head elevated, the ears thrown forward, and a slightly vigorous
expiration followed through the silken nostrils, yet not loud enough to
be heard a dozen yards away.

There was but one possible interpretation of this demonstration, and
the rider knew on the instant what it was. Had he been himself, he
would have remained in the saddle, but he was in no condition to make
a fight, and he deftly dismounted, despite the stinging pain caused by
moving his limb.

No sooner were his feet on the ground than his pony lay down. His
purpose was to lessen his danger of discovery by an approaching enemy
or stranger. Cemuri knelt beside him with rifle ready for instant use.

Hardly had these precautions been taken, when two shadowy horsemen,
barely visible through the gloom, entered the field of vision and
immediately passed out again. They came from the direction of the fort
and were riding toward the little party of Lieutenant Decker. They were
Indians, and, though Cemuri could not be absolutely certain in the
gathering darkness, he was convinced that they were Maroz and Ceballos,
two Apaches whom he thoroughly distrusted.




CHAPTER VII.

A SIGNAL.


Lieutenant Decker and his friends held their position for some time
after the departure of Cemuri on his return to Fort Reno. Although they
had left the stream, which had served them as a partial guide for a
number of hours, they were not far from it, and the young officer was
inclined to think it was the part of wisdom to stay in its vicinity.

The situation may be explained thus:

Geronimo and his band were evidently aiming to reach the more exposed
ranches and dwellings to the eastward in the Sutra Valley, although
when on their raids it seemed to matter little to them where they
struck their terrible blows. Nothing was to prevent the swift riders
from sweeping through the section whenever they chose, but brave and
reckless as they were, they did not shut their eyes to peril.

From what had occurred they knew that their presence was discovered
and that movements were already under way to check them. They had seen
scouts from Fort Reno, and may have known that others were scouring the
country. If the hostiles pushed on, they might find a strong party of
cavalry in their rear or on their flanks, with the certainty of losing
some of their best warriors before the rest could escape.

Lieutenant Decker’s anxiety now was to open communication with a party
of his friends and arrange an attack upon the Apaches. Could this
be done within the next few hours, Geronimo would be frustrated and
compelled to withdraw without striking one of his fearful blows.

Until such junction could be effected, the officer wished to keep up a
demonstration in front of the bucks, or show such activity that even if
it failed to turn them back, it would retard or check their raid until
the soldiers could do something more effective. It would seem that a
decisive blow ought to be struck against the raiders within the next
twenty-four hours.

This will make clear why after having retreated part way to the fort,
Decker halted, unwilling to yield what he considered an advantageous
position.

But, admitting all this, the three were in a situation of extreme
delicacy and peril. The Apaches had drawn off from pursuit, but, at
most, were not far off. They had but to advance somewhat further along
the line they had been pursuing to come upon the three horsemen, who
had no means of concealing themselves. The cunning and ingenuity
already displayed by Geronimo’s men made it seem folly for Decker and
his companions to believe they could avoid being outwitted.

Nevertheless the officer resolved to hold his ground, or rather not
to continue his flight, and Maurice Freeman was as earnest in the same
purpose as he. The all-powerful motive with the elder, however, will be
understood, for he was really fighting for the sake of those that were
dearer to him than his own life.

On these scouting excursions the lieutenant always carried a few
rations, so, while they waited for night to close round them, the three
partook of food. When that was finished it was growing dark.

Pointing his Winchester toward the sky, the lieutenant discharged it
twice in quick succession, following with a third report at a longer
interval.

“That is a signal to whoever of the boys may hear it,” he explained to
Freeman.

“And means what?”

“That I have located the hostiles and my friends must join me with the
least possible delay.”

“How will you know whether it is heard?”

“I will receive the same answer. The whole thing is understood by every
one who left the post—halloo! do you hear that?”

The faint but distinct report of a rifle sounded in the distance, and
all three listened for the sounds needed to complete the signal, but to
their disappointment there was none.

“Now,” said the lieutenant, “since Geronimo may take it into his head
to renew his acquaintance with us, it is best to call upon Mendez here
to help us out.”

“The very suggestion I was about to make; how will he do it?”

Mendez and Lieutenant Decker had scouted so much together that they
were familiar with each other’s signals, and no preliminary rehearsal,
therefore, was necessary.

“The captain and I will go back to the stream,” he explained to the
Apache, “and follow the bank some distance. When you have anything to
communicate you will know where to find us. At any rate we will not be
far off.”

“Provided nothing unexpected happens,” Freeman thought best to add.

The scout was a man of few words and only said “Huh!” to signify that
he understood everything. Then, without more ado, he turned the head of
his horse westward and rode off in the darkness.

“That brave fellow takes his life into his hands,” remarked the
lieutenant; “he knows he would receive scant mercy if Geronimo or any
of his band got hold of him.”

“Wherein would he differ from us?” questioned Freeman.

“In no respect, so far as final results are concerned, but they would
punish him frightfully, for it is human nature to detest a renegade, as
he and Cemuri are considered.”

“I don’t know whether it makes him more or less useful, but it seems to
me he must be handicapped in his movements.”

“He doesn’t appear to be; I think if Mendez or Cemuri should become
convinced that there was no possible escape from capture he would shoot
himself.”

“So would I,” said Freeman.

“I wouldn’t, for as long as there’s life there’s hope.”

“I meant when all hope is gone.”

“We may as well make our change of base.”

Side by side the friends rode to the left of the course they had been
following, until they struck the shore of the stream already alluded
to. It seemed broader and shallower than below, but it was a winding
current through the sand, which licked a great deal of water. The
banks were so low and flat that a slight rise of the creek would cause
it to overflow on both sides. No trees or undergrowth being in the
neighborhood, the same difficulty of concealment remained.

When the full moon should rise in the unclouded sky objects would be
discernible for a long way in every direction. While in some respects
this might not be desirable, the two looked upon it as an advantage,
since by diligence and watchfulness, they ought to discover the
approach of an enemy, no matter how stealthily made, or from what point
it came.

It was a cause for self-gratulation that both were so well mounted that
none of their enemies could overtake them in a fair contest of speed.

“It strikes me that as the moon will not show itself for nearly an hour
we may as well dismount. I have been in the saddle so continuously
to-day that the change will be as grateful to me as to my horse.”

“It doesn’t strike me as the wisest thing to do,” replied Freeman,
“though I don’t know that it increases our danger. I will not dismount,
since I have ridden less than you. You won’t leave your horse?”

“No, though he knows my call so well he would come to me at once.”

The lieutenant walked slowly with his steed along the bank of the
stream, for it seemed wiser to shift their position, even if slightly,
so as to prevent the guarded approach of their enemies.

“I wonder whether any of them are in the neighborhood,” he remarked, as
they came to a halt again; “I don’t see how they can be, but there’s no
saying what mischief they are up to. Listen!”

The two were motionless and used their eyes and ears as best they
could. In the gloom it was barely possible to distinguish the opposite
shore, only a few rods distant, while darkness walled them in on every
hand.

The only sound that reached their ears was the soft flow of the stream,
barely distinguishable in the profound stillness. Once they fancied
they heard the report of another gun, but, if so, it was so distant it
could not be identified.

One distressing question pressed upon Maurice Freeman. Ought he to
remain in this lonely place or return to his home a number of miles
distant? His family would not be disturbed over his absence, for he
had occasionally stayed at the fort over night and had been absent
longer at Prescott or Phœnix, but at such times everything was so quiet
that there was no ground for alarm.

He reflected that his wife knew nothing of the threatened raid of the
Apaches, unless it had come to her after his departure from home that
morning. Consequently, in the event of the hostiles making a dash into
that section, she would be wholly unprepared against surprise.

Freeman and his friend Murray had taken an active part in chastising
a party of Apaches some months before, most of them being killed, and
he suspected that revenge might be a factor in inspiring this advance
of Geronimo eastward. If such were the fact, nothing was easier than
for him and his warriors to push on during the darkness, wreak their
vengeance and get away before the sun rose.

The question, put in another form, was whether he and Lieutenant
Decker were accomplishing any good purpose by thus lingering in
the neighborhood with a view of watching and possibly checking the
movements of the hostiles. If the latter were bent on raiding further
eastwards they could make a detour which would carry them to the point
they had in view without the knowledge of the two men, or of Mendez,
who had gone forward to spy out their actions.

The veteran was loath to leave his comrade, but this hesitation was
due to the uncertainty whether it was wiser to do so than to remain.

He was on the point of expressing his misgivings, when a low, soft
whistle sounded on the still night air.

“Sh!” whispered the lieutenant, “that’s Mendez!”




CHAPTER VIII.

MAROZ AND CEBALLOS.


The faint signal had only the breadth of the stream to cross and was
heard by the two men.

“It is Mendez,” repeated Decker in a whisper; “he brings important
news.”

“Are you sure it is he?” was the guarded inquiry of Freeman, whose
longer residence in that section of the Union and greater experience
with the wily Apaches made him distrustful. The events of the preceding
few hours especially warned him that it was impossible to use too much
caution in dealing with their enemies.

“I am as sure as one can well be,” said the officer, who, it will be
remembered, was not on his horse but standing beside him.

“If it be he why does he not come to us? The stream is not deep.”

“Perhaps he expects us to join him—sh!”

The call which had caught their attention a few minutes before was
heard again.

“It will be the height of folly to attempt to reach the other bank
while this uncertainty exists,” said Freeman; “I shall not do it.”

“Withdraw a short distance and wait for me.”

“Remember that those people have wonderfully keen eyes, and they may
be able to distinguish us when we cannot see them. It is better for
both to withdraw.”

“I will soon follow you if there’s anything suspicious.”

Freeman walked his horse a hundred feet from the stream, holding the
bridle of the other animal as he did so. The lieutenant remained by
the water’s edge, where, instead of keeping his standing posture, he
knelt down on one knee, a position which lessened his chance of being
observed by any foe on the other side.

Peering intently in the darkness, he was able to make out the shadowy
figure of two and possibly three men standing motionless in the gloom,
the view being so faint that at first he doubted whether he saw
anything at all.

For the first time Decker made a cautious response to the signal,
the same that had been employed by him and the White Mountain scout
in previous instances of peril. Again it came across the water to
him, and, but for the suspicious circumstances, he would have staked
everything on its being emitted by the dusky lips of his friend.

“If it be an enemy,” he reflected, “I would give much to know where
he got the call, but Mendez had no companions when he left us, and
certainly there is more than one man standing on the other shore.”

Nature now came to the help of the lieutenant. The full moon was near
the horizon, almost directly behind the opposite bank, and the slight
illumination it flung into the sky revealed the forms of three persons
so clearly that there could be no mistake.

“It’s a cunning trick, but it will not work this time, my good friends.”

Kneeling on one knee, the lieutenant took the best aim he could at the
group and let fly with one charge from his Winchester.

This time the bullet sped true. One of the dusky forms leaped into the
air with a screech and fell prostrate on his face, where he remained
without rising.

“Geronimo’s band is short one member,” was the cool observation of
Decker, who instantly changed his position to a prone one, in which he
hugged the ground as closely as he could.

The precaution was not taken a second too soon. Quickly recovering from
their shock, the other two Apaches fired at the point where they had
seen the flash of the rifle, the missiles whistling so close that but
for the act of the young man he must have been struck.

Decker proved his nerve by holding his position for several minutes.
His hope was that his enemies in their exasperation would dash into the
stream to cross to him, in which event he would have them at his mercy,
but they were too wily for that. Instead of advancing, they retreated,
evidently fearing another shot from the one who had outwitted them.

[Illustration: “Geronimo’s band is short one member,” was the cool
observation of Lieutenant Decker.—Page 66.

—_The Young Scout._]

Meanwhile Maurice Freeman was a prey to the gravest anxiety. Much as
he admired his companion, he was almost certain that his rash bravery
would involve both in fatal disaster. He questioned more and more the
prudence of lingering in the neighborhood, when it was certain the
Apaches were seeking their overthrow.

This uneasiness was intensified during the minute following the
discharge of the lieutenant’s rifle by the proof that something was
amiss. Both horses flung up their heads and sniffed, looking not toward
the stream, but away from it.

“It’s a wonder we have escaped so long,” was the impatient thought of
Freeman; “now we are going to catch it. Lieutenant,” he called, “come
here at once.”

Decker heard the voice, but a moment before it reached him he had begun
stealing from the stream, holding his crouching posture until beyond
range of the sharpest-eyed warrior. He was within a rod or two of the
horses, when called to, and vaulted instantly into the saddle.

“What is it, captain? Anything wrong?”

“The action of the animals shows that danger threatens, and in my
opinion——”

“Sh?”

At the same instant the forms of two horsemen loomed to sight on the
right. They came forward as silently as shadows, acting as if they saw
nothing of the others, or, seeing them, counted them as naught.

“Halt!” commanded the lieutenant, “or I fire!” a proceeding which would
have taken place had he not suspected the identity of the two.

“Huh! Maroz—Ceballos!” replied one of the Apaches, without checking his
animal.

“They are friends,” remarked the officer; “they belong to the
reservation and probably have been at the fort.”

“I know them,” remarked Freeman, “but do not include myself among their
admirers.”

As Decker had remarked, Maroz and Ceballos were two Apaches who
were frequently seen at Fort Reno. Two years before they were among
Geronimo’s most ferocious followers, but, for most of the time since,
had claimed to be, and indeed had conducted themselves like good
Indians. Both were addicted to the use of “tiswin,” that decoction of
fermented corn, which is amazingly quick to inflame the evil passions
of an Indian to the highest degree.

Despite the professions of these two bucks, and the fact that nothing
wrong was known against them, they had not the confidence of the
colonel nor of most of the soldiers at the fort.

It will be understood, therefore, that neither Lieutenant Decker nor
Maurice Freeman felt that degree of relief which would have been theirs
had they known of a certainty that they were joined by two friends, for
what can be more trying than the company of those whom we distrust amid
the gravest possible peril?

Having announced themselves, Maroz and Ceballos immediately joined the
two horsemen, who treated them as if certain they were friends.

“Why are you here?” asked the lieutenant.

“Geronimo somewhere,” replied Maroz, speaking for himself and his
companion; “come with warrior—he burn ranch—kill white folks—white
folks brothers of Maroz and Ceballos—dey help brothers.”

It was in the mind of Freeman to interpose with the question as to how
these two had learned of the presence of the Apache leader, when until
a few hours before it was unknown to the white scouts, but it would
have been unwise at this point to let the two know they were not fully
trusted.

“Where are our men?” asked Decker; “I have signaled but hear nothing of
them; they ought not to be many miles away.”

“Maroz and Ceballos don’t know—dey somewhere.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if they were; nothing is more likely, but I would
be glad if we could find the precise spot.”

It was evident the new arrivals were disappointed at not seeing some
one else with the horsemen. It was Maroz who asked:

“Where Mendez—where Cemuri?”

Lieutenant Decker thought the situation warranted a little deception on
his part.

“They are watching Geronimo and the rest; they may slay the chief
before they come back to us.”

“Chief bad Injun—he kill much white folks—he dog—help kill him.”

This expression would have been comforting could the hearers have
believed it honest, for it would have expressed their own sentiments.

“Yes—yes,” replied both, nodding their heads, for the moon having risen
meanwhile, their faces were seen quite plainly.

“Well, all you have to do is to set about it. Some of the hostiles
are on the other side of the stream and some are off yonder to the
westward. Slip in among them and shoot all you can.”

It was evident this was not the part the two wished to play.

“We stay wid brother—we help him fight.”

“No, you won’t; we don’t want you; you can do no good here; we have
sent Mendez and Cemuri away; you must go, too.”

The officer was so peremptory that the Apaches did not question him
further. They glanced at each other, then, without speaking, set off
with their ponies on a walk toward the stream now in plain sight.

To the surprise of Decker and Freeman, they drove their horses into
the water and rode directly to the other side. Near the middle the
animals sank to their flanks, but at no point were they forced to swim.
Emerging they continued straight away until they faded from view.

“I don’t know whether it was wise to send them off in that style,”
remarked the lieutenant, “but I don’t wish their company, even if they
do claim to be friends.”




CHAPTER IX.

MENDEZ, THE SCOUT.


When Mendez, the White Mountain Apache, left the company of Lieutenant
Decker and Maurice Freeman he fully comprehended the perilous mission
he had undertaken.

He had set out to learn and if possible help check the scheme of
Geronimo and his strong party, who were pushing eastward toward the
more fertile and better settled Sutra Valley, with the purpose of
spreading fire, destruction and death wherever the opportunity offered.
What could this single scout do to affect or hinder such a purpose?

Mendez dare not enter the camp of the hostiles, under the pretense of
being a friend of the raiders. Geronimo and probably all his warriors
knew the one that had done them so much injury, and if Mendez really
wished to cast his lot with them, his allegiance would not be accepted.
His offensive work would not admit of condonation.

Lieutenant Decker spoke the truth when he said that his faithful scout
would never allow himself to be taken prisoner. He always kept one
chamber of his revolver filled for that emergency, which, however,
would have to be desperate, before he would apply the weapon to its
last use.

The theory upon which the sagacious Mendez acted was that Geronimo’s
plan was to sweep from his path the little company in his immediate
front before carrying out his original scheme. He believed that these
four were the only ones who had divined his purpose. If, therefore,
they were “wiped out,” he could complete his terrific raid before an
adequate force could rally in his front or cut him off. The destruction
of the little party, therefore, was the present design of the invaders.

If the scout was right in his surmise, Lieutenant Decker had but to
despatch Mendez in the opposite direction, the same that the wounded
Cemuri had followed, in order to bring speedy help. Such would have
been the plan of the dusky scout, but he was a man of silence, and made
no attempt to gainsay his commanding officer, no matter how much his
plans might conflict with his own judgment.

It should be said that Lieutenant Decker had partly followed the
course which Mendez preferred, in that he had sent Cemuri off, not
only to the fort, but with instructions to find if possible the rest
of the cavalrymen or scouts who were abroad, and acquaint them with
the situation. Should he succeed nearly all that was possible would be
accomplished, but the scout feared the severity of his comrade’s wound
would interfere with his usefulness.

However, dismissing all this from his mind, he set to work to carry out
the delicate task before him.

The first step was to locate the invaders, who were not likely to
separate at this stage of the proceedings, and here Mendez followed a
theory of his own.

He believed the Apaches were not far off and that they would steal
forward in the hope of outwitting and overcoming the white men. Nothing
was clearer than that the scout was at great disadvantage so long as he
remained on his horse. He would be not only more conspicuous than on
foot, but would be stopped from using the remarkable skill with which
nature and long training had equipped him. He, therefore, made a wide
circuit on the sandy plain to the left, until certain he was beyond
sight of any foe. Then he slipped to the ground.

His well-trained animal would not wander from the spot where he was
left, and his owner was certain to find him near it, always provided
no one else interfered with him. He patted his neck and allowed the
intelligent creature to rub his nose against his shoulder. They
understood each other.

Mendez now started to return over his own tracks, bearing slightly to
the eastward, until he approached the stream. Then he paused.

The moon had not yet risen, but he knew it would soon appear, when
still greater caution would be necessary in his movements. Stooping low
he applied his ear to the earth, but heard nothing.

Bending low and stepping slowly—an easy thing to do on the sand—he
pressed on until he reached the edge of the narrow, smoothly flowing
stream. There he stood motionless for several minutes, debating whether
to cross the creek or to push his reconnaissance where he was.

Standing thus, he heard a noise which, though faint, was easily
identified. It was the whinny of a horse and it came from some point on
the opposite bank. Geronimo and his band were there and he determined
to cross to them.

The peculiar noise was not directly opposite, but somewhat to the
right, that is, nearer to where he had left his friends. Nevertheless,
the scout moved further down the stream before stepping into the water.
He suspected it was sufficiently shallow to be forded, but was prepared
to swim if need be. He held his Winchester above his head, stepping
carefully into the current, which near the middle reached above his
waist. From that point the depth decreased and he finally emerged,
having waded all the way. He was now on the same side with the hostiles.

If detected, his situation was tenfold more dangerous than before, and
more than likely that reserve shot in his revolver would be called
upon. The hostiles could easily run him down with their horses and a
plunge into the stream would not save him.

In order to hide his movements he sank upon his hands and knees and
began creeping toward the spot whence came the horse’s neigh. A few
rods were passed in this manner, when he caught sight of that for
which he was searching. A group of horsemen were dimly outlined against
the sky.

So far as he could determine, there were at least a dozen. No doubt the
entire band had come together and were holding a consultation as to
what course they should follow.

It would have been a most desirable thing could he have approached
near enough to overhear their conversation, but that was impossible.
He was certain to be discovered by the animals, if not the riders, and
detection meant death.

He heard the murmur of their voices, but no syllable that could be
comprehended reached the crouching figure in the sand.

Suppose they should turn their horses and ride toward him! He could
only make a break for the stream and strive desperately for the other
shore—a feat which it may be said was impossible of accomplishment,
but this was only one of the many risks which a scout has to face when
operating in Arizona.

From among the group three warriors emerged on foot. They did not
advance toward the solitary figure in the sand, but took a diagonal
course to the stream, whose bank they followed until hidden in the
gloom. Mendez did not leave or move, but speculated as to the meaning
of this singular action.

While still wondering, he heard the signal which Lieutenant Decker
mistook for that of a friend.

Mendez was startled, for he recognized its perfect imitation of the
call which he had used many times when scouting with the officer. He
wondered by what means their enemies had obtained it, and concluded
that it was one of those accidental occurrences, such as are seen when
two ranchmen, widely separated, fix upon the same brand for their
cattle.

The fact caused uneasiness, for the scout feared that it would mislead
his friend, but nothing could be done to avert so disastrous a blunder.
The officer must be left to his own shrewdness, which, as the reader
has learned, proved sufficient for his protection.

Then came the rifle-shot and death cry of one of the hostiles. There
could be no misinterpretation of that meaning, and the dusky scout
smiled grimly as he reflected that another of the many schemes of the
raiders had gone amiss.

If any doubt remained on that point, it was removed a few minutes
later, when two warriors were descried returning, whereas three had
left the group a short time before. The one stricken down had been
allowed to lie where he fell.

It was at this juncture that Mendez became aware of a discomforting
fact: the moon was rising and would soon shed a bright illumination
over stream and plain. If he remained where he was, discovery was
inevitable. He therefore began a cautious withdrawal from the perilous
neighborhood.

He adopted a curious artifice. Instead of facing about and creeping
away, he imitated the action of Geronimo’s horse some hours before,
when confronting Lieutenant Decker. He backed toward the stream, a
course which enabled him to keep an eye on his enemies in front.

He had passed half the distance, and was cautiously retrograding, when
he experienced a shock. One of the mounted Apaches left the group and
rode toward him!

Mendez ceased his motion on the instant and grasped his Winchester so
as to aim and fire in a twinkling. His purpose was, if discovered, to
shoot the buck from his pony, dash forward and capture his horse, or if
that was not feasible, make a break to the stream and run for his own
animal.

One of these desperate attempts assuredly would have followed had the
horseman kept the course upon which he started, but he had gone only a
little way when he made an abrupt change and approached the bank at a
point almost as far removed from the scout as was the band of raiders.

This was a vast relief, and all fear would have departed but for the
moon which was rapidly climbing the sky and shedding an effulgence that
made it like daylight itself. Had the scout risen to his feet he would
have been detected at once. He must continue prone and reach the stream
in that posture or not reach it at all.

But it looked as if that solitary horseman was doomed to be his death
after all; for, instead of crossing the creek or remaining where
he was, he turned once more, and, as before, headed toward Mendez,
who, believing the critical moment had come, braced himself for the
struggle.




CHAPTER X.

THE EAVESDROPPER.


It would be hard to explain the course of the Apache horseman. It
looked at first as if he had been aware of the presence of the scout
for some, and was trifling with him, as a cat sometimes toys with a
mouse before crunching it in her jaws, but the peculiar circumstances
forbids this explanation.

Instead of riding directly over the prostrate figure, the buck once
more checked his animal, while several rods distant. Mendez, who was
watching him intently, then perceived that instead of looking in front
of his pony, he was gazing toward the further shore of the stream, as
if interested there. Possibly he had seen or heard something which he
did not understand.

The few seconds’ grace thus granted were improved by the imperiled
scout. Gently swaying his body, limbs and hands, he groveled and
burrowed silently into the sand, until, with the exception of his head,
he was covered. The fine particles reached even to his shoulders.
Stretched thus, perfectly motionless, an enemy might have passed within
arm’s length without observing him.

The dread of Mendez was not that the rider would see him, nor indeed
that the horse would observe him, but that the keen scent of the animal
would bring the revelation. There are many situations—and this was one
of them—in which the nose of a horse is more to be feared than the
sagacity of his rider.

Whatever the Apache was studying did not engage his attention long.
He spoke to his pony, which turned to one side and walked toward the
waiting group.

In doing this he approached still closer to the figure almost wholly
hidden in the sand. It is not probable that he saw it, but his keen
sense of smell apprised him that some man or animal was near. He
swerved suddenly to one side with a snort, and skillful as was his
rider, the movement was so abrupt that he came within a hair of being
unseated. He spoke angrily to his animal, striking his heels so sharply
against his ribs that he galloped the few remaining steps to the main
company.

No narrower escape than that of Mendez can be conceived. With all
his acumen he hardly understood why the buck failed to make an
investigation. Had he done so, discovery was absolutely certain. It
must have been that he reasoned that no such cause as the real one
could exist, so close to the other horseman, and such belief on his
part was one of the most reasonable things in the world.

But be all this as it may, it was high time that the scout effected a
change of base. Wonderful as was the good fortune that had attended
him thus far, it could not continue indefinitely: disaster impended.

It was not far to the stream which he was so anxious to reach, and yet,
despite the peril involved in remaining where he was, he decided it was
not so dangerous as to try to leave the spot while Geronimo and his men
were so near. He was now effectually hidden in the sand, for he drew
more of the particles about his head until little more than his hair
and eyes was visible.

The keen vision of the hostiles was likely to be drawn to the spot
if he resumed his backward movement toward the water. It will be
remembered, too, that the banks of the stream were so low and flat that
they could give no concealment, and the agitation that must follow his
entrance into the shallow creek was certain to catch the notice of his
enemies.

And so, on the whole, he did the best thing possible, risky as it must
be, by staying where he was.

It seemed as if the whole gamut of fear was to be run by Mendez, who
found himself in such peculiar danger. The horsemen made a shift of
position which brought them several yards nearer the prostrate figure,
who would have been glad to sink himself several feet under the ground
had it been possible.

But this supreme trial of his nerves brought its consolation, for he
was now able to hear and understand nearly everything said by his
enemies—an achievement which otherwise would have been among the
impossibilities.

A significant fact, immediately preceding this eavesdropper episode,
was the arrival of Maroz and Ceballos, who, as will be remembered, had
been sent away by Lieutenant Decker. From his curious hiding-place
Mendez recognized both, as they rode up in the bright moonlight and
joined the group as if they were friends who expected their coming.

It will be more intelligible if we give a liberal interpretation of the
conversation between Geronimo and the two arrivals.

“I am glad to look upon the face of my brothers,” said the leader, by
way of greeting; “I knew you would hasten to join us.”

“We came as soon as we could; but the soldiers watch us closely; they
distrust us, though we have done all we could to make them think us
friends.”

To this remark by Maroz, Ceballos added:

“We are eager to give the great Geronimo all the help we can.”

“Where are the soldiers?” was the pertinent query of the chief.

“We are not sure; they were a few miles to the east, near the Sutra
Valley.”

“Do they know of our coming?”

“They cannot, but others do.”

“Who are the others?”

“Lieutenant Decker, the man Freeman with him, and Mendez and Cemuri,
the traitors.”

“Who are they?”

“The white men are on the other side of the stream; they killed one of
your warriors, as I have learned; Mendez and Cemuri have left them to
watch the movements of yourself and warriors.”

“I know the renegades are with the two white men; I would give much
could I lay hands on them, but we fear them not; it is the horsemen
whom we need to look for, for they are more numerous than we.”

“If we move quickly we may strike and get away before the soldiers know
where we are,” was the wise suggestion of Maroz.

“That we would do if we could learn where the soldiers are; we must
first know that.”

In this remark, the Apache leader revealed the key of the whole
situation. He was among the most cunning of his people, and, while at
times, he assumed risks that were of the most reckless character, it
was not his rule to do so when they could well be avoided. He knew
that the alarm of his approach had spread, through some means, despite
his swiftness of movement. The American cavalry were scouting through
the country for him, and he had had too many brushes with those daring
troopers to seek another conflict, even if he did not always run away
from a fight.

The remark quoted raised the interesting question in the mind of the
eavesdropper hidden in the sand, whether, if Geronimo became convinced
that the course to the ranches to the eastward was well guarded, he
would not turn back and postpone his raid to a more propitious season.

This was the occasion when Maroz and Ceballos, had they been the
friends of the whites that they pretended to be, might have done
inestimable service by making the dreaded scourge believe that such
danger threatened him. Instead of taking this course, however, the
miscreants urged him to hasten the blow he was meditating.

“If you stay here too long,” continued Maroz, “the soldiers will know
of a certainty that you are coming.”

“But they will not know where we mean to go.”

“Mendez and Cemuri will warn them,” suggested Maroz, who, it will be
remembered, knew nothing of the wounding of Cemuri.

“They shall not live to see the sun rise!” exclaimed Geronimo, with his
old-time fierceness; “we shall slay them both; the white men with them
shall be killed; then we will turn to the southward, strike our blow
and be gone before the soldiers can learn where we are.”

It will be conceded that Mendez was acquiring a good deal of
interesting information. The question was whether he would be able to
turn it to account since his own position was more perilous than that
of any one else.

“Let Maroz and Ceballos go back to the white men; let them be vigilant,
and when the chance comes kill them both!”

“That is what we meant to do,” was the prompt avowal of Ceballos, “but
they sent us away before we had the chance; they told us to go to you,
and to fight against you; if we go back they will believe we are your
friends and they will slay us.”

There was sense in this statement of the situation, and the great
Apache leader could not fail to see it. If the two should return to
Lieutenant Decker, after being sent away, it could not fail to throw
them under suspicion, and more than likely their lives would pay the
forfeit.

But it was necessary that some one should get nearer the two than any
of the Apaches had succeeded in doing, or else no further attention was
to be given to the little party, who kept so persistently in the path
of the raiders, or Geronimo must postpone his raid, as has been stated,
to a more convenient season.

The chieftain decided upon the first expedient. He spoke to one of
his most trusted scouts and directed him to cross the stream, and by
some means slay the obstructing white men. This was an elastic order,
permitting, as it did, the widest latitude as to the means employed;
but it was all Geronimo could do, for nothing would have been more
idle than for him to give minute instructions, when he could have no
possible knowledge of the complications that would arise.

He might have called on any member of his band and the response would
have been as prompt as in the case of the veteran scout who now essayed
a task as dangerous as it was difficult.




CHAPTER XI.

CAVARHO AND MENDEZ.


The scout selected by Geronimo showed his wisdom by dismounting and
setting out on foot to perform his delicate mission. Like Mendez, he
did not mean to handicap himself with the presence of his horse.

In going to the stream he almost stepped upon the White Mountain
Apache, who, fortunately for him, had about buried himself in the sand,
but with all his astonishing skill, the hostile saw not the object
which could not have escaped his vision had he once looked down to the
earth, instead of keeping his eyes fixed on the silently flowing stream
and the clearly defined bank beyond.

Mendez had certainly gone through his share of trying danger. He
had learned all that it was necessary to know and much more than he
expected to learn, and his one desire now was to get back to his
friends. A grim warrior had started to seek their lives, and, knowing
his own race as he did, Mendez feared the issue.

The moon had climbed so high in the heavens and its light was so
powerful that the scout not only dared not approach the creek, but was
afraid to change his position or fling off any part of the blanket of
sand that had served so well to conceal him. He must stay where he was
until Geronimo and his band moved away.

Luckily for the scout his suspense was soon relieved. Suddenly the
horsemen were in motion, and, approaching the stream, followed its bank
until out of sight to the eastward.

This was the chance for which Mendez was waiting with a feeling akin to
impatience. Like a sleeper roused from slumber, he shook himself free
from the rattling particles, and, rising to his feet, skurried to the
water’s edge, at the point where he had emerged. A quick glance showed
no one in sight, and stepping into the current he made his way to the
other shore without incident.

His object now was to rejoin his friends as soon as he could, impart
the important tidings he had gained, and help them guard against the
treacherous attempt that was sure to be made against their lives.

Lieutenant Decker had told him where to seek himself and Freeman. They
might have shifted their position, but not far. He recalled the point
whence the fatal shot had been fired into the group of three Apaches,
and turned his footsteps thither.

It was destined to be a night of adventure to the daring scout, for
while he was making his way along shore, two horsemen suddenly loomed
to view. They were on the other side of the stream, however, and
he might have taken them for his friends had the light been less
powerful. As it was, the first glance showed them to be hostiles.

It will be understood that in one respect Mendez held an immense
advantage over them, for he knew they were enemies, while they took him
for a friend—a natural mistake, since he belonged to their own race,
and his attire was similar to that of many of the tribe.

Another incident contributed to the blunder: their own scout had
crossed but a few minutes before. He was on foot, and in height and
general appearance resembled Mendez, while the moonlight was just faint
enough to exclude a close scrutiny.

The distance between the two was so slight that it was easy to
understand each other by using an ordinary conversational tone.

“Cavarho,” said one of the horsemen, using the name of the supposed
scout, “why do you seek the white men by the side of the stream?”

“Was it not from this side that they slew one of our bravest men?”
asked Mendez in turn.

“True, but not from that spot.”

“It is further up the bank and I am making my way there.”

“But in the strong light of the moon they will see you, Cavarho.”

“No sooner than they will see you on your horses.”

“We shall watch for them.”

“And I will do the same.”

“Cavarho is our best scout,” was the complimentary remark of the
horseman who had done the talking for himself and companion.

And as if nothing more remained to be said, the two wheeled their
ponies and rode off, taking a course that led away from the stream, as
if in respect to the warning their supposed friend had given.

Mendez silently brought his rifle to his shoulder. He could not have
asked a better target and he was certain of bringing down one if not
both of them. He made his aim true and then—lowered his weapon without
firing.

It is not often that an Apache is inspired by anything of a chivalrous
nature, but it was so in this instance. Had the horsemen been facing
him, probably Mendez would have discharged his Winchester, but with
their backs toward him, and without a suspicion of their danger, even
his soul rebelled. He allowed them to ride beyond range, and never did
they know how close they trod the verge of death.

The scout resumed his guarded advance along the stream and concluded
that he was in the neighborhood of his friends. He halted and looked
around, but saw nothing of them. As far as the eye could reach, which
in the clear atmosphere was further than would be supposed, the white
sand stretched, with the winding stream agleam in the moonlight.

Mendez was on the point of emitting the signal, when once more the
whinny of a horse sounded on the still night air. It startled him more
than any sound he had heard that night, for it was from his own pony.
Its direction left no doubt of that.

The conviction flashed upon him that the hostile who had preceded him
in crossing the stream had come upon his horse and was probably trying
to make off with him. The whole nature of Mendez flamed up at the
outrage. He forgot everything for the moment and set out to punish the
criminal and prevent the success of his daring purpose.

But intense as was his anger, the scout did not forget the situation.
He was about to confront one of the most daring and skillful of his own
race, who was eager to make him bite the dust.

The suspicion of Mendez was correct. Cavarho, after crossing the
stream, had gone inland and away from the shore, instead of turning to
the left, which would have taken him near the spot where Lieutenant
Decker and Maurice Freeman were awaiting the return of Mendez and the
development of events. This course led him almost in a straight line to
where the pony of the friendly scout was also awaiting the coming of
his master.

Cavarho showed his quickness of perception by discovering the animal
before the latter detected him. The presence of the pony in this
lonely place suggested the proximity of his master, and the scout did
considerable maneuvering before venturing nearer. A complete circuit
of the animal, however, showed that nothing of that nature was to be
feared. Probably Cavarho suspected the true state of the case, though
of course nothing can be said with certainty on that point. At any
rate, having learned that no person beside himself was in the immediate
vicinity, he walked toward the animal with the intention of making a
prisoner of him.

Before this, the horse had perceived him and stood with head erect,
studying the figure as it drew near. His intelligence quickly told him
it was not his master, but a number of soothing expressions quieted his
fears, and he suffered the stranger to come quite close before taking
the alarm.

Cavarho advanced with a slow and almost imperceptible movement,
murmuring gently in his own tongue, while the beast hesitated whether
to permit more familiarity or to bound away.

He decided upon the latter, but deferred the matter just a second
too long. In the act of wheeling, the Apache made a catlike leap and
grasped his forelock, holding him with a grip which could not be shaken
off. The pony uttered an angry whinny and struggled to free himself,
but, unable to do so, quickly gave up the effort.

It was rarely that Mendez used a saddle. He generally preferred to
ride bareback, with a rope or a strap for a halter, his voice being
generally sufficient for all directions. The fact that he had no bridle
or saddle must have given Cavarho an inkling of the truth and told him
that the horse belonged either to Mendez or Cemuri. Be that as it may,
he flung himself upon his back and became for the moment master of the
situation.

It was at this juncture that a faint, peculiar cry struck the ear of
the horse, which recognized it as the call of his master. Instantly he
dashed in the direction whence it came. A dozen Cavarhos would not have
been sufficient to restrain or turn the steed aside from his purpose.

But the acumen of the strange rider told him the meaning of all this,
and he leaped to the ground in a twinkling. As he did so, he saw the
figure of the enraged Mendez bearing down upon him.

There was little time for preparation and none for the peculiar
strategy in which both were experts. Each was armed with a Winchester,
and almost simultaneously they were brought to a level.

Mendez was quick enough to anticipate Cavarho.

The pleased horse, happy to recognize his own master, rubbed his nose
against his cheek, while Mendez petted and uttered many an endearing
expression. It would have been a sore grief to the scout to lose his
precious steed, that had been his faithful companion in many a perilous
experience.

Mendez was on his back the next instant, and keeping in mind the points
of the compass, he readily guided him toward the spot where he expected
to find his friends.

Nor was he disappointed. Lieutenant Decker and Captain Freeman were
on the alert, and, when the familiar whistle of the scout pierced the
still air, there was so little doubt in the mind of the young officer
that he answered it without hesitation.

A few minutes later, Mendez emerged from the gloom, and, riding forward
a brief space, the two saluted the other.




CHAPTER XII.

A CALL AND A REPLY.


Mendez brought momentous tidings indeed. Addicted as he was to silence
and with no disposition to talk, he had to do considerable of it now.
His imperfect knowledge of English made it necessary for his friends to
ask many questions, but it did not take them long to learn all that he
had gathered and which has been told in its proper place to the reader.

“Captain,” said the lieutenant, “you have been uneasy all along because
I insisted upon our staying here. I could see that you were on the
point of making a break for your home; are you sorry now that you did
not?”

“No; I will admit that I served my family as well and perhaps better by
staying here, but it was hard to believe so at the time.”

“It is rather curious, and I was doubtful myself more than once.”

“Geronimo has the reputation of being a shrewd leader, but I can’t see
wherein he shows it by staying in this part of the country, when he
could make a dash into the Sutra Valley and be far on his return before
we knew anything about it.”

“It is not to be supposed that he holds us in any fear, but it is
the other scouts that he knows are somewhere in the neighborhood. He
doesn’t wish to move until he learns where they are.”

“But he has done so many times before.”

“Some time when we hold him a prisoner (if we can hold him long
enough), we’ll ask him for an explanation. It’s sufficient for us to
know that we have served our friends well by keeping him in check.
Every hour counts, too, in our favor. He has lost two of his best men
and we are without a scratch.”

“True, for the present,” remarked Freeman, looking around in the
moonlight, as if he expected to discover some of their foes trying to
steal upon them.

“There’s one beauty of the situation which I don’t think you
appreciate, captain.”

“What’s that?”

“Geronimo sent out his best scouts to shoot us, or at least to locate
us and make it easy for the others to do the job. The chief will wait
a long time before he begins to suspect what has befallen that same
scout.”

“That was a marvelous exploit of Mendez,” said Freeman warmly; “I never
saw a man who was his superior.”

“He has no superior.”

The subject of these compliments sat motionless on his horse, his black
eyes glancing in every direction, and on the alert as he always was. He
heard and understood every word, but nothing in his manner showed it.

“And yet to my mind his disposal of the scout was not the equal of his
exploit in remaining in hiding so near the band that he overheard every
word said by Geronimo and his men; that was a wonderful thing.”

“It was indeed. He secured just the news we needed and which gives us a
perfect knowledge of the old fellow’s plans.”

“How long do you think he will await the return of his scout?”

Instead of replying, the lieutenant turned the question over to Mendez.
Perhaps the latter was impatient with the continued complimentary
allusions to himself, for without looking at either of the men, he
answered:

“Dunno.”

“Nor does any one else. If I were to give a guess, however, I should
say two hours at least, and perhaps longer. Let me see.”

The officer took out his watch, the face of which could be plainly seen
in the bright light.

“It is exactly ten o’clock. If I am right in my surmise, he will make
no move before midnight.”

“Ain’t right—you wrong,” interjected Mendez, to the amusement of his
companions.

“Well, why didn’t you say so before? Now, Mendez, give _your_ guess.”

“Wait one—two—three hours.”

“That’s better, for it takes us beyond midnight. I shouldn’t wonder,
if Geronimo waits that long, that he will not conclude it best to give
up his raid.”

This was thrown out as a feeler, and both, with a smile, awaited the
comment of Mendez, but he made none. He seemed to think he had imparted
sufficient information.

“While we are speculating,” continued the lieutenant, “it seems to me
that when one o’clock arrives, the chief will send some other scout, or
perhaps two or three of them, to investigate—all of which will consume
time, so that the night will be well gone before he makes a move. Am I
right, Mendez?”

“Dunno.”

The lieutenant was in high spirits over their success thus far and
disposed to be facetious at the expense of their grim companion.

“You made the same remark before, as preliminary to a definite
expression of your views; may I hope that it will be the same in this
instance?”

Perhaps the wording of this inquiry lifted it above the comprehension
of the Apache, for, withdrawing his scrutiny of their surroundings
for a minute, he looked at the officer, and, in his contempt for his
badinage, forgot the respect due his rank.

“Huh! talk like big fool!”

This was too much for Freeman, who threw back his head and laughed
heartily, taking care that his mirth should be as silent as possible.
Mendez now stared at him, and said with more scorn if possible than
before:

“Huh! big fool!”

And then it was the lieutenant’s turn, who almost fell from his saddle
with merriment. The scout surveyed the two alternately. He would have
been relieved to give expression to his feelings, but made no attempt,
possibly because he could not do them justice. Instead, he turned his
attention to their surroundings, peering here, there and everywhere
with that birdlike restlessness which he always showed when in a
situation resembling the present.

The three horses were hungry, for none of them had eaten anything
since early in the day, but there was no help for it. Fodder could
not be obtained in that section, where, as has been shown, the sandy
soil yielded comparatively nothing. They would do well enough while
water was to be had, even if compelled to go twenty-fours longer
without nourishment. The ponies ridden by the raiding Apaches often
suffered for a longer period, and, during many of the hard rides in the
frightful summer months, they could not obtain a mouthful of water for
long hours, while the raiders themselves underwent hardships which few
civilized people can stand.

Lieutenant Decker had a portion of his frugal rations still in reserve,
but since they had eaten not long before, it was decided to keep the
food until morning.

A long, trying wait was before them, and he and Freeman dismounted, the
officer striking a match, with which he lit a cigar, first giving one
to Freeman, who found much solace in smoking it.

“I have been greatly depressed,” remarked the latter, “since I learned
of this impending raid until now. My thoughts were with my wife and
little ones, and the relief is now so great to know that they are not
only safe, but that the danger is growing less with every hour that I
am in buoyant spirits.”

“The expression of Mendez’s opinion then does not disturb you?”

“No; since you share with me his estimation.”

“His views in my case were made with less emphasis.”

“But he was equally in earnest; if my title of captain, which you are
so fond of giving me, was as real as your own, I suspect he would have
exchanged the compliments.”

“Possibly, but I forgive him in view of what he has accomplished for
the good of the cause.”

“Wait—me come back.”

The men suspected the scout of wishing to place himself beyond range of
their observations, for he now rode his horse toward the stream, on the
other side of which it was believed the hostiles were still awaiting
events.

“I hope he is not offended,” remarked Freeman, when their friend was
beyond earshot.

“Offended! no; he doesn’t like to be complimented, in which respect
he differs from most folks. I suspect we distract his vigilance and
he wishes to get away by himself, where he can do his duty without
interference.”

“And yet he apprehends no molestation from the hostiles for several
hours.”

“But lacks the guarantee that we will be let alone even for a fraction
of that time. He is one of those wise fellows who take no chances. I
wonder,” added the lieutenant, suddenly shifting the conversation, “how
Cemuri made out.”

“I see no reason to doubt his speedy arrival at the fort, but it is too
soon to expect help from there.”

“I am hopeful that he came across some of the soldiers before going
that far.”

“He may have met Maroz and Ceballos.”

“It is possible, but he was as distrustful of them as we, and would
have avoided them.”

“He was well mounted, but those two scamps are treacherous. They have
proved it to the satisfaction of Mendez, whose testimony ought to hang
them.”

“It ought to, but it won’t. He overheard enough to show their
disloyalty, but he did not see them commit any overt act, and they
would plead that they were compelled to pretend a friendship to the
hostiles to save their lives.”

“It was fortunate that you sent them off so promptly, for as long as
they were in our company there is no saying what evil they would work.
Lieutenant, why not repeat the signal you made some time ago?”

“The suggestion is a good one. If it doesn’t bring the boys it may add
to Geronimo’s uneasiness.”

Again pointing his Winchester skyward, the young officer discharged
it as before—two shots in quick succession, followed by a third at a
longer interval.

And this time there was a reply!




CHAPTER XIII.

THE TROOPERS.


Cemuri, the wounded scout, did his duty well. Convinced that Lieutenant
Decker did the right thing in ordering him to return to Fort Reno, to
have his hurt looked after, he was as eager as ever to befriend the
gallant young officer and his companions, thus deprived of his services.

The White Mountain Apache waited but a short time after the
disappearance of Maroz and Ceballos, when he climbed into the saddle
and headed his pony for the fort. His suffering was great, but his
iron will mastered the weakness of his body, for which he showed his
contempt by striking his animal into a gallop, which served to increase
his pain.

A mile away he came directly upon six cavalrymen who were out on a
scout. Among them were Armon Peyser, Budge Colgate and Jack Redfield,
who had campaigned for years in New Mexico and Arizona and knew all
there was to know of the cunning and ferocity of Geronimo, Natchez and
their fierce followers.

Cemuri quickly told his story. He was able to locate the raiders and
direct the party to the spot where the three scouts were doing all they
could to hold them in check. Despite the pluck of the friendly Apache,
he could not hide his suffering, and Peyser, in his sympathy, offered
to send one of his men with him to the post.

This proposition, made with the best of intentions, was almost an
insult to Cemuri. He refused it point-blank, and, to prevent its
repetition, galloped away without so much as a farewell. None knew
better than he that he could not receive aid too soon, but he would
accept no guidance or assistance from these friends.

“That’s good news of his,” said Peyser, as he and his companions sat
grouped together in the moonlight, “for it means a fight.”

“But Geronimo has some twenty of his bucks with him,” reminded Budge
Colgate, “and to put matters in a good shape, we ought to have more of
the boys with us.”

“We’ll do it if we can, but, if they can’t be found in time, we won’t
be cheated out of our fun.”

“I don’t think Jennings and the rest are far off,” suggested Jack
Redfield, who now made the signal used by Lieutenant Decker, who was
too far off to hear the reports.

To their delight, the hail was instantly answered from a point so near
at hand that the three instinctively turned their eyes to the south
whence it came.

A few minutes later, a ringing “Halloo!” sounded through the stillness
and a round dozen horsemen loomed to view, coming at a swinging pace.
In a twinkling, as may be said, eighteen well-mounted and armed
United States troopers gathered in the middle of the sandy plain.
Armon Peyser, as the oldest campaigner and by virtue of his office as
sergeant, was leader, though when a junction should be effected with
Freeman and Decker, the lieutenant of course would assume command.

A hurried consultation followed. It was nearly five miles to the
bend of the stream, where Cemuri had left his friends, and Peyser
began describing the place, as well as he could, when Budge Colgate
interrupted him.

“I know the spot! We can ride there in a bee line; lead on sergeant.”

And away they went, hardly drawing rein until within a fourth of a mile
of the stream. Knowing they were near it, the party slackened their
pace and were cautiously advancing, with Colgate at the head, when the
signal of Lieutenant Decker reached them.

“Good!” exclaimed the scout; “I knew it wasn’t far off.”

As has been shown, the hail was promptly answered and a second junction
took place, with the result that a round twenty horsemen were brought
together, all eager for a brush with the hostiles. Mendez had not yet
returned from his reconnaissance upon which he ventured some time
before. He was not so far off, however, that he did not know of the
arrival of the reinforcements, and he was but a few minutes behind them
in reaching the spot.

Being ready for the serious business now in hand, the all-important
requisite was to know the situation of the foe whom they meant to
strike. Mendez had no information to give on that point, for when he
left his two friends he went only a short way. His purpose was not so
much to spy out the hostiles as to prevent their spying out the two
whites and stealing a march upon them.

Lieutenant Decker was as indisposed as any of his companions to remain
idle until the rising of the sun. Accordingly the three best scouts,
including Mendez, were sent out to locate the raiders, if possible,
with a view of attacking them at the earliest moment. In their absence,
the troopers dismounted and lolled about in the sand, some snatching
a little sleep, others smoking and talking in low tones, while the
sentinels, as a matter of course, were placed at the proper points to
guard against surprise.

Martin, one of the white scouts, went up the stream, Potter, another,
took the opposite course, while Mendez rode his pony to the other side.
The other two were also mounted, for it will be understood that their
duty differed from that of the Apache scout, when he first went out.
It was then an object with him to steal as close as he could to the
raiders, with a view of learning their purposes, and it has been shown
how well he did his duty.

In the present instance, however, it was only necessary to find out
where the main body of hostiles were. The instant that became known,
the one making the discovery would hasten back with the information.
If well mounted, he could do this much more successfully than if on
foot.

It was not to be supposed that the hostiles would be on the alert
against such an enterprise, and the scouts undertaking it were hopeful
of making their discovery and getting back within an hour from the time
of their going forth.

The most dangerous proceeding, as it seemed, was that of Mendez in
crossing the stream, for the presumption was that the enemies were on
the other side. If he should be seen, as was quite likely, when he
located the raiders he would have to make a desperate ride for life.
It would not do to dash into the stream, for his progress would be so
checked that he would become the best of targets for his enemies.

Recalling where he had last seen Geronimo and his bucks, Mendez rode
in that direction. He knew he would not find them there, for his last
glimpse showed them leaving the spot, but he made his way thither
without detecting the first sign of them.

In the strong moonlight, the scout could readily see the footprints
of the horses, without leaning over from the back of his own steed.
The trail led up the stream, keeping quite near it, and then, to the
surprise of the scout, it circled to the left and away from the water.

He could not fathom the meaning of this, nor indeed did he try to do
so, for the special necessity did not exist, but he kept to it, his
horse advancing slowly, while the rider peered into the gloom on every
hand. The situation became more critical every moment.

The trail showed that the raiders were keeping well together and their
animals were walking. Here and there diverging hoofprints indicated
that one or more of the horsemen had drawn off from the main body, or
else two separate trails crossed each other.

The circle swept inward upon the plain, and by and by turned backward,
that is to the west. To the astonishment of Mendez, it began
approaching the stream, as if the hostiles meant to recross it. If this
were the fact, Potter, who had gone down the bank of the creek would
probably be the first to discover the Apaches.

The probability of this issue caused the dusky scout uneasiness, for
the raiders being on the same side with the troopers were likely to
locate them before being observed, thus securing a perilous advantage,
to say nothing of the great danger in which Potter would be placed,
despite his skill and experience.

Mendez was approaching the stream, whose smooth surface gleamed in
the moonlight, when his steed quietly stopped. He made no sound, but
pricked his ears.

This was enough, for his owner knew what it meant. An enemy was near.
Less than a minute was sufficient to place him. He was directly ahead,
and like Mendez was mounted, being probably one of the hostile scouts
that had been sent to the rear to watch for just such attempts as were
now making against them.

The situation assumed the interesting phase of two highly trained
scouts maneuvering against each other. Wonderful as was the skill of
Mendez, it did not surpass that of his enemy, whose horse was also the
equal of the one ridden by the other.

The pony of the scout had shown astonishing quickness in detecting the
presence of the other equine, but at precisely the same moment the
latter warned his rider of the approach of the other. Both halted and
for a minute or more remained motionless. Then Mendez made the curious
discovery that his foe was gradually fading from sight.

There was no mystery in this vanishment, however, which was in accord
with natural laws. The hostile had whirled his animal around with a
quickness which could not be noted at that distance, and began walking
him toward the stream, closely watching at the same time the movements
of the foe thus thrown to the rear.

Instead of following, Mendez waited until the other had passed out of
his field of vision. Then he turned abruptly to the left and rode to
the edge of the stream. There he and his animal again became stationary.

The rider was listening and looking. The eyes told him nothing, but
a faint splashing noise, several times repeated, came to him. He
interpreted it as meaning that the horseman whom he had seen was
crossing the creek.

This of itself was of little importance, but Mendez accepted it as
evidence that the whole band had done the same thing some time before,
and the horseman was now on his way to rejoin them. So convinced indeed
was Mendez on this point that he guided his animal carefully into the
water and forded the stream, without searching out the place where
Geronimo and his hostiles had also crossed.




CHAPTER XIV.

WAITING FOR DAYLIGHT.


Having emerged from the stream, Mendez rode down the bank, toward the
ridge, where the hostiles had been first seen during the day. It will
be remembered that he had now entered upon the bailiwick of Potter, the
scout, who was engaged upon the same errand.

As before, the friendly Apache placed his main reliance upon his pony,
who knew as well as his rider the delicate duty in hand.

The animal walked slowly, his hoofs sinking to the fetlocks in the
soft sand, while the senses of both were at the highest point. To the
surprise of Mendez he passed a full half mile without observing the
slightest sign of his enemies. Then, as before, his animal stopped of
his own accord.

The keenest scrutiny of the front and on every hand failed to show
the cause of the abrupt stoppage of the horse, but he must have had a
cause, for, as may be said, his action was controlled by an instinct
approaching reason.

Several minutes passed without the appearance of anything to explain
the situation, and then Mendez gently pressed one heel against the ribs
of the pony, who resumed his walk, but stopped again after taking a
dozen steps.

Some of the Apache horses must have been less trained than they should
have been, for not one but two or three neighed upon discovering
another of their species in their vicinity.

It was all sufficient; Mendez had located the band and he now turned
his animal’s head in the other direction to report to Lieutenant
Decker. At that moment several Apache horsemen burst into sight,
dashing at full speed toward the scout, who, with a word sent his own
animal flying toward camp.

The race was short and furious. Mendez was the better mounted and
rapidly pulled away from his pursuers, who sent several bullets
whistling after him and then drew off from the pursuit.

When convinced that the chase was over, Mendez checked his speed and
turned slightly to the right, so as to draw away from the stream, which
had been followed most of the time. He was not far from camp and haste
was not necessary.

And again his horse made a discovery. He did not stop but slackened his
pace, with ears erect and head turned to the right, toward the open
plain.

The keen vision of the rider quickly saw the cause. A dark object was
discerned on the sand, but was so indistinct that its nature could not
be learned without a nearer approach.

The first thought was that it might be one of the hostiles, trying to
steal upon the whites in this characteristic fashion. Mendez held his
rifle ready to fire and gently urged his horse to advance. He seemed
loath to obey, but did so, once more halting, after advancing a few
paces.

That which the scout saw was the figure of a man prone and motionless
in the sand. Studying him for some time, no change of position could
be perceived. The pony was urged more sternly than before. As if aware
that it was useless to disregard his master’s command, he snorted
and then walked straight to the figure, not stopping until his owner
checked him within twenty feet.

The form on the ground was that of Potter, the scout. He was lying on
his face and did not move a muscle. There was good reason for this as
was shown by the feather-tipped point of an arrow which projected from
between his shoulders.

Mendez slipped from his steed and stooping over rolled the body on its
back. The scout had been dead for some time, killed by an arrow driven
with such terrific force into his back that the tip showed in front.
While he was stealing upon his enemies he must have been discovered
by one of them, without the knowledge of the scout. Although the
Apaches are experts in the use of firearms, they are equally skillful
in handling the bow and arrow, which, because of their noiselessness,
sometimes serve their cruel purposes better than the more common
weapon. They have often slain a white man within a few rods of his
friends, without awaking suspicion, the twang of the bowstring being
scarcely louder than a sudden puff of air.

With all his experience in scouting against those people, the white man
had met his death at last through their superior cunning.

Mendez vaulted upon the back of his pony and a few minutes later
rejoined his friends. The horse of Potter had arrived some time before,
so that his companions were prepared for the news. Almost at the same
moment, Martin came in with word that he had been unable to learn
anything, which, in view of the fate of his comrade, was perhaps a
fortunate thing for him.

One fact was evident: the Apaches had been as quick to detect the
presence of the troopers as the latter were to discover them. None
of the sentinels had observed any of the hostiles prowling in the
neighborhood, but there could be no doubt that one or more of them had
crept nigh enough to learn the truth.

“They are a half mile or so away,” remarked Lieutenant Decker to the
leading scouts, whom he was always glad to consult; “and what is best
to do?”

“If you will allow me,” remarked Freeman, “we can do nothing but wait
for daylight, for the reason that it is impossible now to surprise
them.”

“That is sensible,” commented Peyser, “they will be looking for
us, and, if we make an attack in the moonlight, they will have the
advantage.”

The lieutenant examined his watch. It was considerably past midnight.
He was ready to lead a charge against the raiders, but it would have
been unwise in view of what was already known. He assented to wait
until sunrise.

“But it is well to make a change of base,” he said; “the Apaches,
knowing we are here, will try to gain a shot at us.”

Inasmuch as there was little choice of location, the troopers took
the singular course of riding out on the plain to the spot where the
body of Potter, the scout, lay stretched in the sand. They could not
abandon it, the intention being to take it back to the fort and give it
Christian burial.

Men engaged upon such arduous work as the troopers snatch sleep and
rest as the opportunity offers. The night was cool enough to make their
blankets comfortable, and they were spread on the sand, while the hardy
owners stretched out upon them, sinking almost immediately into deep,
restful slumber. All the horses had been ridden hard and the rest was
grateful to them, even though they suffered for food. Thus the scene
was a curious one. With the exception of three sentinels, placed at
some distance from camp, the entire company were unconscious.

But it need not be said that they slept on their arms, ready to leap to
their feet and fight to the death at the first alarm. They had done it
many a time before and always held themselves ready to do it again.

The sentinel to the north and the one to the south saw nothing to
cause the slightest misgiving. They were extremely vigilant, for each
realized that his own life, as well as the lives of his comrades might
be sacrificed by a moment’s forgetfulness. If an Apache was permitted
to steal nigh enough to launch his deadly arrow, he would thus open the
way for a swift and deadly charge by his comrades.

Three times the guard placed between the camp and stream was on the
point of firing his gun, but checked himself until his suspicion should
become certainty. A faint ripple of water drew his attention to the
creek, and he dimly saw a small dark object floating on the water. At
first it appeared to be drifting with the current, but he fancied it
was gradually working to the shore nearer to him.

“I believe it is the head of one of them,” was his thought; “as soon as
he comes nigh enough I’ll let drive.”

But after floating down stream a considerable way, it disappeared.
The sentinel was an intelligent and alert fellow, who did not allow
his scrutiny to be diverted more than a moment from any point of the
compass within his field of vision. He knew that one of the favorite
tricks of the Apaches was to draw the attention of their enemies to
some point while the real danger approached from the other.

A half hour later the soldier on duty saw precisely the same thing
repeated. A small round object drifted with the current, but, so far as
he could determine, it was working toward the further bank; but, as in
the former case, it remained in the water until it passed from sight.

“I think I could hit it from here,” reflected the sentinel, “but it may
be a piece of wood or something like that, and the boys need their rest
so much that it’s a pity to wake them without good cause—well, I’ll be
hanged!”

It was not in the water this time, but close to it that the suspicious
object now showed itself. It looked as if the first one having effected
a landing at a point down stream was stealing up again, with a view
of approaching camp. To do this, it kept on the very margin of the
current, where the slight depression of the sandy bank afforded a
trifling protection, though not enough wholly to conceal it.

“It’s one of them, dead sure,” muttered the trooper, making ready to
give him a proper reception; “he can’t do any mischief until he comes
nearer, and if I don’t let the moonlight shine through his noddle it
will be because I’ve forgotten how to fire a gun.”

But after all the chance for a test of his marksmanship was denied
the man who was so anxious to pick off the miscreant. While carefully
watching and waiting until he could make his aim sure, the object,
whatever it was, vanished, nor did it appear again.

The soldier could not know of a certainty the explanation of this
curious occurrence and asked the opinion of Mendez the following
morning. That sagacious scout listened attentively to the story and
said in his abrupt way:

“Him ’Pache.”

But the few hours remaining of night passed without further alarm, and
men and animals secured a much needed and refreshing rest. Dawn came at
last and all felt that the day was to prove a decisive one.




CHAPTER XV.

AN INTERRUPTED FLIGHT.


The troopers wasted no time. No coffee was boiled, for the means of
kindling a fire was not at command. He who has been on a laborious
march knows the meaning of such a deprivation. Rations were hastily
eaten and the horses drank from the stream at hand and continued their
fasting.

The body of the fallen scout was secured on the back of his steed,
which accompanied the scouting party when it headed westward. The time
for serious work had come.

The Apaches could not ambush this daring band of campaigners, riding
hard through the open country, with their eyes alert for every form of
danger.

With no deviation the cavalrymen galloped to the spot where Mendez had
located their enemies the previous night, but long before reaching the
place it was seen that the raiders were gone.

But whither? That was the question on every tongue.

“I have a misgiving,” said Maurice Freeman to Lieutenant Decker, “that
when Geronimo learned we were here, he made a detour and has passed
over into the valley after all.”

“I sympathize with you, captain, for you cannot help feeling anxious
about your family, but none of the boys believe the thing probable.”

“Of course they would not make the raid with the idea of coming back
this way, but they could turn southward toward the Apache Mountains and
escape.”

“Not without giving us a chance, which they don’t mean to give,” was
the remark of the young officer, uttered with such confidence that it
lessened the uneasiness of the ranchman.

Sweeping over a slight elevation in front they came in sight of the
ridge behind which the raiders were discovered on the preceding day.
Mendez, who as guide was riding slightly in advance, turned his dusky
face and looked at the lieutenant with an odd half smile.

“What is it, old fellow?”

“’Pache dere!” was the thrilling response.

“It can’t be possible that they intend to make a stand,” reflected
Decker, bringing his glass to his eyes; “that would be too much like
honorable warfare.”

There were several instruments in the party, but none revealed the
cause of the assertion made by Mendez. No one, however, doubted its
truth.

Regardless of any shots that might be fired from the ridge, the
troopers swept up the slope on the _qui vive_ for the battle that
seemed at hand.

But it would have been strange indeed had they come face to face with
the raiders, who would have thus been forced to fight on something
like equal terms.

A mile away, however, to the westward, the whole band was seen riding
as if for their lives. Geronimo and his men had no intention of meeting
a force that had a fair chance with them.

Lieutenant Decker gave expression to his disappointment.

“We might have known it; they won’t fight.”

“But we can compel them,” insisted Armon Peyser.

“How?”

“Run ’em down.”

“Ah, if we _could_, but what chance have we of that?”

This question carried its own answer. Several of the scouts, including
the lieutenant himself, were so well mounted that by pushing hard they
might have come up with some of the fugitives; but the majority of
the troopers could not do so. Their horses were no fleeter than those
ridden by the Apaches. Besides, they were hungry and in need of rest.
The task was impossible.

Another peculiar recourse was at the command of the fugitives. If they
should find the pursuit growing hot, they would separate into two or
three parties, these again breaking up, until perhaps every warrior
would be looking out for himself. All would be scattered and fleeing
for the mountains, and they would remain scattered so long as the chase
continued, after which they would come together at some rendezvous
perhaps twenty or fifty miles away.

Far off to the southward a mountain range was outlined against the sky.
Looking keenly toward the faint bluish line, the eyes that had the
help of field-glasses traced a thin, wavy column of smoke ascending
straight upward. About the same time it was noticed that Geronimo and
his hostiles had headed in that direction.

“It is a signal and they are obeying it,” remarked Lieutenant Decker,
who was not the only member of the party that was sorely disappointed.

Mendez checked his pony so that he fell back beside the officer, who
directed his attention to the vapor, as he handed him his fieldglass.
The Apache held the instrument for several minutes to his eye.

“That is made by a party of Apaches?” said the lieutenant inquiringly.

“Yes—’Paches do dat for Geronimo.”

“What does it mean?”

“Dunno.”

“It looks as if it is a call for the old fellow to go thither.”

“Yes—look like dat.”

“I don’t see the need to signal him, for he’s his own boss and knows
what to do without directions from any one else.”

“Yes, he do,” assented Mendez, who seemed to be suffering from a burst
of talkativeness, altogether unusual with him.

“Is there any use of our keeping up this chase, Mendez?”

“No use, big fool to chase Geronimo.”

“Then we’ll stop.”

And the troopers drew rein, talked a few minutes, after which the
lieutenant gave the orders to wheel about and return to Camp Reno.

True the pursuit of Geronimo and his dreaded warriors had ended in
failure, and yet in the right sense it was a brilliant success.

The Apaches had set out to raid a portion of Sutra Valley, but were
discovered in time and sent skurrying back to their fastnesses, with
the loss of two of their number and without having been able to set
foot within the section which they had meant to devastate. It was they
who had met the most egregious failure.

The chagrin of the troopers was that they were unable to force the
raiders to the wall and make them fight. Could this have been done
they might have administered an effectual chastisement that would
have averted woful consequences. Geronimo and these hostiles were off
the reservation and were not likely to return until after inflicting
some of their fearful blows. The revolt would spread and not unlikely
another miniature Indian war would follow, which, if it roused little
interest further east, would have dreadful significance to those
exposed to its consequences.

These were the gloomy reflections that accompanied the troopers on
their return to Fort Reno, and there is little doubt that their fears
would have become real, but for an unexpected series of events.

It so happened that at the very time Lieutenant Decker was engaged
on his scout, a party of about the same strength was out from Fort
McDowell, a considerable distance to the south. Rumors of the
restlessness of the Apaches had reached them, and they discovered that
a band were heading for the Sutra Valley. With no knowledge, however,
that the notorious Geronimo was their leader, the cavalrymen made a
determined and well-directed effort to bring the raiders to book.

They were fortunate enough to discover the fleeing hostiles when the
latter were on the open plain, and the troopers had the concealment
of a wooded and rocky range. Still better, the raiders headed almost
directly for the point where the scouts were eagerly awaiting them.

The consequences were disastrous to the Apaches, who did not learn of
their danger until the bullets of the troopers were doing their deadly
work. The terrified wretches fled to the nearest cover, losing six of
their number, while many others carried away serious wounds.

Geronimo himself met with an exceedingly narrow escape. He was slightly
wounded by a rifle-ball and was barely able to elude two troopers who
tried to run him down. Had either of them been aware of his identity at
the time, that famous Apache would have scourged the border no more.

But, as will be seen, this was a severe blow to the raiders, among
whom were a number that were much discouraged by the outcome. They
had counted confidently upon one of their most delightful and
soul-satisfying excursions, when not only human lives but much plunder
should be at their disposal, but the survivors who rejoined their
families carried the gloomy news that more than one-third of their
number had been killed and there was absolutely nothing to show for it.

One beneficent result, therefore, of the affair was that a formidable
insurrection was nipped in the bud. Maroz and Ceballos were among those
who returned to the reservation, loud in their declarations that it was
useless to fight the white man longer, and they had resolved to be good
Indians henceforth and forever.

When these two Apaches were questioned about their presence with
Geronimo, they replied just as Lieutenant Decker said they would. They
had entered his camp, as ordered by the officer, their intention being
to help the white people, but Geronimo compelled them to aid him. They
had made believe to do so, but were only awaiting a favorable chance to
desert to their real friends.

“I think,” said the lieutenant, “that we shall have trouble with those
two fellows again. What do you say, Mendez?”

“Huh! leften’t right—dey bad ’Paches—soon make trouble.”




CHAPTER XVI.

THE RANCHMAN’S HOME.


The days became weeks, the weeks grew into months and peace reigned
in Southern Arizona, that section which time and again was harried by
the fierce raids of the terrible Apaches, until many of the ranchmen
abandoned their homes and sought safety at the posts and settlements.

The history of those outrages proves the fact which has already been
hinted: had the management of the tribes been left to the army, the
reign of terror would have ended years before it became necessary to
run down Geronimo and the other disaffected leaders and transport them
to the east, there to spend the remainder of their lives.

I have no intention of giving anything in the nature of a history of
the Indian troubles in the Southwest, but a single episode will enforce
what has been said.

In April, 1873, Buckskin Hat, head chief of all the Indians in the
Tonto Basin, went to General Crook and said he wished to surrender.
Crook took his hand and told him that if he and his people would stop
their outrages and become orderly citizens, he would be the best friend
they ever had. He promised to teach them to work and agreed to find a
good market for everything they could produce.

Within a month General Crook had all the Apaches in Arizona, excepting
the Chiricahuas, who were not within his jurisdiction, at work at Camp
Apache and Camp Verde, digging irrigating ditches, planting vegetables,
cutting hay and wood and with everything on the highway to prosperity.
Then a gang of politicians and contractors, remembered as the “Tucson
Ring,” persuaded the authorities in Washington to order the Apaches
down to the dismal sand waste of the San Carlos, where the water is
brackish, the soil worthless, and the flies intolerable. Roused to fury
by the injustice, the Apaches took the warpath, and then followed those
terrible scenes which are matters of public record.

For a long time, Maurice Freeman was so doubtful of the continuance of
peace, that he was on the point of removing from the territory. Indeed
he would have done so but for the persuasions of his nearest neighbor
and close friend, Captain Murray, who insisted that no serious danger
would come again.

“You have established a pleasant home here,” said the Union veteran;
“the soil is fertile; the country is rapidly settling; we shall soon
have schools, churches and all the advantages of civilization; to
abandon these now will be to throw away that golden opportunity which
does not come twice to a man in this life. I intend to stick and you
will regret it if you do not.”

And so Maurice Freeman allowed himself to be persuaded and stayed.

By the time the frightfully hot summer was drawing to close, Freeman
was so convinced of the wisdom of the advice given by his friend that
he thanked him for it.

“There hasn’t been a ripple since that flareup last winter,” remarked
Freeman, as he sat in a chair at the front of his neighbor’s house and
smoked a pipe with him; “it looks as if Geronimo, Natchez and the rest
have made up their minds to do like their race further east—accept the
inevitable.”

“Of course,” replied Murray; “an Indian isn’t a fool and when he
sees it’s no use of fighting longer he stops—that is, he generally
does,” added the speaker, conscious that his assertion needed a slight
qualification. “There will be occasional disturbances now and then, but
they will never amount to anything.”

“Do you think we shall ever have a raid through this section?”

“Never,” was the emphatic response; “it’s too risky for those that
attempt it; they haven’t the chance of success that they had a year or
even six months ago. The soldiers at Camp Reno and the other posts are
on the alert and would detect anything of the kind before it could come
to a head.”

“I can’t feel quite so sure on that score as you,” observed Freeman,
with a vivid recollection of the incidents of the previous winter; “it
was only by the merest accident that we learned of Geronimo’s coming in
time to head him off.”

“You must remember that that was more than six months ago and great
changes have taken place since then.”

“I don’t question that fact, but the Apaches are the worst desperadoes
when roused that ever cursed this continent.”

“By the way, captain, how was it you learned of that intended raid?
I was here at home and never knew of it until you came back with the
news.”

“I have never been able to find out the exact means by which the news
reached the ears of Lieutenant Decker and his troopers. I was coming
from Fort Reno, when I met him and two of his scouts, Mendez and
Cemuri, who were hunting for the hostiles. I presume that he got it
from those two White Mountain Apaches, who are the shrewdest fellows at
that business I ever knew. The lieutenant virtually admitted as much to
me, though he never gave the particulars.”

“What has become of Mendez and Cemuri?”

“They have remained on the reservation, like the loyal fellows
they are, but they are so useful to the colonel that he keeps them
continually within call. There are several peculiarities about those
scouts.”

“What are they?”

“Both are so addicted to that infernal tiswin, that there’s no saying
when they will not make themselves helpless from drinking it, and the
next is that they seem to have become fond of Maroz and Ceballos, two
other Apaches.”

Captain Murray smiled.

“I see nothing peculiar in an Apache Indian being fond of tiswin;
indeed he would be eccentric if he was not, and what is remarkable in
their association with two others of their race?”

“During that flurry last winter, Maroz and Ceballos were among the
fiercest allies that Geronimo had. Mendez overheard a conversation
between the two and Geronimo which proved their treachery. At that
time, Mendez would have shot both could he have gained the chance. He
and Cemuri know they cannot be trusted and yet they seem to be bosom
friends.”

Captain Murray could not restrain the remark:

“You wore the gray and I the blue; it is not so many years ago that
we were striving to kill each other; I don’t think there’s much of
the desire left. You must bear in mind that this is the era of good
feeling.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, your examples are not parallel. You and I, like
tens of thousands similarly placed, will be the best of friends to the
end, but an Indian’s nature is different. He will nurse his wrongs
for ten or twenty years, to break out in a fury when least expected.
But,” added Freeman, “you will begin to suspect from my words that I am
giving away to idle fears, which is not the case. I believe with you
that there’s not one chance in—say a score—of this part of the country
being raided by hostile Indians.”

“Say not one chance in a thousand and you will be in accord with my
views.”

“I can hardly put it as strong as that; but I’m going to ride over to
the fort to-morrow, and as the day is sure to be like tophet, I will
leave my Winchester at home.”

“You would be foolish to do otherwise. I haven’t carried mine for two
months past. The iron gets so hot that if you don’t look out it will
blister your hands, and the burden is an unnecessary one.”

“Then,” added Freeman slyly, “if the Apaches should happen to make one
of their raids while I am away, it will be a handy thing for Molly, for
she knows how to use it.”

“Have an end with such jests,” said his friend impatiently, “or I
will begin to suspect that you do not believe what you have just been
telling me.”

“Well, we will drop it,” said Freeman, shaking out the ashes of his
pipe and refilling it; “I can only repeat my thanks for your arguments
which prevented me from pulling up stakes last spring and leaving the
country for good.”

“I may have been a trifle selfish about it, for I didn’t wish to lose
a good neighbor, with whom I could sit down and fight over our old
battles with out either of us losing our temper. Since I admit that all
the bravery during the war was on your side and you have graciously
conceded that there wasn’t a bit except on mine, why the dispute has
never become serious.”

“Well,” remarked the visitor some time later, “the night is wearing on
and I will go home. Where is Fulton?” he asked, looking around as he
rose to his feet.

“Your little boy ran off half an hour ago. My youngster wanted him to
stay all night, but Fulton said it was Jack’s turn to stay with him and
he wouldn’t.”

“Why didn’t you let Jack do so?”

“His mother thought he had better wait until to-morrow.”

“Good-night,” called Freeman to his neighbor, who responded, and
remained at the front smoking for an hour or more after his departure.

It was not a long walk to the home of Maurice Freeman. When he reached
there, he found it later than he suspected, for his little boy and girl
had been put to bed and were asleep.

The husband announced that he expected to visit the fort next day, and
at his request his wife named a few small articles for him to obtain
for her. The journey to Phœnix or Prescott was so much longer, that
neither Freeman nor Murray went thither except when necessary. The ride
to Fort Reno, ten miles away, could be easily made within the day and
allow a good call at the post.

“I have been talking with Murray,” said the husband, recalling their
conversation; “he insists that we shall never again be in danger from
the Apaches. I am inclined to agree with him, though I can’t feel quite
as positive as he. I told him, however, that I intended to leave my
Winchester at home, when I visit the camp to-morrow. What do you think
of it, Molly?”

Was it that wonderful intuition of her sex which led the wife to
reply without an instant’s hesitation, “Leave the Winchester with me,
Maurice?”




CHAPTER XVII.

THE SHADOW OF DANGER.


Maurice Freeman was correct in his prophecy of the weather for the
following day. As had been intimated, the temperature in some portions
of the Southwest, attains an intensity during the summer and early
autumn, which makes one wonder how animal life withstands it. For weeks
the thermometer ranges far above a hundred, and there is a record of it
standing over a large area at one hundred and ten at midnight, for a
full week.

Life would be unbearable except for the dryness of the climate, which
renders a day more tolerable than many in the east that are twenty
degrees lower, with a humidity which makes existence a burden.

But Freeman was a native of the extreme South and had lived in Arizona
long enough to become acclimated. He saw before the sun rose that
another “scorcher” was coming, but it did not deter him from his
intended twenty-mile ride to Fort Reno and back. He partook of an early
meal, kissed his little boy and girl good-by and did the same with his
brave wife. Holding her for a moment in his arms, he looked down in her
brown eyes and said:

“And so, Molly, you think it best that I should leave the gun at home?
Have you any special reason for thinking so?”

“It will be a burden to you, during this hot day,” was her evasive
answer.

“But I have carried it many times and found it no burden.”

“And of late you have left it behind because it was an incumbrance; if
you prefer to take it, do so.”

“I prefer always to please my little wife,” he said, kissing her once
more, and finally: “I pray that neither of us will ever need it again
for the use to which it has been put so many times.”

A few minutes later he was in the saddle and headed for Fort Reno. He
had abundance of time at command and rode past the home of his friend,
Captain Murray.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he called, as the two greeted
each other.

“Nothing for me, thanks, but something for yourself.”

“What’s that?”

“Keep cool; we are going to have another pull at the furnace; I don’t
envy you your ride.”

“I got used to all sorts of weather in the army; so did you, but you
are growing effeminate; luxury and idleness are bad things, captain.”

“But none the less enjoyable for all that. How is it you haven’t your
Winchester with you?”

“Didn’t I tell you last night that I meant to leave it with Molly, so
that she shall be able to defend herself, during my absence?”

“Defend herself against what?”

“Nothing; adios, my old friend.”

Freeman looked back as he made his military salute, which was cordially
answered by Murray. That parting will be remembered by Freeman as long
as he lives.

“He is right,” reflected the ranchman, as he struck the trail leading
northward to the military post which was his destination; “months have
passed since there has been a rumor of trouble with the hostiles, and
every week lessens the danger which has hung over our homes like a pall
of death.”

In a comparative sense the early part of the day was pleasant. The
frightful heat would be felt in all its intensity, as the sun climbed
to meridian and descended the western sky; and, since there was
abundant time in which to let his horse rest, Freeman spurred him to an
easy gallop, which was continued without break for mile after mile.

Two-thirds of the way was passed, when, in riding up a slight
elevation, the ranchman came face to face with five Apaches, all of
whom were well mounted and armed. They were strangers, but the white
man knew they had been with the hostiles in the recent troubles.

“It might be a handy thing if I had my rifle with me just now,” he
thought; “and yet this may be one of the occasions when a man without
weapons is safer than a walking arsenal, for he isn’t tempted to do
anything rash.”

A viciously inclined Indian is quick to seize his opportunity. These
five Apaches, if they chose, could shoot the white man from his horse
in a twinkling, and the chances were that justice would never overtake
them, for no torture could force any member of the party to betray the
other.

The best course was to put a bold face on the matter and Freeman did
so. Instead of shying off or making any move to avoid the Indians, he
rode directly toward them, so close indeed that there was only room
for them to meet and pass without brushing knees. It need not be said,
however, that the white man kept his “weather eye” open.

As the parties came opposite, Freeman made a salute, smiled and called
out:

“Howdy?”

They responded in kind, one of them, who seemed to be of mixed breed,
grinning to the extent of showing the two rows of his fine white teeth.
Their ponies were walking and Freeman’s heart beat a little faster,
when they seemed about to stop; but he affected not to notice it and
held the same easy, swinging gallop.

The real trial was within the few minutes following this meeting.
Nothing was easier than for all five to turn and fire a volley, and
he half expected they would do so. It was hard to restrain himself
from spurring his horse into a dead run and leaning forward on his
neck. This would have been his course had the Apaches made any
demonstration, but they did not, and he shrank from showing distrust,
much as prudence urged him to do so.

He had ridden less than a hundred yards when he turned and looked
behind him. All the Indians were riding away at the same moderate pace
and not one displayed any interest in him.

The sight was an inspiriting one and did much to remove the misgiving
that had been with him to a greater or less degree ever since he left
home.

“That’s one of the most decisive tests of what Captain Murray has been
insisting upon for the past week,” reflected Freeman, with a thrill of
pleasure. “It is not so many months since that a meeting like this,
where I am beyond any help, would have been my death warrant, but now
they do not even turn to look at me.”

A half hour later he arrived at the fort, where he was always welcome.
He was acquainted with all the officers, whose life at these remote
inland posts is sometimes intolerably monotonous. It is the same
routine, day after day, month after month, from one year’s end to the
other, with the eternal brassy sky overhead, the dreary stretch of
sandy waste which grows more hateful to the eye, and the vain sighing
for an exchange with some of the more favored posts, or a transfer to
another branch of the service.

To many of the ardent young officers who leave West Point and assume
the stirring duties of military life, the news of trouble with the red
men is most welcome. It not only serves to break the monotony, but
opens the prospect of the realization of every soldier’s hope—promotion.

When making his call upon the colonel, Freeman related the incident of
his meeting with the Apaches, commenting upon it as a pleasing omen.
The bronzed campaigner smiled and nodded his head.

“Such is probably the fact; I know the bucks, for they were here this
morning; there is not a worse set of scoundrels on the reservation. One
of them was the right hand of Cochise, before he became a good Indian,
another was with Natchez, and the remaining three are murderers.”

“And yet they did not offer to molest me.”

The colonel shrugged his shoulders.

“No, times have changed mightily within the past year, and yet I cannot
feel that this calm is sure to last.”

“Why should it not continue forever?”

“Because human nature is as it is; if the politicians would not
interfere with our management of the Apaches, there would be no
trouble. Those people, or rather the leaders, have had all the fighting
they want. They would settle down and give no more trouble if treated
right, but as long as politics are what they are, so long will there be
the mischief to pay on the frontier.”

The officer had touched upon a phase of the question to which Freeman
had not lately given much thought. The views of the colonel were those
of an experienced and well-informed man and they impressed his listener.

“You know, captain,” he continued, “that the Indian doesn’t forget
a wrong. He may seem to do so, but none the less he broods over the
injustice he has suffered, and when he strikes the rule is that it
is the innocent and not the guilty who suffer. When they have been
plundered and robbed by the ‘ring,’ they turn upon and kill innocent
men, women and children. They simply regard themselves the victims of
the Caucasian and strike him wherever and whenever the chance offers.”

“But this thing cannot go on forever. I have been half inclined more
than once to move out of the Sutra Valley, but my old friend, Captain
Murray, my next door neighbor, dissuaded me. Do you think I have acted
wisely?”

The colonel pulled the ends of his mustache and puffed thoughtfully at
his cigar before answering:

“I hope so—yes, I think you have; the danger is certainly less now than
at any time in the past; and, since you have gone through all that
without harm, the inference is fair that your chances are better than
ever.”

“Your views cause me some uneasiness, colonel.”

“I did not mean that they should; I am neither an optimist nor a
pessimist, but try to look at things as they are. Peace reigns now, but
so long as we have the Apaches with us, and so long as evil men have
the power to control Indian affairs, so long are we certain to have
trouble. It may be that the authorities will learn wisdom after awhile
and show common sense in treating with the ‘wards of the nation,’ but I
confess I have little hope of their doing so for a long time to come.”




CHAPTER XVIII.

A CRUEL BLOW.


Freeman, having finished his call at the fort and given his horse a
good rest, remounted for his return home. Despite the proofs received
of the goodwill of the Apaches on the reservation, he was disturbed
because of the opinion expressed by the colonel.

It was at this juncture that startling news came to the military post.
Mendez, our old friend, the White Mountain scout, dashed up, his horse
covered with foam, and his own appearance showing rough treatment. It
was not often that the stolid fellow displayed agitation or excitement,
but he was greatly disturbed, as his story proved he had good reason to
be.

His statement was that Maroz and Ceballos had thrown off the mask they
had worn so long, had left the reservation and were at that moment well
on their way to the Apache Mountains, to the south of the Gila. Those
fastnesses once reached, they could defy the whole United States army
to remove them.

It was not the simple fact alone that these two turbulent spirits
had cast aside their disguise, but they were sure to induce other
disaffected ones to join them. Should they succeed in gathering a
dozen warriors or even less around them, another costly Indian campaign
was inevitable and a reign of terror would follow in Southern Arizona.

Questioned regarding his old comrade Cemuri, Mendez replied that he was
dead, slain by Maroz in the most treacherous manner conceivable. It was
evident that there had been a desperate fight, for Mendez carried with
him evidences of his own savage treatment.

It was noted by some of those who listened to the story, that Mendez
was confused in a few of the details. Those who knew him well saw
evidence that he had been indulging in the bane of his life, “tiswin,”
that curse of so many of his people, but the exciting incident in which
he had taken a prominent part had sobered him and he was fully himself.

Little time, however, was given to questioning the scout. The alarming
danger was manifest to all. Serious work was at hand. Not an hour must
be lost in pursuing the hostiles, whose example was likely to spread
like a prairie fire. There was a hasty call to saddle, and in less time
than would be deemed possible, several cavalrymen, all of whom had seen
similar service, were scurrying to the southeast.

Naturally the first thought of Maurice Freeman, when he learned what
had occurred, was his own family, ten miles away, with no suspicion of
danger. He pictured the little brother and sister at play outdoors and
the mother singing about her household duties, while the fearful shadow
stole down upon them, as the deadly serpent winds its way through the
tall grass and strikes its blow before its presence is suspected.

He thought, too, of Captain Murray, whose confidence in the continuance
of peace was not to be shaken by argument or persuasion. He had
ridiculed the fears of Freeman, but what would he say now when the news
reached him?

Freeman had never taken pains to conceal his distrust of Maroz and
Ceballos, after learning of their treachery the previous winter when
Geronimo was turned back from his contemplated raid into the Sutra
Valley. In fact, the ranchman had told Maroz to his face that he
deserved shooting for his double dealing, and if he could have his way
he would see that such punishment was inflicted. There could be no
doubt, therefore, that the two renegades remembered the bitter words
and would be eager to wreak revenge upon him who uttered them.

And yet there was one feature of the situation which brought the
ranchman unspeakable relief. Mendez had said that when the hostiles
leaped upon their ponies they headed for the Apache Mountains, which,
it will be borne in mind, are on the southern side of the Salt River,
while the Sutra Valley, in which he and a few of his friends had their
homes, lies to the north. That broad, winding stream flows between,
besides which an additional number of miles separate the two sections.

This knowledge I repeat was a great relief to the ranchman, as he
turned the head of his horse homeward. So long as the hostiles pushed
southward, so long was the safety of his family assured. There was no
call to press his pony, especially as the heat was increasing and the
animal was likely to suffer more than his rider.

“It’s a curious coincidence,” he reflected, “that it is two years this
very day since we moved into the Territory. Molly and I have had hard
work,” he added, as he drew a match along his thigh and lighted his
pipe without checking his steed, “and she has been a true helpmate to
me. We have a comfortable home and no sickness has visited us. Settlers
are coming into the valley and before long we shall be a town the rival
of Tucson, Prescott, Phœnix, Benson and the rest of them. Then will
come the churches and schools that Captain Murray is looking for, and
we shall be able to educate our children properly; but permanent peace
must first be established.”

The course of the trail was almost parallel with the river, but some
distance from it crossing several small streams, most of which were
fringed with stunted trees, where a grateful shade could be secured. He
humored his faithful animal so far as he could, without allowing him to
halt, until two-thirds of the distance was passed.

One fact curiously disturbed Freeman, despite the assurance received
from Mendez: it was that he had left his Winchester at home by the
direct request of his wife. He recalled that more than once in their
lives her intuition, or whatever it may be termed, had revealed to her
the shadow of coming events, when he saw nothing of them. Could it be
so in the present instance?

The strange misgiving grew upon him as he advanced, until finally he
touched spur to his horse, and despite the extreme heat, struck him
into a gallop.

“There can’t be any doubt of Mendez,” he concluded; “and when he said
the two headed southward for the mountains, on the other side of the
river, he spoke the truth, but Maroz and Ceballos may have changed
their minds, without his knowledge, or possibly the action of the
hostiles was intended to mislead him. Laying their plans to draw the
soldiers into the Apache Mountains, they could have recrossed the
stream, dashed the few remaining miles, and swept through the valley
like a whirlwind.”

Lest it may seem that the fear of Freeman was groundless, it should be
remembered that there were no ranches or settlements on the southern
side of the river in that vicinity. They were to the east and west, but
so far removed as to be in little danger from this particular band of
hostiles.

The innate viciousness of the Apache nature would not allow them simply
to take to the mountains, and there defy the United States Government
to bring them back: that would be altogether too tame. They must strike
one or two blows, even though they knew the great personal risk
involved.

Those blows, as a matter of course, would be delivered where the best
opportunity offered. The nearest white people would receive them, and
the ones thus exposed were the several families along the Sutra Valley,
of which his own was one.

It will be seen, therefore, that Maurice Freeman was in anything but a
restful frame of mind as his mustang cantered along the trail leading
from Fort Reno, up the Sutra Valley, to the several homes scattered
throughout that section.

“I hope I am mistaken,” he said, “but I can only wait and see.”

He strained his eyes toward the point where he knew his cabin stood,
and which must rise to view before going a half mile further. If the
Apaches were there, the first sign to catch his eye would be the smoke
from his burning home; the next the lifeless bodies of his wife and
children, and no man ever prayed more fervently than he that the sight
might be spared to him.

But if the hostiles were in the neighborhood, he did not forget that he
himself was riding into imminent and increasing peril. Those Apaches
have more than once ambushed a wagon train, in the middle of a sandy
plain, devoid of every tree, rock and blade of grass. The searching
glances which he cast to the right and left, as he sped along, might
flit over the very spot where the warriors were crouching and waiting
for him to come a little nearer before opening their deadly fire.

But he could not afford to wait or follow a more circuitous course: his
anxiety was to reach his family with the least possible delay.

A little further, and his eager eyes would catch sight of that humble
home, where all that was dear in this world was gathered. He had but
to gallop down that little slope just ahead, across the tiny stream
winding below, then up the higher slope beyond, when the valley would
open out before him for miles.

The pony seemed to catch the excitement, and, without waiting for the
touch of the spur, he increased his pace, even though the pitiless
rays of the sun scorched his haunches and flanks until the steamy
perspiration dried up and vanished. The sky above the site of his home
remained of crystalline clearness and the pulsating atmosphere was
unstained by any vapor.

Splash, splash, dashed the mustang through the shallow water without
pausing to moisten his parching throat—then up the brief incline at
the same headlong speed, and the next moment the rider uttered a groan
and his heart seemed to cease beating; for, directly ahead, he saw the
ascending smoke of a burning building.

“The Apaches are there!” he exclaimed, and he was right.




CHAPTER XVII.

“NOW FOR IT.”


It was at the moment Maurice Freeman’s mustang struck the crest of the
slight elevation, beyond the small brook, that he descried the ominous
vapor rising in the direction of his own home.

There could be but one cause for the smoke that was growing denser
every minute; it was from a burning building that had been fired by the
renegade Apaches, Maroz and Ceballos, with perhaps several others they
had gathered in their flight from the reservation; but the parent’s
anguish was quickly relieved by the discovery that, instead of rising
from the ruins of his own home, it ascended from the dwelling of
Captain Murray, further up the valley. The two houses being in a line,
it was natural that Freeman in his alarm should make the mistake, which
he saw almost instantly.

But the relief was only momentary. The renegades were at hand, and
had probably visited the nearest cabin before laying the other in
flames. As the settler spurred his pony into a dead run, and without
any thought of the consequences to himself, he was terrified by the
tomblike stillness and the absence of all signs of life.

“They have done their work there and hurried on to the captain’s,” was
his thought.

But never did the brave Molly look so sweet and beautiful, even in the
delightful long ago, as when she stepped from the front door of the
home with the Winchester in one hand, while she waved the other in
salutation to her husband. The happy man snatched off his slouch hat,
swung it aloft, and emitted a shout of joy such as he and his brothers
sent forth when making the desperate charge in the heat of battle that
led to victory.

“It looks as if it wasn’t a mistake after all,” he concluded, “to leave
my gun behind me.”

He was out of the saddle before the panting pony could halt, and caught
her in his arms.

“Thank God, Molly!” he exclaimed, “but what does this mean?” he asked,
observing her white face and trembling form. “Has anything happened to
the children? Where are they? Ah, Fannie?”

And catching the tiny girl in his arms, he flung her aloft and caught
her as she came down, fairly smothering her with kisses, while his own
eyes grew dim with tears.

“Now, Fulton, my little man, it is _your_ turn!”

But the longing gaze showed no sign of the little fellow through the
open door, and he turned affrightedly to the wife who had sunk upon the
bench just outside, and was on the verge of swooning.

“Molly!” he said, releasing Fannie, and tenderly placing his hand upon
his wife’s shoulder; “what is the trouble? Where is Fulton?”

“I—don’t—know!” was the faint response.

“Why, mamma let him go to Mr. Murray’s,” said the sister in her artless
manner, “and he hasn’t come back yet.”

It was the father now who was in danger of giving way. The loved forms,
the house and all objects in his field of vision began flickering in an
odd fashion before his eyes—darkness hovered in the air, and he stepped
weakly to the bench, beside his wife, without uttering a word.

But he was a strong man, and speedily gained the mastery of himself.
Molly had done the same, and with the eager eyes of her husband fixed
upon her white face, she told her story.

Their little boy had gone to the home of Captain Murray, as Fannie
said, to spend the day with the captain’s children. He went early in
the morning, and she had no expectation of seeing him again until late
in the afternoon.

It was perhaps two hours later when Fannie, who was playing outside,
hurried within, saying some Indians were coming over the ridge on
horseback, and they were riding fast toward the house. Mrs. Freeman was
too quick-witted to hesitate a moment. The approaching red men might be
friendly or they might be enemies. The fact of their speeding so hard
in the direction of the house was startling, and, without waiting to
decide the question, she took the wise course of acting on the theory
that they were enemies.

The door was hastily barred; Fannie was placed in a corner where no
stray shots could reach her, and taking down the Winchester the mother
peered cautiously out of one of the windows. She saw four repellent
Apaches reining up their ponies, less than a hundred yards away; she
saw them, too, bring their guns to their shoulders, and the next
instant the room was filled with fragments of window panes, shattered
by their bullets.

The woman wanted no other proof than this of the designs of her
assailants. Kneeling on the floor, she rested the barrel of the
Winchester on the window sill, and keeping so far back that she was not
seen, took deliberate aim and pulled the trigger.

The shot hit the bull’s-eye. She had handled the weapon many a time
before, and she was as cool as a veteran when she tumbled the Apache to
the earth. He had time to utter only a single screech when he stretched
out motionless on the ground, with his mustang circling beyond in
frightened bewilderment.

Without shifting her position, Mrs. Freeman fired again. She did
damage, though to a less extent than before. Her bullet bored its way
through the pony of a second warrior, and he stumbled to the ground
so suddenly that his rider was obliged to move nimbly to avoid being
caught beneath.

The Apaches had not counted upon this reception, and the survivors lost
no time in placing themselves further from the rifle that was speaking
so effectively. The single defender kept close watch upon them, but
it will be seen, that despite the brilliant manner in which she had
acquitted herself, she was still in great peril. There was only one
condition that could save her.

Maroz, Ceballos and their surviving ally did not dare to wait long
enough to push the fight. They were aware that their flight from the
reservation had become known, and more than likely a squad of cavalry
was already thundering on their trail. There was no hope in lingering
in the Sutra Valley, nor indeed anywhere north of the river. Their
destination was the Apache Mountains to the south, and they had but to
delay their flight only a brief while to find it cut off altogether.

But for this, they would have pressed the attack, burned the house,
despite all the brave woman could do, and wreaked revenge on her and
her child; but an Apache is too cunning to run unnecessary risk.

During the five or ten minutes following the fall of the hostile, one
of the survivors gave an exhibition of the astonishing activity and
power of his people. He made a dash across the open plain, and, though
the riderless pony was going at high speed, he overhauled him in a
twinkling, leaped deftly upon his bare back, wheeled him short round,
and plunged toward the cabin, as if making a direct charge upon it.

While the amazed wife was holding her rifle in position, and wondering
what all this could mean, the steed described a graceful circle and his
rider became invisible for a few seconds. He had thrown himself over
the animal’s side, and, holding himself in position by one foot curved
over the pony’s neck and the left hand knotted in his mane, he reached
down with the other arm, and, hardly abating the pace of his horse,
slid it under the body of his lifeless comrade, and swung back to an
upright position, with the limp form held securely in front.

The better to execute this feat, he had cast his rifle to the earth,
so as to allow the unrestrained use of his hands. He now guided the
mustang to the spot where the weapon lay on the parched grass, and,
still riding fast, and with one arm fully engaged in sustaining the
body in position, he leaned over again, snatched up his Winchester
as if it were a handkerchief, inclined himself forward to escape
the expected shot, and with the same speed as at first, joined his
companions, who were calmly awaiting him.

Mrs. Freeman might have brought down the miscreant while he was engaged
in this daring feat, but she was mystified until the most striking part
was over, and then, womanlike, a feeling of sympathy restrained the
shot, which she regretted very soon had not been fired.

From a distance, too great to render them effective, the Apaches
discharged several parting shots, and dashed up the valley in the
direction of Captain Murray’s home. The danger, so far as Mrs. Freeman
and Fannie were concerned, was over, for, as has been shown, the
Apaches did not dare wait nor return.

But when she observed the ponies with their fierce riders speeding up
the valley like a whirlwind, she recalled that her only son, little
Fulton, was at the nearest dwelling, and that he, like the family, was
in a peril whose imminence could not be exaggerated.

The mother was in a sad state of bewilderment. But for the young
daughter, she would have set out on foot, or mounted the remaining
pony, grazing some distance away, where it had escaped the raiders, and
hurried to the help of the imperiled ones. Who shall understand her
agony when, shortly after, she heard the rifle-shots and soon discerned
the dark smoke which told that the Apaches had met with far more
success in their second than in their first attempt?

It was at this trying moment that she opened the door and peered to the
westward, in the hope of seeing her husband returning from Fort Reno.
The wish was granted, and, hurrying forward, it required only a few
minutes for him to learn all that had taken place.

If the wife could not hasten to the help of her child, the husband was
granted that privilege.

“You are safe here, Molly,” said he, springing to his feet, “even
though I must leave you without any weapons; the Apaches are making
for the mountains, and the soldiers are after them. I will hurry up
the valley to the captain’s, and possibly may be able to do something,
though there is little hope.”

The second pony was not in sight, and he feared it had been stolen
by the marauders, but the grass was much better on the other side of
the ridge, in the direction of the river, and the mustangs generally
wandered to that neighborhood when left to themselves. The signals of
the owner were quickly answered by the animal, which came trotting over
the elevation, with a whinny, as if of inquiry, and stood quiet while
the saddle, bridle and accouterments were transferred from the other
animal to him.

An affectionate embrace and kiss were given to the wife and little one,
and then, swinging himself into the saddle, Maurice Freeman pointed the
nose of his mustang up the valley, and spurred him to a dead run, with
outstretched neck, flying mane and tail and snorting nostrils. As if he
understood that he had set out to save human life, he paid no more heed
to the blistering heat than did his rider, who closed his mouth hard,
as he refilled the empty chambers of his Winchester without drawing
rein.

The wooden structure, which was Captain Murray’s home, had been
seasoned by the flaming sun for weeks and months, so that when the
torch was applied it burned like tinder. Before half the distance was
passed by the furious rider, it was a mass of smouldering ruins, from
which the smoke still ascended and stained the clear air above.

Freeman now drew rein, for it would have been folly to continue his
headlong flight without learning what was in front. He saw nothing of
white men or Indians, as he drew still nearer, and rightly suspected
that the hostiles, having delivered their blow, were now making for the
mountains with all speed.

“And where is the captain?—where is his wife?—where are his
children?—and where, heaven tell me! is my own boy?”

It was the last query that wrung his heart with an anguish, such
as only a parent can feel, when he believes that a loved child is
irrecoverably lost.

“They have gone,” he added, as he made a cautious circle of the smoking
ruins, “they have done their work well——”

The most torturing trial of his life was now upon him. When he muttered
to himself that the Apaches had done their work well, he meant far more
than the burning of the home. That was a trifle compared with the other
sight which greeted him while making his awed circuit of the ruins.

He saw the forms stretched on the ground, with their white faces turned
toward the brassy sky, and he needed no one to tell him what it meant.
There was the father, lying within a dozen steps of the wife, whom he
had defended with his last breath, and just beyond, and nearer the
doorstep, a little girl lay with one dimpled arm doubled under her
cheek, as if she were sleeping. And so she was, but it was the long
dreamless slumber which knows no waking in this world.

The sight which caused the heart of the father to stand still was
that of the figure of a little boy, still nearer and indeed on the
very threshold. His face was turned away, so that he could not see
the features, and the clothing was so disarranged that he could not
identify it.

At such times suspense is unbearable. Without dismounting he forced his
reluctant pony so close to the burning wood that the additional heat
checked him. Then he leaned over his saddle, and peered down into the
face of the boy, now in plain view.

It was Jack, the son of his old friend, or rather what was left of the
lad.

Then, with the same hard expression on his countenance, the father
straightened up in his saddle, and allowed his gaze to roam over the
burning sticks, beams and timbers, the most of which was already ashes.
He did not spare himself, and, when the survey was completed, he knew
that which he dreaded to see with an unspeakable dread was not there,
nor anywhere near.

“Yes,” he repeated, casting his eyes around the immediate field of
vision, “they have done their work well. The captain, his wife, his
little child, and boy are all gone—perished within a few minutes of
each other. Why my child is not among them I do not understand. For
some cause they have spared him yet awhile, but what hope is there of
his mother or me ever seeing him alive again?”

A shout caused him to turn his head quickly, and look to the southward.
There they were: five horsemen coming down upon him like mad. At their
head, was handsome James Decker, the young lieutenant from West Point,
who was getting a further taste of soldiering in dead earnest.

The lieutenant’s companions were veterans, and all had been in the
service before he was born. Our old friends Armon Peyser, Budge Colgate
and Jack Redfield served creditably during the Civil War, and the
leader had already learned something of Mendez, the White Mountain
Apache, who was the guide to the party. As for that, both Colgate and
Redfield were almost, if not quite, as familiar with the fastnesses
of the Apache Mountains as Mendez, for they had been in more than one
campaign that led them thither.

It was the lieutenant who uttered the shout that turned the gaze of
Freeman to the ridge, on the crest of which they had just appeared. He
had recognized the man, and the latter knew him the moment he looked up.

Instead of continuing down the slope to the site of the burned
building, the young officer called:

“If you want to join us, hurry up!”

Freeman answered by sending his pony off at a rate which quickly placed
him among the eager group.

“I see they’ve been there,” remarked Decker, with a nod toward the
smoking ruins.

“I should say they had,” was the bitter response.

“Did they wipe them all out?”

“They did not spare one.”

“Your family was fortunate.”

“Yes, but they have carried off my little boy,” replied the father in a
broken voice.

“Is it possible?” was the sympathetic response; “there may be a chance
of recovering him. Those fellows played us a sharp trick. They left
a plain trail, straight to the river, and without sticking to it, we
made for another and better crossing, only to learn, after reaching the
other side, that they had entered the river, waded up stream a little
way, and then turned back again. Their natural viciousness would not
allow them to leave without striking this blow, even though it was so
dangerous to themselves. They have picked up two allies.”

“But have only one left; the other was a victim to my Winchester, fired
by my wife.”

“Good! that’s business; but here’s the trail leading directly toward
the river, and they can’t be far ahead. Do you want to go with us?”

“I wouldn’t turn back for the world, till I learn what has become of my
boy.”

“It’s only two miles to the river, and we may overtake them before they
cross. We are well mounted and here we go!”

And the dashing officer thundered away on a dead run, with the rest
bunched closely on the flanks of his mustang. The ground was gently
undulating, and they skimmed over it with arrowy swiftness until the
lieutenant, who maintained his position slightly in advance, rose in
his stirrups, and, peering ahead, shouted:

“Yonder they are, boys! There’s a fight ahead! Now for them!”




CHAPTER XVIII.

“SEE DERE!”


Lieutenant James Decker had been warned more than once by the older
and more experienced officers of his regiment that, sooner or later,
his ardor would bring him to grief. He was so eager for a brush with
the Apaches, that he charged headlong into the affray, forgetful that
the foe was the most cunning, brave and skillful of any tribe on the
American continent.

It was Decker who, on his first campaign against Geronimo, brought a
sharp reprimand upon himself from the captain, for his recklessness in
front of a rocky edge, at a time when it was known the wily chieftain
and his band had been brought to bay. The command had dismounted, and
were lying on the ground, behind their prostrate steeds, or whatever
protection they could secure, waiting for a chance at the miscreants,
among the rocks, but a short distance away. And while they were lying
thus, what did the lieutenant do but spur his pony forward, and
deliberately gallop back and forth, between the two lines, where it
would seem it was the easiest thing in the world for Geronimo or one of
his men to tumble him from the saddle.

At first Captain Grindle could hardly believe his eyes; then he thought
the young officer was “rattled” to that extent that he was unaware of
what he was doing; but he quickly saw the true state of affairs, and
Decker was ordered instantly to fall back. As he turned to obey the
peremptory command, several shots were fired from the rocks behind him,
but, scorning to throw himself forward on the neck of his animal, he
rode slowly back, freely expressing his opinion of the timidity of the
other officers and men.

It was Decker, too, who, on another occasion of still greater peril,
pretended he did not hear the order of his superior officer to
withdraw, and spurred his horse straight at a group of red men, using
his revolver and sword with a vigor and effect that thrilled the
veteran campaigners who witnessed the scene. It took a charge of a
dozen cavalrymen to extricate the fellow, but he came back without a
scratch. He did good service, too, as has been told, in checking the
raid of Geronimo the previous winter.

Somehow or other, the best of fortune had attended Lieutenant Decker
thus far. He had played the part of target for Apache rifles more times
than he could count, but the astonishing fact remained that not a hair
of his head had as yet been harmed.

But this could not last, however. Unless he mended his ways and showed
more discretion, he must go down as many a brave man had gone before
him. But, as I have said, he was liked by his command and associates;
for, aside from his fine personal qualities, he was a leader, instead
of a follower, in all emergencies where dashing heroism was required.

Every one of the six men who gave their steeds rein and charged
southward toward the Gila in pursuit of the fleeing Apaches was
splendidly mounted. It would have been folly to take up the pursuit
under any other conditions. The time was likely to come when their
animals could not serve them, and they would have to dismount and push
on afoot, but until then they must ride hard and unceasingly.

The well-known qualities of the leader of the little company caused
Maurice Freeman keen misgiving. He knew that if ever the moment should
arrive when Maroz and Ceballos saw they could not hold their little
prisoner, they would put him to death with no more compunction than
they would crush the rattlesnake in their path. In an enterprise of
this kind there was urgent call for subtlety of the highest order. The
father was so impressed with the fact that he reminded the lieutenant
of it while they were riding side by side. Decker nodded his head, and
said:

“I won’t forget it; I wish the boy was somewhere else, not only for his
own sake, but that his presence among the Apaches might not handicap
us. I would like to drive those fellows into a corner before they could
cross, and then sail into them! There would be three less Apaches to
raise the mischief than now.”

“But what do you intend to do?” asked the parent, unable to understand
his plans without more enlightenment.

The lieutenant turned his frank face toward the anxious one on his
left, and replied:

“The prime object of this business is to save your boy; I know how you
feel, and I feel for you; the colonel and the rest condemn me for being
reckless, but that is only where _men_ are involved; I’ll show that I
can be as cautious and as patient as any of them, when there is need of
being so.”

“But—lieutenant——”

“I know what you are going to say; my actions just now don’t indicate
that, for they mean a fight. Nevertheless, I’ll prove my earnestness
if I have the chance. My plan is to bring them to bay this side of the
river. Then, before we fire a shot, I’ll let them know that, if they
surrender and give up the boy, they won’t be punished.”

“But how can you do _that_?” was the astonished inquiry of Freeman.

“Easily; I’ve been in the country long enough to pick up a fair
knowledge of their lingo, and you’ll admit that I am the proprietor of
a pretty good voice.”

“But will the murder of Captain Murray and his family be allowed to go
unpunished?”

“It ought not to, but that will have to be a condition. The colonel
told me when I left the fort to get word to Maroz and Ceballos that
they would be treated leniently if they stopped at once and returned
to the reservation. We knew they had slain Cemuri, but that would be
overlooked.”

“Think of Captain Murray and his family!”

“I have done so; the colonel, if he knew that, would not permit the
offer on my part, but I have his warrant for giving the pledge, and
I’ll do it for the sake of your child, if the chance is given. There
is dishonesty among the traders and some of the settlers, but the
renegades know as well as you that when the army makes a pledge it will
be kept, no matter at what cost.”

Maurice Freeman always admired the dashing lieutenant, but he never
appeared so handsome to him as when, with a glowing face, he uttered
these words. The heart of the brave fellow was as tender as a woman’s
and the prime purpose of the dangerous business on which he had entered
was to save the innocent child from the fate that impended over it.

Meantime the chase was pushed with all possible vigor. Every pony
was doing his level best, and neither he nor his rider cared for the
pitiless rays that darted down upon their heads like spears of fire.
There was scarcely a tree between them and the river flowing across
their course. A couple of brooks were passed, but the major portion
of the route was an undulating plain, sandy in most places, but rich
and fertile in others, with a surprising luxuriance of grass, which
rendered it a favorite grazing resort for animals.

Further to the west and north, where many extensive ranches were to
be found, the grazing was no better, and often not so good. Miles to
the southward, beyond the calmly flowing river, the ragged Apache range
lifted its crest against the sky, stretching east and west, further
than the eye could reach, and forming one of the wildest spurs of the
Rocky Mountain system.

It was toward the fastnesses of this range that the hostiles were
making with the desperate energy of men who knew that success meant
life and failure the opposite. If they could place the river between
them and their pursuers, they would be safe: could they do it?

The dusky horsemen were about a mile from the river when the first
sight of them was obtained. Lieutenant Decker, who had forged slightly
ahead of the rest, thundered up one of the numerous slopes, only a few
feet in height, at the moment that the fugitives shot over the crest
of a similar one. They were seen distinctly riding close together, and
with their ponies at the highest speed.

“We are gaining!” shouted the lieutenant; “don’t spare your horses! we
shall catch them!”

In truth the animals had not been spared from the first. It was cruel
to push them thus, but the stakes warranted it. That little life was
worth more than the lives of any multitude of mustangs.

The fact that the whites had gained up to this time was ground for
belief they would continue to do so, and much ought to be done before
the stream was reached.

Hardly a word was exchanged, except now and then, between the
lieutenant and Mr. Freeman. Peyser, Colgate and Redfield kept their
ponies at the high pace, while they sat grimly in their saddles leaning
forward to catch the earliest sight possible of the fugitives. Mendez
rode his own mustang, a wiry little mare of coal black color, that was
one of the hardiest and fleetest of her kind.

The White Mountain Apache kept a little to the left of the rest, as
if he preferred the companionship of his thoughts to that of men.
The speed of his animal lifted the coarse black hair, that generally
dangled about his shoulders, and caused it to flutter in a gale, like
the mane and tail of his steed. His stolid face was without pain, and
it must be confessed that it was not pleasant to look upon. It was
broad, with protruding cheek bones, the mouth was wide, and the nose
was scarred and broken years before in some ugly affray of which he
never spoke.

The American Indian always shows little muscular development, but those
half-bare arms and legs were like tempered steel. Mendez, more than
once, had trotted up the side of a mountain, for a quarter of a mile,
and, when he stopped, his respiration was no faster than at starting.
Many others of his people have done the same thing and can do it to-day.

He had ridden his mustang into the mountains as far as he could go,
and when three days passed, with not a mouthful of food, he slew his
pony, devoured what he wanted, and then pushed on for three days more,
without eating, during two of which he did not taste a drop of water.

And through all that period, the temperature during the day never sank
below a hundred degrees. The swarthy foe whose trail he was following
(and whom he ultimately bagged) did almost precisely the same thing,
and the endurance of neither was greater than that of the majority of
their people at this very hour.

Mendez rode without saddle, and his only bridle was a piece of lariat
loosely looped about the neck of his mustang, just back of the head.
There was little need of that, for he readily guided the movements of
the animal by the touch of the hand or heel or his voice.

Whether the renegades to the southward had seen their pursuers before
the latter caught sight of them cannot be known, but within the
succeeding five minutes a most unpleasant truth became manifest: they
were fully as well mounted as the whites. Lieutenant Decker muttered
impatiently when the fact could no longer be ignored:

“Their outbreak and flight were no sudden impulse,” he concluded, “for
had it been they could not have made such complete preparations. There
are no better ponies in the country than those they are riding.”

Shortly after this decision was reached another unpleasant discovery
broke upon the whites, or rather upon Mendez, for he was the first to
notice it, and told the rest in a few words of his broken English.

When first seen there were three of the flying Apaches, corresponding
with the number that had fired the home and destroyed the family
of Captain Murray. The second scrutiny of the band revealed the
astonishing fact that there were now four, who were pushing desperately
for the river.

Where in the name of all that was wonderful the fourth horseman had
come from was beyond the understanding of the pursuers, unless a
glimmer of the truth stole through the brain of Mendez. If so, he kept
it to himself.

The first thought of the lieutenant and Freeman was that the lifeless
warrior, which the Apaches were bearing away, had been set upon a pony,
and so fixed that he could keep upright during the flight; but to do
that an additional animal was necessary, and his sudden appearance was
as amazing as that of his rider.

The most probable theory was that the new reinforcement had been
waiting somewhere along the line of flight, and fell into line when
the proper time arrived; but the disquieting conviction could not
be avoided that Maroz and Ceballos had not only made deliberate
preparations for their crimes, but had more allies than at first was
suspected.

All this was bad enough, but still worse was to come.

Lieutenant Decker shook his head:

“There’s no stopping them; they’ll cross the river in the face of all
we can do; they must be followed into the mountains, and by that time
there is likely to be a dozen of them together.”

Freeman made no answer, for he had none to make, but he observed that
the officer now abated the killing pace of his horse. Since it was
impossible to overtake the Apaches in a fair pursuit, and there was no
possible way of preventing them from crossing the river, it was cruel
to hold the animals at such exhausting speed.

Sure enough, when the horsemen struck the northern bank of the stream,
the others were emerging on the southern shore. Their animals had
swam most of the way, for the river was deep. The enemies were now in
plainer sight of each other than ever.

Reining up his horse, Lieutenant Decker leveled his glass and studied
the Apaches with the utmost care during the few minutes the opportunity
presented. He had no difficulty in identifying Maroz and Ceballos, who,
halting their ponies in plain sight, made tantalizing gestures and
uttered defiant shouts in a mixture of Apache and English.

The other bucks were strangers to the officer, though he was quite
sure he had seen one of them at the fort. It was the latter who still
supported the body of his fallen friend on his horse, as if resolved
that it should not fall into the hands of their pursuers.

Maroz held young Fulton Freeman on the mustang in front of him. Not
only that, but he raised the lad, and steadied him on his feet, so as
so make sure his friends saw him. The boy stared wonderingly across
the river, as if searching for some one whom he knew. He would have
recognized his father had not the latter shrank behind the lieutenant.

“Don’t move,” he said to the officer in a husky voice; “I can’t stand
it if he sees and calls to me. Tell me when he is gone!”

The strong man bowed his head, while the others silently watched the
scene on the other shore.

In reply to the taunts of Maroz and his companions, the lieutenant now
called back, that if they would return to the reservation, restoring
their prisoner unharmed to his friends, and would promise henceforth to
be good Indians, they should not suffer for what they had already done.

The answer to this offer was so insulting that the officer ground
his teeth, and prayed that he might once get within arm’s reach of
the miscreant before the business ended. Possibly, had the Apaches
been checked in their flight before reaching the river, they might
have accepted the offer; but then, had such good fortune befallen
the pursuers, it is unlikely the offer would have been made, unless
necessary to save the life of the young prisoner.

Having scorned the olive branch, Maroz and Ceballos emphasized the
refusal by deliberately firing a couple of shots at their pursuers,
the bullets whistling uncomfortably near their ears. Then, to show how
much they despised the soldiers, they rode away at a walk, instead of
dashing off at full speed.

The strongest proof that Lieutenant Decker could give to Maurice
Freeman of his self-restraint was when he forbade any of his men to
return the fire. The conclusion was fair that one or more of the
hostiles could be hit, for there was not a poor marksman in the party;
but little Fulton Freeman was as likely to be struck as they, and, if
not, his captors would show their characteristic enmity against him.

“You can look up now, Freeman!” said Decker to the parent, sitting
motionless and with bowed head behind him.

The father did so, without a word, and observed the Apaches riding off,
Maroz and Ceballos bearing to the left, while the other two, with their
inanimate burden, trended to the right. The fugitives had split into
two equal divisions, which, if they continued to diverge, must soon
lose sight of each other.

The most direct course for the pursuers was to ride into the water and
follow the fugitives, but the lieutenant hesitated.

“They expect us to do it,” said he, consulting with his companions, as
was his custom, at a perplexing point.

“Then why not do it?” asked Budge Colgate.

“Because we can gain nothing and may lose a great deal. I would give
all I have, which isn’t much, for a chance at them, but this is a case
where we must try their own tactics: we must hide our plan of campaign
from them, if it can possibly be done.”

“What method do you propose?”

“We’ll turn back and ride off, as if we had given up a useless task, or
have started after reinforcements. The Apaches will vote us sensible
men for doing so. Then we must manage to get to the other side without
discovery, and with the help of Mendez will try to track them to their
hiding place.”

A comparison of views showed a unanimous agreement that this was the
best course to follow. Mendez, to whom the others looked with special
confidence, nodded his head several times and told them nothing else
would do. They would probably have to wait until night before setting
out in earnest, but that was far better than to swim the river, when
sure of being seen.

To emphasize his words, the dusky scout now pointed across the stream
and uttered the single exclamation:

“See dere!”

All eyes followed the direction of the extended finger and their hearts
sank at what met their gaze.

“The very thing I have been dreading from the start!” was the
disappointed exclamation of Lieutenant Decker.




CHAPTER XIX.

AN APACHE SIGNAL.


When Mendez, the White Mountain Apache, who was acting as guide for
Lieutenant Decker and his men, pointed across the Gila, it was not
at the fugitives, for they had disappeared from view several minutes
before, but at a point some distance to the right of the route taken by
Maroz and Ceballos.

From a spot among the foothills of the Apache range, that was several
hundred feet higher than the river, and where the rocks, boulders and
pines offered secure shelter, a wavy column of smoke was ascending.
It was so thin that, as it climbed slowly upward, with the towering
mountains beyond serving as a background, it was perceptible only to
the keenest vision. It was fully dissipated before reaching a point
that would bring it in relief against the clear sky, above the mountain
crest. More than likely that but for the searching scrutiny of Mendez
the others would not have discovered it at all.

Beyond question the column of smoke was intended as a signal for the
hostiles who had crossed the river but a short time previous. It proved
that they had allies already among the mountains, and that between
them and themselves a perfect understanding existed. No doubt could
remain that the outbreak was more serious than at first supposed, and
instead of having three or four renegades to run down, there was likely
to be double or triple that number, with the prospect of another of
those long, exhausting campaigns under the sun of Arizona, in which the
innocent would suffer tenfold more than the guilty.

Lieutenant Decker was so well convinced of the serious task before him
that he adopted a radical change of plan. Even though he should succeed
in tracing the hostiles to their hiding place in the mountains, his
force was too small to strike them an effective blow. He decided to
return to camp and report to the colonel, that no time might be lost
in organizing a movement that would bring the Indians to terms, always
provided the opportunity could be secured for doing so.

This meant a long halt in the pursuit, which to the father was
unbearable. He could not remain idle during the long, sultry hours,
when his child was in the possession of the band, who certainly meant
him no good. He must keep moving or he would lose his self-control.

Declining, therefore, the invitation of the officer to accompany them
on their return to the post, and thanking him for what he had already
done, he turned the head of his mustang toward home, and struck an
easy, swinging gait, while they rode westward to Fort Reno.

But Freeman had no purpose of returning to his desolate wife and child
until he could gather decisive tidings of his boy, whether good or bad.
After reaching a point where the intervening undulations of land were
likely to shut him from the sight of any watchful Apaches, he changed
his course, making it parallel with the river, spurred his pony to
greater speed, and finally returned to the stream at a point more than
a mile east of where he had parted from the lieutenant and his little
company.

He was familiar with that part of the country, and without losing any
time he rode into the water and headed for the southern shore. The
river was narrower than below, but it was deep, and his mustang was
forced to swim most of the way; but the bath was as welcome to him as
to his rider. Though both emerged dripping wet, it mattered naught
under the smiting rays of the sun.

Once across, Freeman felt that he had fairly entered upon his important
task. Disquieted as he was by his grief, he was too old a campaigner to
lose his head, no matter how critical the emergency. He had set out to
locate the Apaches who held his boy, and then, if no possible means of
rescuing him presented itself, he would give his knowledge to friends
who would be only too ready to help him.

It is impossible to exaggerate the difficulty of the work thus laid out
for himself. It brought him in direct conflict with the subtlety of the
worst of all American tribes, and upon what may be called their own
ground. His chances of success were hardly one in a hundred.

But, despite the discouraging outlook, the parent was buoyed up by a
fact, and by a theory which he had persuaded himself to believe was
also a fact. During his two years in Southern Arizona he had become
familiar with much of the Apache Range, and especially with that
portion he now meant to visit. He was quite confident that he knew
where the little company would make their first halt of any duration;
and instead, therefore, of attempting to follow their trail, he
proposed to make directly for the rendezvous.

There was more than one advantage in adopting this course, chief of
which was that it involved far less risk to himself. The fugitives
would watch their own trail and be prepared to ambuscade any of their
pursuers who tried to follow it, while, by taking another route to the
rendezvous, he was sure to escape that peril. This, however, as will be
seen, hinged on the question whether or not he had made a mistake in
locating Maroz, Ceballos, and such of their companions as they might
have gathered round them. That remained to be proved by actual test.

The theory that did much to buoy up Freeman was the rather fanciful
one that the Apaches were holding his child as a hostage for certain
unlawful deeds not yet committed. They had been offered immunity for
the crimes of the morning, and had scoffed at the offer. With the
opportunity of striking their enemies hard, they could not surrender
before doing so. They must give full vent to their viciousness as
preliminary to settling down to become good Indians. When the time
came, and they were ready to yield, they would have the advantage of
giving the authorities the alternative of accepting their submission,
with the restoration of the child unharmed, or of consenting to its
death by refusing their terms.

This was the theory, and as I have said, it was a fanciful one, which
Freeman did not mention to the lieutenant, through fear that he would
shake his head and declare it could have no possible existence in fact.
He had managed to make himself believe it, and it nerved his arm to the
attempt that otherwise would have been the height of folly.

The solitary pursuer had not penetrated far among the foothills, when,
as he anticipated, a point was reached where his pony could be of no
further use to him. Accordingly he dismounted, removed the saddle and
bridle and turned him loose, to wander at will, until he should come
back to claim him.

From the point where he left his animal to where he believed the
Apaches were gathered was hardly a mile, but the distance was traversed
with such extreme care, that the long, hot afternoon was drawing to a
close before he was near his destination. Well aware that the slightest
mistake on his part would be fatal, he determined to make none, if
patience, caution and circumspection could prevent it.

That stealthy advance among the stunted vegetation, over and around
vast rocks, down declivities, gullies and gorges, through hollows and
ravines and up abrupt slopes, was enough to try the endurance and nerve
of the bravest man. His vision was so circumscribed that he often
failed to see a dozen feet in advance, and he never caught sight of a
boulder or rock, that he did not ask himself whether one or more of his
enemies was not kneeling behind it, with leveled Winchester, awaiting
just such an opportunity to bring him down.

He could no longer detect anything of the signal fire that was
the means of bringing him thither, and he believed it had been
extinguished; but when he was congratulating himself on his success,
he was startled to find that, without any thought on his part, he had
struck the trail of Maroz and Ceballos. There were the hoofprints of
their unshod ponies, distinctly marked, where they had borne their
riders up the steep slope, and probably for a goodly distance beyond,
before they were discarded.

The path showed so plainly that it would have been easy to follow it;
but, instead of doing so, he hastily crossed it and made his own course
to the supposed rendezvous more circuitous than before.

But if this discovery was alarming, it was not to be compared to that
which followed within the next fifteen minutes.

The settler had crossed another of those narrow gorges that were
continually interposing, and was guardedly picking his way up the
opposite side when, without the first warning, he observed an Apache
warrior less than fifty feet distant.

He was seated on the ground, with his back against a dwarfed pine, his
position such that his side was turned toward the white man, whom he
did not see. This was the more remarkable, since, with all the care the
latter might use, he could not avoid a slight noise in his movements
which ought to have reached the ears of an enemy at double the distance.

Hardly repressing a gasp of amazement, Freeman brought his Winchester
to his shoulder, and covered the warrior in the twinkling of an eye. No
matter how catlike the fellow might be in his actions, he was now at a
fatal disadvantage; the white man had the drop on him.

Freeman, however, did not pull trigger. He feared the consequences when
the report should ring through the solitude, for of necessity it must
reach the ears of others near at hand.

Still the Apache did not stir, even though the settler purposely made a
noise with one of his feet.

“He is either asleep or is sunk in a deeper reverie than I ever knew an
Indian to be.”

Neither of these suppositions was satisfactory. Freeman now coughed
quite loudly, but with no more effect upon the warrior than before.
Then the settler lowered his rifle, for he knew the truth.

Glancing around to make sure that no one was in sight, Freeman walked
forward, holding his gun ready for instant use. The Apache’s head was
bowed on his breast as if asleep, but his continued quiescence could be
accounted for only in one way; he was dead.

Such was the fact. The weapon in the grasp of Maurice Freeman was the
one that had brought him low, but it was aimed and fired by the wife
when defending her home against the marauders. This was the warrior
whose body had been carried among the foothills by his friends, until,
believing it was beyond danger of being found by the whites, they had
left it behind.

“Ah, if Molly had only used two more cartridges with equal effect what
a blessed thing it would have been!” mused the settler, as he glanced
at the figure, “it would have saved Captain Murray and his family, and
it would have saved, too, my little boy.”

This discovery was significant. The other Apaches had been there at
some time during the day, and probably were still in the neighborhood.
The spot fixed upon by Freeman as the one likely to be the rendezvous
was not far off, and he felt more certain than before that he was right
in the belief that led him to make this venture.

But with every rod’s advance the situation grew more critical. No
matter where the Apaches might have grouped themselves, they were on
the alert for the pursuit that they knew would be quickly made by the
soldiers. Indeed, so vigilant are these dusky miscreants that it may
be said there is only one brief period out of the whole twenty-four
hours when there is a possibility of surprising them. That is a short
time before daylight. They are wide awake through the day and most of
the night, but if the most careful reconnoitering shows them no sign
of their enemies, they are apt to succumb to drowsiness as daybreak
approaches.

By what has been said is not meant that an Apache camp is
unapproachable except at the period named, but I know of no instance in
which a large band has been surprised by pursuing cavalry, except in
the dismal hours between three o’clock and the morning.

Should Freeman succeed in locating Maroz and Ceballos, and possibly
several others, it might well be asked in what way he would be better
situated than when on the northern shore of the river? What could a
single man hope to do against several warriors who held his child
captive?

Nothing in a direct way. But, having located them, and learned that his
boy was alive, he would hasten to Lieutenant Decker and leave him to
decide upon the plan to follow.

Although but a comparatively slight distance from the river, he
was in one of the wildest portions of the foothills of the Apache
Mountains. But for this the Indians would not have dared to halt before
penetrating further. As it was they felt as secure as if in the very
heart of the range, for nothing was to prevent them from withdrawing
still more whenever they chose.

Freeman had not gone far when the conviction forced itself upon him
that he was dangerously near the Apache camp. True he had not seen nor
heard anything to show this, but it may be said “it was in the air.” He
felt no doubt of it.

The ground sloped in its irregular way at an angle of almost forty-five
degrees. The dwarf pine was abundant, wherever its hardy roots could
find room to draw nourishment from the ground, which had been baked
under the sun’s rays; the rocks and boulders were as numerous as ever,
and, as Freeman came to a halt and glanced around, he thought:

“They must have abandoned their ponies before reaching this camp. A
mountain goat could hardly keep his footing.”

While the settler stood motionless, debating whether to venture any
further before darkness, he was startled by a faint, tremulous whistle
which came from some point in advance. It was so soft and musical that
he would not have noticed it at any other time.

“That’s an Apache,” was his thought; “and I would give much to know
what it means. He isn’t far off either.”

If the call was a signal, it was likely to bring a reply, but, though
he listened intently, he heard none.

“It might have been a bird; I would believe so if I were anywhere
else, or this was another time, but things are becoming too ticklish
for comfort.”

He took several steps forward, not with the intention of searching
further for the camp, but to utilize a gray, massive rock which bulged
a dozen feet above the ground. He would not be quite so conspicuous
under its shadow as when standing in the more open space.

It was a proof of the power of the sun in that latitude that, when
Freeman placed his hand against the mass of stone, he quickly drew it
back, because of the heat still in the rock. He had noticed the same
thing on his way thither when he came in contact with other solid
substances, but this was a little more pronounced. However, it was a
small matter and he gave it no thought.

The slight additional sense of security was quickly dissipated by
again hearing the signal that he had noticed a few minutes before.
The trained ear could not have detected any variation, and he would
have been certain that it issued from the same dusky lips, but for the
change in the direction of the point whence it came.

At first it sounded exactly in front, as he faced the mountains, but
the second time it was well round to his right. True, an Indian could
have readily shifted his position from one point to the other during
the interval, but Freeman believed more than one was concerned in the
business.

Whether or not such was the fact, the conclusion was inevitable that
he had placed himself in a most perilous situation. The Apaches could
outmaneuver him, and, if they once suspected his presence, there was no
possibility of extricating himself.

His shuddering dread was that, despite the care he had exercised, Maroz
and Ceballos had already learned the truth and were seeking at that
moment to shut off all chance of his eluding them. He believed that
those soft, birdlike calls referred to _him_.

No one could question the bravery of Maurice Freeman, but he would
have given a good deal, just then, could he have been whisked to any
point, a half mile distant, no matter in what direction. He knew he had
essayed a task beyond his power and utter overthrow and disaster were
near at hand.

While the Apaches might try to use the child as a hostage, it was not
to be expected that they would attempt anything of that nature with the
parent. He would be served as was poor Captain Murray, and his enemies
would hold the same coign of advantage as before.

Be that as it may, it was self-evident that he must lose no time in
falling back and wait for darkness before venturing nearer to the camp.
Without any delay, therefore, he assumed a crouching position and
turned to retrace the steps that he never should have taken.

Before he had gone a rod, the signal again sounded. This time it was
directly behind him as he had stood, when hiding behind the rock: in
other words, he was advancing straight toward it. One Apache, if not
more, was in his path.

Freeman stopped short, and, without straightening up, glanced
searchingly ahead. As he did so, he plainly saw the red man who had
emitted the signal step from behind another rock in full view and but a
few rods away.




CHAPTER XX.

ON THE MOUNTAIN SIDE.


Maurice Freeman was withdrawing from his perilous position, when
without the slightest warning an Apache warrior stepped from behind a
rock a short way ahead and confronted him.

When it is stated that this individual held a Winchester in his right
hand and carried it at his thigh, it will be conceded that his action
was altogether contrary to that of his people under such circumstances;
for it gave the white man a chance to bring his weapon to his shoulder
by a lightning-like movement and to secure the “drop” on him—one of the
most difficult of all feats to perform. But when it is added further,
that the Apache belonged to the White Mountain branch of the tribe his
conduct will be understood.

No sight could have been more welcome to Freeman, whose face lit up
with pleasure at the discovery that, instead of an enemy, he had the
best of friends at his elbow. He paused a moment, and then, with the
whispered word, “_Mendez_,” on his lips, moved toward him.

The dusky trailer did not speak, but raised his left hand as an appeal
for caution; and beckoning him to advance, turned away and resumed
his walk with that catlike movement peculiar to his race and which was
absolutely without noise.

Freeman understood what he meant; the situation was too dangerous for
him to hold, and must be changed without delay. He did his best to
follow instructions, though he could not do so with the perfection of
his guide. The latter continued the lead for fully two hundred yards
and then halted, turned around and silently watched the white man’s
approach.

By this time the latter had lost the trepidation he felt, when the
soft, birdlike signal reached him from different points of the compass.
Wherever the Apache camp might be, he was now at a safe distance from
it.

“I didn’t expect to meet you, Mendez,” said the settler in a guarded
undertone, “and I needn’t tell you——”

“Be careful; the trees and rocks have ears.”

It was Lieutenant Decker who uttered these warning words, as he stepped
into view, very much as the scout had done a short time before. He
smilingly extended his hand to his astonished friend, adding by way of
explanation:

“You didn’t expect either of us, but we are here all the same; the
fight which I looked for this morning was unavoidably postponed, but I
am hopeful that I shan’t be disappointed after all.”

“Why, lieutenant, I am pleased beyond expression, but you owe me an
explanation of how this was brought about.”

[Illustration: Lieutenant Decker smilingly extended his hand to his
astonished friend.

“You did not expect either of us, but we are here all the same.”—Page
184.

—_The Young Scout._]

“It was all due to _him_,” replied the officer, nodding his head toward
the Apache, who did not open his lips, but stood, looking back over the
route he had just traversed, as if watching for some expected form, or
listening for a signal that had not yet been made.

“I suppose so, but that fact does not explain matters.”

“Mendez is not addicted to talking, but I think I learned more of his
thoughts than any one else. When you parted from us this forenoon, I
supposed you meant to go home and wait until night, before making any
move to help your child, but that shrewd fellow read your intentions in
your face and in your manner. He told me you meant to ride away from
the river until out of our sight and then cross and take up the trail
of Maroz and Ceballos. I would have followed you and protested against
such foolhardiness, but knew it was useless.”

“He hit the truth,” remarked Freeman, with an admiring glance at their
friend, whose attention seemed still drawn away from them and who
showed no interest in the conversation.

“Instead of attempting to interfere with you, we rode fast to the fort
and reported to the colonel; he had already learned the truth from the
Indian scouts whom he had sent across the river some hours before. The
indications were unmistakable that eight or ten hostiles were on the
war path, and, unless prompt measures were taken, the number would be
increased. The colonel isn’t the man to hesitate at such times and he
moved quickly. A number of our best men at the post, with three White
Mountain Apaches, all well mounted and under Captain Shindle, who was
a veteran at this business before I entered the Point, set out for the
mountains.”

“Where are they now?”

“All that I can say is that they are hard at it, but I have no
knowledge of their precise location. The scouts who bore the tidings to
the colonel were certain the rendezvous was fully a mile back of where
we saw the signal smoke, and which was meant to mislead us more than
to guide their allies. The captain will aim to get to the rear and to
approach from the south. This will give him a chance to prevent the
withdrawal of the bucks further into the mountains. They will not look
for a movement of that kind, and unless their scouts have discovered
his purpose, he has a fair prospect of circumventing them.”

“But where are Colgate, Peyser, and Redfield?”

“With the captain; this is a private campaign of Mendez and myself, but
we are willing to let you in as a partner on the ground floor.”

“Nothing could suit me better, but, if the Apaches are so far off, why
this extreme caution, and what chance is there of our doing anything to
help my child?”

“I’ll admit that the prospect isn’t dazzling, but, if the theory on
which Mendez is working proves correct, we shall have an opportunity to
effect something.”

“What is his theory?”

“That Maroz and Ceballos are not far from this spot, while the main
band is a mile beyond in the mountains. They are watching the trail,
along which they expect the pursuit to be made, and will telegraph the
fact in their own way the moment it is discovered to the main party.
There may be others with the couple, but that is the game they are
playing.”

“If Mendez is right, what have they done with my boy?”

“He is with Maroz and Ceballos.”

“Would they not be likely to place him in charge of the main band, so
as to lessen the danger of his rescue.”

“That would be _my_ theory, but I suspect _he_ thinks differently.”

“I have as much faith as you in the woodcraft of Mendez, but I can’t
accept _that_ theory.”

Freeman would have been only too glad to believe as did the guide, but
the doubt he uttered was that which would have come to any clear-headed
man. If Maroz and Ceballos were acting as the rear guard of the
hostiles, they could not afford to handicap themselves with the care of
a prisoner, the possession of whom, it may be said, was the key to the
situation.

If the boy were placed in charge of the stronger party, the two would
be untrammeled in the crisis which they had every reason to believe was
at hand. This was the situation, as it presented itself to Freeman and
Lieutenant Decker, but the latter’s convincing remark was:

“It strikes me as mighty odd, but Mendez wouldn’t believe what he does
without the best of reasons.”

“Have you questioned him?”

“I have.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me it was none of my business: not exactly in those words,”
added the smiling officer, “but his refusal to enlighten me amounted to
the same thing.”

Freeman turned toward the subject of their conversation, but he was so
absorbed in watching a point to his left, and listening for that which
he heard not, that the remarks seemed to be lost upon him.

“Let me ask how near we are to the spot where Mendez suspects Maroz and
Ceballos to be.”

The lieutenant had put the same question to the guide before coming
upon the settler, and he answered:

“Not more than a quarter of a mile.”

“A quarter of a mile!” repeated the astonished Freeman, “why I was sure
I was within a dozen rods of it.”

“Nothing is easier than to be mistaken.”

It is singular how the emotion of mirth will intrude at the most
inopportune times. Maurice Freeman was oppressed by a grief such as
he had never known before, but he now laughed silently and heartily.
He recalled his extreme trepidation, when he believed he was near
the Apache camp, his effort to withdraw and the caution of Mendez in
guiding him away. To him the picture was that of a big urchin, who
has ignorantly approached some danger, and whose father seeks to coax
him back to safety. The figure of himself playing the part of booby
was what caused him to laugh, but his mirth quickly vanished, and he
wondered at himself for having shown it.

“If such care must be used when we are so far from the camp, how will
it be when we get within sight of it?”

The lieutenant shook his head.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much show for making that test; I have been
pleading with Mendez to take me in as a full partner and to allow me
to be at his elbow when the first squint of the camp is obtained, but
my eloquence was wasted. The fact is,” continued the young officer,
becoming serious, “he is right. I don’t believe the white man lives who
can steal up to an Apache camp in the day-time, or during the early
part of the evening, no matter how dark, without discovery, and I
needn’t tell you what _that_ means for you and me. After midnight, when
they are asleep, there might be a show, but even then Mendez must be in
the advance. He expected to find you somewhere in this neighborhood,
and you have been as much an object of search for the last hour or two
as the hostiles themselves.”

“What was his purpose in signaling from different points, when he
located me?”

“I presume to give you a good scare.”

“Well, he succeeded! I was never so rattled in all my life. But I was
quite near the place where I expected to find Maroz and Ceballos.”

“That may be, but you were away off in your calculations; you made a
mistake; I have done something of the kind once or twice during my
checkered career.”

While the conversation continued in this vein, generally serious,
but now and then lightened by the bubbling humor of the lieutenant,
darkness settled about them. This was most welcome, for it brought
nearer the hour for action. Between the downsetting and uprising of the
sun, the all-important question must be settled as to what was to be
the fate of little Fulton Freeman.

The father and the lieutenant talked several minutes longer, while
their forms grew indistinct in the gloom, until a remark of the officer
caused the other to turn his head toward Mendez. He had vanished.

“What’s become of him?” whispered Freeman, as if his absence indicated
some new peril at hand.

“He’s gone to take a look at things; he moved away fifteen minutes ago.”

“I didn’t hear him.”

“Nor did I, but I saw him, just as you have seen the shadow of a cloud
whisk over the earth. Of course, there is no saying when he will be
back, since that depends on what he learns, but we can count on his
being here before daylight.”

“And in the meantime we have nothing to do but to wait.”

“You hit it that time, and we can’t find more comfortable quarters than
these.”

It would not do to go far from the spot, since it might cause Mendez
trouble in finding them, beside which there was no object in doing
so, since one part of the mountain differed little from another.
Accordingly, they assumed lolling postures on the nearest rock,
which was still warm from the rays of the sun, and continued their
conversation in tones that could not have been heard more than a dozen
feet away.

Freeman had eaten nothing since morning, and the thought of food
had not been with him; but when the lieutenant produced a small,
substantial lunch, which he was thoughtful enough to bring, the two
shared it and were refreshed therefrom.

“Now, if I had a drink of water,” said the elder, “I would be
satisfied; it seems to me I never felt more thirsty, but I can manage
to stand it until morning.”

“There’s no need of that; a stream is within a hundred feet of us.
It doesn’t amount to much, and is as warm as dishwater, but it is a
thousand per cent. better than thirst.”

The lieutenant located the spot for his friend, proposing that they
should go thither separately, in order that one of them might be sure
of being on hand when Mendez returned. But the scout had been absent
so short a time that this precaution seemed useless, and, when Freeman
asked him to show him the way, he complied willingly.

The night had a gibbous moon, and, as the sky was without a cloud,
considerable light reached the earth, where the rays were not
obstructed. The vegetable growth in this portion of the Apache range is
sparse, the small trees being scattered, so that it was easy to pick
their way for the short distance necessary to reach the water.

As the lieutenant had intimated, the draught was uninviting to one not
very thirsty. The rivulet issued from under the roots of a tree, where
it was to be supposed it would be quite cool, but it was lukewarm and
roiled, as the officer learned when he quenched his thirst during the
afternoon, but the drink was none the less refreshing on that account.

“Freeman,” said the lieutenant, looking around them, as if suspecting
the presence of an enemy in their vicinity, “suppose you wait here for
a few minutes, while I go back to the old spot.”

“Why do you propose that?”

“I fancied just now I heard something suspicious. Maybe I was mistaken,
but when you are in this confounded Apache country, the rule is to
believe every man guilty until proved innocent.”

“And if you were not mistaken?”

“Well,” replied the young officer in his off-hand way, “it’s likely in
that case that there will be music in the air.”

“I mean as to what _I_ shall do. Am I to stand here and take no part
in the business? Is that your idea of how one comrade should stand by
another?”

The question may seem trifling, but it perplexed the lieutenant for
the moment. The idea of comradeship with him, as it is with every true
soldier, is that one shall stand by his friend to the death. The basest
crime that a soldier can commit is to desert a comrade in extremity.
Ordinarily, therefore, the answer of Decker would have been prompt, or
rather there would have been no occasion for asking the question, but
while Freeman was a brave man, his powers of keen, subtle reasoning,
of cool-headedness and quick resources were affected by his mental
distress over the peril and uncertainty about his little boy. It is the
rule among physicians for no member of the profession to attend unaided
his own family (unless the peril make it unavoidable), since affection
must weaken the judgment. The situation of the father was somewhat
analogous.

In other words the thought of the lieutenant was that it would be
safer for them to be apart, if danger should come. The elder not only
could not aid the younger, but would increase his own peril. He must,
therefore, stay where he was.

“I wish you would remain here until I signal for you to join me. It may
be that if there is anything of the kind in the air, it will be best
to let it alone, and there is more chance of that with one of us than
with both. If I find myself in need of you I will call.”

Freeman could make no objection to this, and he sat down in the stunted
undergrowth near the spring, reflecting that with the fervid heat he
was likely to feel a renewal of thirst every fifteen minutes or less,
and was favorably located for quenching the same without any trying
delay.

“Listen for the signal,” whispered the lieutenant again, “and don’t
join me until you hear it. I will make it as soon as I am convinced the
way is clear.”

The space between the spring and the rock where they meant to await
the return of Mendez was but little more than a hundred yards. It was
broken by boulders, a number of depressions, with here and there a
dwarf pine, one of those sturdy trees which seem to have the power of
the moss to extract the needed nourishment where most plants would die
for lack of it. Though the moon was almost overhead, it was impossible
for either of the men to discern objects for a third of the distance
which separated them. The lieutenant had not taken more than a dozen
steps in his guarded manner, with his body in a crouching posture and
all his senses alert, when the watchful Freeman was as much alone as
if the nearest man were miles distant. The brave young officer was
swallowed up in the gloom and gone.

“Now,” thought the elder, finding himself alone, “the Apaches must know
about this spring; those people I suppose understand what hunger and
thirst are, though they have less trouble from it than any persons I
ever met, and it isn’t impossible that some of them may take a notion
to drink from the same spring. That being the case, the prudent thing
for me to do is to imbibe freely while I have the chance.”

Having drank deeply only a few minutes before, Freeman felt as if he
must make excuse to his conscience for his dissipation, but the water
was delicious and the supply all-sufficient. He quaffed his fill,
and then replacing his hat stole softly from the spot and assumed a
crouching posture behind a convenient boulder, where there was little
likelihood of an enemy stealing upon him unawares.

“The lieutenant is full of pluck,” he reflected, “but the pluckiest
man that ever lived sometimes needs the help of a child. There isn’t
anything he wouldn’t do for me, and I will stand by him to the last
extremity.”

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Decker was alert and guarded in every step he
took. His principle that while in the Apache country every indication
of possible danger, no matter how slight, should be accepted as the
reality, was the right principle. Its disregard has brought death
to many a brave soldier on the frontier. Lieutenant Decker welcomed
a lively brush with the hostiles, but he would have been the idiot
which he was not, to disregard the experience of those that had fought
these fierce people before he was born, while brief as was his own
experience, its lesson was too impressive to be forgotten.

For perhaps a fourth of the distance he advanced almost on his hands
and knees, stealing from boulder to boulder, at times almost flat on
his face, then raising his head, peering here and there, looking and
listening with the utmost keenness at his command.

“There is no wind blowing though I heard a rustle once or twice; I
don’t think there has been enough to move a leaf for the last half
hour. Now and then we meet wild animals in this part of the world, but
that slight noise—if there _was_ a noise—wasn’t made by any of them. It
looks as if some of the Apaches are hereabouts.”

Perhaps a veteran scout would have argued that, inasmuch as the young
officer had heard a noise—slight though it was—the fact was against
its having been made by one of the dreaded red men, since none of them
would commit a blunder of that nature, when in the neighborhood of
an enemy, but it might be they did not think any enemy was near, so
it was wise for the lieutenant to proceed on the theory that some of
Geronimo’s followers were prowling in the vicinity.

For a period of ten minutes the young officer held his place immovable.
During that time the oppressive silence was unbroken by the slightest
disturbance. Everything seemed absolutely “dead” around him, the
atmosphere itself being as pulseless as the warm rocks and boulders
on which he rested his hand, as he glided near them. Certain that he
had not made the least betrayal, the lieutenant began to ask himself
whether he had not been mistaken from the first in his suspicions.

With his head so near the ground, he lay flat, and pressed his ear
against the earth, as do hunters and scouts when in the vicinity
of enemies. At the moment of resorting to this test, the ear told
something faintly, but it was gone at the moment he composed himself to
listen—a fact which made it seem that the noise was caused by the first
contact of his own ear with the ground.

“Everything seems to be all right,” he reflected, finally resuming his
advance to the spot where he and Freeman had settled down to await the
return of their dusky friend.

A rod further and Decker was checked by a rock that must have weighed
several tons. He could pass it by turning to the right or left or
climbing over it. It need not be said that the last method was to be
used only as a final resort. He paused once more and considered on
which side it was best to flank it—a question which it would seem
could not be settled by an hour’s deliberation, but there is no
accounting for the impressions which sometimes sway persons in perilous
emergencies. The lieutenant was cautiously creeping to the left, and
had turned the corner, when he abruptly retreated and headed to the
right.

Advancing in this Apache-like style, he held the Winchester which he
carried with him in his left hand, both hands and knees being used to
aid his progress, while he peered ahead in the gloom and listened with
the intensity he had shown from the first. The configuration of the
rock and the position of the moon (not exactly in the zenith), threw a
line of shadow to the right of the immense boulder just far enough to
enfold his figure. On the other side there was not a particle of shade,
so that his change of advance had brought that much advantage to him.

From the corner of the rock around which he had just crept, to the
corresponding edge, was little more than twelve feet, and half
the distance was passed, when the very peril against which he was
maneuvering presented itself. Beyond the further corner appeared the
head of an Apache warrior, thrust forward, seemingly with the slow,
noiseless motion of the hand of a clock. He, too, was in a crouching
posture, for the impish face, with its dangling mass of hair, was no
more than a foot above the ground. It was partly in moonlight and
partly in shadow, but shown so plainly that there could be no possible
mistake.

Although the position of the lieutenant was the more favorable, the
action of the hostile proved that he was as quick to detect him as
the other was to observe his dusky foe. Before Decker could draw his
revolver or bring his rifle into play, the head of the savage whisked
from sight. It vanished so suddenly indeed as to suggest the figurehead
of a wooden image that was snapped back by machinery.

The situation was growing interesting. Here were two deadly enemies
within eight or ten feet of each other, both equally alive to the fact,
both armed and ready to take instant advantage of any turn that might
offer.

It cannot be said that Lieutenant Decker felt comfortable. He knew the
cunning of these terrible red men, and would much rather fight them in
the open or on ground where the chances of each were the same. This
savage had been trained in the cunning and woodcraft of his people, and
knew things which could not have come as yet to the white man. But the
latter was quick of perception and was learning fast in the crucial
school of experience.

In one sense, the two were on the same footing. They were within
striking distance, with the rock between them, and he who was the first
to discover the other, even for an instant, must win in the desperate
game. It was, in fact, the question of which could “get the drop” on
the other.

The Apache might come around the corner of the rock in front, or at the
rear, or possibly he would try to steal over the top, so as to fire
down on his enemy. If he could forestall the white man, by a moment, it
would inevitably be fatal to the latter.

There is a stratagem as old as the hills and one with which doubtless
every reader of these pages is familiar. Lieutenant Decker gently
removed his hat and placed it on the muzzle of his rifle. Then creeping
slightly forward, he extended the weapon, intending to make the hat
show around the edge of the boulder. It will be understood that the
idea was to represent himself as peering beyond the edge, so as to draw
the shot of the Apache, and then let fly at him before he could recover
from the blunder.

The young man had almost reached the corner with the extended
Winchester, when he withdrew it and replaced the hat on his head.

“If there were a law against persons making fools of themselves, I
would violate it about every hour of the day,” was his thought. “I’m
glad no one saw me.”

For, while reaching forward with one arm, he awakened to the fact
that even if the stratagem was successful, it would not help him.
Suppose the Apache sent a bullet through the hat, how could that aid
the officer? The Indian would discover his mistake before Decker could
bring his body to the same spot and fire—an act which would place him
in exactly the same peril that the hat had encountered. Furthermore,
more than likely the warrior owned a repeating Winchester. If so, the
true course for him was to fire at the hat the instant it showed and
give the impression that he had been tricked. That would encourage
the white man to rush to the attack and bring to his foe the exact
chance for which he was maneuvering and waiting. Consequently, this
time-honored and once brilliant strategy would prove a boomerang that
would recoil with disastrous effect upon the originator.

The momentous question remained as to the Apache’s method of attack,
for, whatever it was, it must be forestalled. The officer was obliged
to watch the front and the rear, and make sure that his enemy did not
glide over the top of the rock like a rattlesnake, and strike down from
above.

Decker leaned his rifle against the face of the boulder and drew his
revolver. The former weapon was too awkward to be used in the impending
encounter. The smaller was equally effective and tenfold more handy.




CHAPTER XXI.

A GAME OF HIDE AND SEEK.


Lieutenant Decker pressed his ear against the side of the rock and
listened, hoping that his enemy would betray himself by coming in
contact with the solid substance, but he was too cunning. He knew
better than to act in that amateurish fashion.

It was the result of guesswork, rather than of reason, that the
young man came to the belief that the warrior would steal around
three-fourths of the boulder and come upon him from the rear.
Accordingly he faced that way, revolver in hand, and ready for the
emergency when it presented itself.

Reaching the corner, Decker paused, but with the uncomfortable feeling
that, after all, he had committed a blunder and the Apache, divining
his reasoning, would make his next essay from the front; but, since the
whole business, for a time at least, must be conducted upon conjecture,
he grimly held his ground.

During these critical moments, he did not forget the peril from
above. He continually held his ear against the rock, believing that
if the buck attempted to steal upon him from that direction, he must
inevitably betray himself by sound, which passes readily through a
solid substance, and, hearing nothing of the kind, he concluded the
essay was not yet made.

Now, nothing was clearer than that so long as matters remained thus,
the peril was not only unchanged but impended as before. Who was to
make the first advance, as may be said, into the enemy’s territory?

The lieutenant might have been more patient, but for several
contingencies which threatened to complicate the situation. Freeman was
still at the spring; and although the understanding was that he was
to remain there until signaled to come, it was probable that he would
accept the long silence of his companion as proof that everything was
right, and seek to rejoin him. Could he but know how matters stood, he
would give the very help needed, but, not knowing it, was likely to run
into a peril which would prove fatal to himself before his young friend
could warn him or interfere in his behalf.

The other contingency was that the Apache might have one companion
or more in the vicinity who would come to his assistance. Such a
reinforcement would decide the singular contest at once and against the
young man. The lesson of all this was that matters must be forced to an
issue with the least possible delay.

The natural course of action for one in the officer’s situation was to
peer gradually round the edge of the rock to ascertain where his enemy
was, but no man, after second thought, would attempt anything of that
nature, for, it will be seen, that it was only taking the place of
the hat on the end of the gun barrel. The watchful Apache was certain
to detect the insidious advance, and, before the eyes came into view,
would send a bullet through the brain of the daring white man.

Accordingly Lieutenant Decker adopted the opposite course. He darted
his head forward, gaining one glance along the end of the rock, and
withdrawing again, before the most alert enemy could fire. It was the
right course under the circumstances and proved effectual.

The moonlight struck that portion of the boulder with full effect,
there being not even a ribbon of shadow, and, in full view was the
Apache, advancing on hands and knees, his hideous face half-hidden by
the strands of black hair which dangled about his shoulders and in
front of his chest and features.

Could Decker have known this a moment before, he would have discharged
his revolver at the instant of catching his glance, but to have known
it was to possess a knowledge that was impossible.

The puzzling question with him was whether the warrior had seen him.
He must be depending more on his sense of hearing than on sight, and
it would seem that there was reason to believe he had not caught that
shadowy thrusting forward and withdrawal of the head. If such were not
the fact, he must be unaware of the exact location of the white man,
who had only to repeat the maneuver, accompanying it by an instant
discharge of his revolver.

But, suppose he had observed the shadowy movement—ay, there was the rub.

If he had failed to see it, he would continue his advance, and
continuing it, must disclose some part of himself at the corner of the
boulder. Accordingly, the lieutenant partly straightened up, sitting on
his heels, weapon grasped, and eyes and ears wide open.

But the minutes passed and nothing was developed. It was impossible
to decide what had been done or what should be the next step. Since,
however, the former strategy had brought him knowledge and no harm,
Decker now repeated it, holding his weapon, so that if the Apache were
in his old position he could reach him with a bullet.

It was like a man darting his head through a trap door, and with one
instant, all-embracing sweep of his vision, dropping out of sight
before any observer could do more than recognize him.

The result was disappointing. The side of the rock was bare. The buck
had discovered his peril and withdrawn. Where was he?

The lieutenant glanced behind him with a nervous start, half expecting
to see the miscreant in the act of firing, but for the moment he was
invisible, though somewhere close at hand.

Since the Apache was too cautious to be caught off his guard by this
system of maneuvering, Lieutenant Decker asked himself what other
method could be adopted. There must be a change in the order of
proceedings, or he himself would be discomfited.

“I’ll do it!” he muttered, compressing his lips.

No part of the rock was more than five feet in height, so that if a man
stood upright beside it, his hat would show from any point. The stone
was so rough that it was as easy to climb as a flight of stairs. The
lieutenant’s decision was to adopt the system of attack which he had
held in so much dread from the first.

Sensible of the necessity of instant action and the great peril
attending the recourse, he kept his revolver in his right hand, as
he grasped the upper edge of the boulder, placed one foot upon an
obstruction, and silently raised his head above the crest of the rock,
intending to draw himself upon it.

His head and shoulders had just moved upward, when with a grasp he let
go and dropped out of sight.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he exclaimed, “was there ever anything like it?”

Never did two enemies seem to follow so closely the same line of
thought. It looked as if the Apache and the white man’s brains
were working in unison. Thus it came about that at the very moment
Lieutenant Decker raised himself over one side of the rock to the top,
the Apache did the same thing at a point opposite. Both were climbing
to the coign of advantage at the same moment. Either could have let
fly with his pistol (for the Apache had one), but instead of doing so
he made all haste to drop down, so as to interpose the boulder as an
armor in front. Thus was another remarkable example given of a unity
of thought.

Everything thus far done by one was duplicated by the other, and the
two were once more crouching behind the rock, each debating with
himself how best to end a situation, which, to say the least, was
extraordinary in more than one respect.

Lieutenant Decker now resorted to a daring proceeding that was
characteristic of the man. It has been said that boulders were all
around him. Less than a rod to his right was another, perhaps half the
size of the one he had been about to climb. Hesitating hardly a moment,
he took several rapid steps, crouching low, and whisked behind the new
shelter. Had the Apache suspected anything of the kind, he would have
possessed a fatal advantage, for what better target can a man ask than
a fleeing foe only a few yards away? But he could not know it, unless
he happened to be peering around the rock at the critical moment, and
he was not doing anything of that nature.

A creepy feeling came over the officer, during the moment he was
gliding across the open space, such as a man feels who expects to hear
the report of a weapon and feel the sting of a bullet. He flung himself
behind the new shield with a feeling of inexpressible relief.

“By George!” he exclaimed, as he looked cautiously out; “I forgot my
rifle!”

Sure enough, there it stood in plain sight, leaning against the big
boulder, within easy reach of his enemy, should he attempt to seize it.

“But he can’t do it without giving me a chance to wing him,” muttered
the officer, fully resolved to avert the catastrophe.

The one comforting fact about the situation was that the white man
had improved matters and gained an unquestionable advantage. The
Apache could not know of the change, and any attempt to locate his
foe, without knowing he had left the immediate vicinity of the larger
boulder, would expose the warrior to the shot that was awaiting him.

The new position of Decker gave him a view not only of the side where
he had been crouching, but of the upper end, just as a person can see
two sides of an oblong box from a certain point of view—a fact which it
was not to be supposed was known to the warrior, who was, therefore, in
danger of exposing himself to a shot from an unexpected quarter. Better
still, he could not climb the rock without also showing himself and
offering the fairest kind of a target.

All this tended to make the lieutenant much more comfortable, though
the feeling would have been more marked could he have laid hand on the
rifle.

“I wouldn’t be uneasy if sure he’s the only buck near, but if a second
appears, and my gun is left there, they will have me foul—I’ll do it!”

All depended upon quickness and silence. In the same crouching
posture, he darted across the intervening space, and was back again
in a twinkling, with his gun in hand. The success of his reckless act
thrilled him with pleasure.

“I haven’t been in this Apache country long,” he reflected, “but I
think I have learned something. If that fellow gets the better of me,
he’s smarter than I believe.”

But it was unwisdom to count on safety when peril impended. He was
confronted by one of the most fearful of enemies, a member of a tribe
whose exploits in cunning approach the marvelous. The most fatal thing
the officer could do was to underestimate his enemy.

A dismal, disquieting question forced itself upon him: if he had
effected so radical a change of base what was to prevent the Apache
doing the same thing? What warrant had the white man for believing a
scheme of that nature would present itself to him and not to the dusky
marauder? What was to hinder his adopting the artifice?

The thought was like a wet blanket to Decker, who instead of keeping
“eyes to the front,” began glancing to the right and left and behind
him in quest of an insidious approach from that direction.

Nothing was seen, but the element lacking to make his situation
intolerable came the next moment with the unmistakable noise—faint, but
loud enough to him in his tense, nervous state to be heard plainly—made
by a body gliding over the ground. Hardly had the conviction formed
that it was his old enemy stealing a march upon him, when he saw his
mistake. An immense rattlesnake, in its nocturnal wanderings, had been
disturbed by his intrusion, and retreating a few feet, as if to gain a
better point of view, threw itself into coil, reared its head and gave
its warning rattle.

It was nigh enough to reach the startled man with its venomous fangs,
but before it could deliver its blow, he leaped beyond reach and
leveled his revolver. There was sufficient moonlight and the distance
was so slight that he could have shattered its head at the first fire,
but, when about to press the trigger, he restrained himself.

The shot would betray his presence to the Apache, and not only put him
on his guard, but give him the chance to serve the white man as the
serpent had been treated.

“This is a lovely situation,” muttered the lieutenant; “I like one
about as well as the other, but I don’t intend to let you have your own
sweet way.”

The latter was addressed to the rattler, a bite from which was fatal,
but it could inflict no harm except by a closer approach. If it
attempted to come nearer for the purpose of striking, the officer would
blow its head off. He kept his eye on it. But the _crotalus_ species is
cowardly, and the serpent, finding itself not likely to be attacked,
came out of its coil and glided off among the boulders and was seen no
more.




CHAPTER XXII.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?


“Now,” said Lieutenant Decker, as the horrible serpent glided from
sight in the gloom, “if you’ll pass round the end of that big rock over
yonder and give that Apache your attention, I’ll forgive you for the
way you scared me.”

As nearly as he could judge, the rattler was heading in the direction
named, and the officer listened, hoping to hear favorable results, but
the silence was unbroken, and, if the reptile passed near the warrior,
there was no collision between them.

One of the uncomfortable facts connected with these fearsome pests is
that when you come upon one in the desert or wilderness, you are likely
to meet another or perhaps several of them. The species attain enormous
size in New Mexico and Arizona, and a sting from one of them, though
slower in its results than the bite of the cobra, is about as fatal. No
man can contemplate the probability of coming upon a rattler unawares
in the night without a shudder. While it was not likely that the
reptile, seeing the crouching man, would attack him, yet such things
have occurred and the lieutenant never allowed himself to forget the
fact.

His chief concern, however, was with the “two-legged rattler” who,
as matters stood, was tenfold more dangerous than the creeping one.
Neither of the men had gained a shot at the other, but both were
hopeful of doing so.

“It must be that in some way he has learned of my change of base. I
can’t understand how he got the knowledge, but if he thought I was
still sneaking along the side of that boulder he would not content
himself by waiting for me to come into range——”

Fortunate was it for Lieutenant Decker that he had made the change
described, for, with the same unity of thought that was marvelous,
the Apache had resorted to a similar artifice. Instead of confining
himself to the big boulder, he had stolen back among the smaller ones,
and wormed his way forward and around until he secured a position
some twenty feet distant, which allowed him to scan the two sides of
the boulder that had been under the eye of the white man for the last
fifteen or twenty minutes.

What prevented the perfect success of the Apache, however, was the fact
that he did not suspect his stratagem had been anticipated. He expected
to find his enemy crouching along one of the sides of the boulder,
waiting for the buck to reveal himself through some unguarded movement.

Failing to discover him at the first scrutiny, the Apache silently rose
to a half-standing posture, and, with his head thrust forward, peered
here and there in search of the man whom he was eager to shoot on
sight.

In this position his side was toward the officer, who laid down his
revolver and brought his Winchester to the front, carefully sighting at
the miscreant, who was not only hungry for his life, but had doubtless
dyed his hands in the blood of many an innocent person. No one could
have been more cautious than Lieutenant Decker, and yet, when he came
to adjust his aim, he made the exasperating discovery that no Apache
was in sight. He had vanished like the shadow of a passing cloud. It
was hard to say what had caused his disappearance. It may have been
due to the slight noise made by the white man in preparing to shoot,
or his failure to discern him where he thought he was, may have told
the startling truth with that lightning-like quickness which marks the
trained warrior, and caused him to drop out of view and withdraw from
the post of danger with the same celerity that had brought him to it.

Be that as it may, he was gone, and the problem seemed to revert to its
status at the beginning. The two enemies were still maneuvering against
each other, with no apparent advantage to either. The lieutenant,
however, fancied he had a trifle the better of it, for the Apache did
not know where to look for him, while he had a general knowledge of the
other’s location.

Now followed fifteen or twenty minutes of the most trying nature.
During the interval, the lieutenant neither saw nor heard anything
that could give him the slightest clue to the other’s whereabouts or
his line of procedure. When the ignorance had continued that long, he
began to suspect the warrior had left the place. He might have become
convinced that it was too risky to attempt to outwit the white man, or
he may have suspected he had a companion in the neighborhood, who was
likely to appear at any moment and turn the scales against him.

This was a comforting theory, but the officer was too wise to trust his
safety to it. It would have been in accord with the subtlety of the
Apache to contribute to the delusion. The strained situation, however,
could not last forever. Mendez was expected to arrive ere long, and he
would be certain to bring a change. If the warrior was as shrewd as
he appeared to be, he would find that instead of one man to contend
against, he had two and possibly more.

This reasoning became so convincing at the end of fifteen minutes more
that the lieutenant acted upon it. Withdrawing still further from
the big boulder, he picked his way among the smaller ones until near
the spot where he had seen the Apache rise to view and then drop out
of sight again. He certainly was gone, but might be not far off. The
lieutenant resumed his cautious circling of the huge boulder until he
had passed entirely around it and come back to his starting point. This
took considerable time and was accomplished with the utmost skill and
care, but he neither saw nor heard anything of his enemy.

“He has vamosed the ranch, of a certainty,” was the gratifying
conclusion of Decker, who felt a greater degree of security than had
been his since the discovery of his peril. “At any rate, I’ll signal to
Freeman.”

And he emitted the low, vibratory whistle, like the call of a
nightbird. It could be heard but a short distance away, though capable
of being made much louder and more penetrating.

“Freeman will be certain to hear it. He must be wondering at my delay
and won’t tarry in coming to me. It may be that the Apache is listening
for something of the kind and will read its meaning. If he does he is
welcome.”

The officer compressed his lips and held himself ready for any
demonstration from the dusky miscreant, who never would have given up
his attempt on his life unless compelled to do so by a fear of his own
safety. Glancing here, there and everywhere, the officer was prepared
to fire the instant the opportunity presented, and was a trifle
disappointed that it did not appear.

He had gone through too many perils, brief as was his service in the
Southwest, to throw away any opportunity by impatience or carelessness.
He repeated the signals several times, at intervals of a few minutes,
and watched and listened for the reply from an enemy instead of his
friend, but none came.

“The fellow has left, beyond a doubt,” was the decision reached; “he
has gone to join his companions and nothing further is to be feared
from him. There’s no saying, however, what some of the others may be
doing.”

The distance to the spring was short. The lieutenant showed the effects
of the heat by lying down on his face and taking another deep draught
of the tepid water, after which he donned his hat and looked around in
the gloom.

“Since the Apaches must know of this supply, I shouldn’t be surprised,
if some of them came here to quench their thirst, which being so, I’ll
locate a few paces from it. What the mischief can be the matter with
Freeman?” he asked himself, with a feeling of vague uneasiness; “I
thought he would be quick to respond to my call, but he hasn’t even
answered it.”

It was well that Decker took the precaution of withdrawing from the
spring and ensconcing himself among the surrounding boulders, where
he could peep forth, and, by the exercise of a little precaution, see
without being seen.

He had hardly taken this position when he caught the sound of footsteps
and the murmur of voices. In the stillness he plainly heard the words
spoken. Their surly, guttural tones, the very few sentences uttered,
and the fact that he could not understand a syllable, were proof that
the new arrivals were his old enemies, the Apaches. The carelessness
displayed by them was proof also that they had no suspicion of the
presence of any whites near. When anything of the kind is apprehended,
the cunning and caution of those red men cannot be surpassed. It is
almost impossible to approach them undetected, and they never indulge
in the carelessness shown in this instance.

Just before reaching the spring, they passed over a spot where the
moonlight struck them. There were three, dressed and accoutered like
the members of the band that had wrought such sad havoc during the past
day or two.

They took turns in kneeling down and quaffing from the spring, after
which they rose to their feet, and stood grouped together in plain
sight of the officer, who was stealthily watching them. One of them
appeared to hold his peace, while the others exchanged views upon some
matter that interested all.

“The next thing I must do,” thought the listener, “is to take lessons
in the beautiful Apache language. I may persuade Geronimo to give me
instruction, but, before he did that, he himself ought to have a few
lessons in other matters.”

Nothing would have been easier than to shoot one, and perhaps all,
from where the lieutenant was hiding. The distance was short, and the
wretches deserved no mercy. Had Freeman been with him, it is more than
probable that the two would have opened fire upon them with destructive
results.

“If they’ll only be obliging enough to stand in a row,” mused the
officer, struggling against the temptation, “I would let them have a
broadside, but the instant I dropped one the others would be off.”

Prudence demanded that he should leave them undisturbed. The sole
purpose of this remarkable expedition was to recover the lost child.
To make an attack on the group, without the certainty of annihilating
the whole three, would apprise the Apaches of what was on foot and
inevitably defeat it. Besides, there was no telling what had become
of Freeman. He, too, was likely to become involved, with disastrous
consequences to himself. The occasion was unquestionably one for the
exercise of self-control.

And Lieutenant Decker exercised it. He held himself motionless, with
his trusty Winchester in his ready grasp, and with a strong yearning to
try his skill upon the miscreants who knew no such quality as mercy.

The three warriors stood in plain view for fully ten minutes. Then they
walked deliberately away, taking the opposite course from that leading
to the rock where the two white men had arranged to await the return of
Mendez with word of the stolen child of Freeman.

The officer kept his position for several minutes after the
disappearance of the trio. There was no probability of their coming
back, after quenching their thirst, but he meant to make sure they were
beyond hearing before he moved.

He was uneasy over the silence of Freeman, and what he had just
witnessed increased his misgivings. If these warriors made this
visit, it was not unlikely that others had done the same before them.
Coming upon the white man suddenly, nothing was more certain than a
fatal collision, and yet it would seem that if anything of the kind
had occurred, there must have been a shot, an outcry or some kind of
noise which assuredly would have been heard by the lieutenant a short
distance away.

But it might have been otherwise. They may have been more guarded than
the last, and, stealing up to the spring, discovered the presence of
the white man. In that case, they could have crept forward unawares
and despatched him without any disturbance that could have been heard
twenty feet away.

“I hope this suspense will soon be over. It doesn’t seem to me that
there’s much chance of Freeman getting his little fellow back, even
with the aid of the matchless Mendez, and now it begins to look as if
it had gone ill with him. What a blow to the wife and mother, and yet
how many similar ones have been struck in the Southwest!”

The lieutenant now resorted to signaling again, listening with a
painful throbbing of the heart for the reply which came not.

“Something is wrong,” was his conclusion; “the poor fellow may have
grown impatient with waiting and started off on a hunt of his own. If
he has attempted anything of that kind, it is the end of the business
so far as _he_ is concerned. I should not have left him alone—Sh!”

At that instant he was thrilled by a peculiar sound. It was not a
signal or spoken word, but the low, moaning outcry made by a person in
the depth of distress or great suffering.

“It’s Freeman,” whispered the lieutenant; “and some grievous ill has
befallen him! He is not far off; what can it mean?”




CHAPTER XXIII.

WHAT BEFELL MAURICE FREEMAN.


It will not be denied that a most memorable experience befell
Lieutenant James Decker, and yet what shall be said of that which came
to Maurice Freeman, whom he left beside the spring, while he went
forward to reconnoiter?

After taking his second deep draught of water, he walked aside, as will
be remembered, being impelled thereto by the same distrust that led the
young officer some time later to hide himself while the three Apaches
came forward to quench their thirst.

“I understand his action,” reflected the father; “he distrusts my
judgment; he believes I am so upset by my affliction that I would run
blindly into danger; but he is mistaken. Heaven knows that I have
suffered and am still tortured by anxiety for my little boy, but I know
better than to make his peril greater by any recklessness on my part.

“I would be offended if it were any one except Lieutenant Decker,
but who can be offended with him?” asked the captain, with a glow of
admiring gratitude; “he has risked his life for the sake of little
Fulton and will continue to risk it so long as a shadow of hope
remains. He is one of the most chivalrous, noble-hearted young men I
ever knew, and if he lives will earn his star.”

When fifteen minutes passed without bringing the expected signal from
the lieutenant, Freeman wondered whether anything was amiss. Had he
thought any danger threatened the young officer, he would have hastened
to his aid, without hearing his call; but decided to await something
more definite.

With the same suddenness as his young friend, he became aware that he
was not alone. Some one was near him and that some one must be an enemy.

The disturbance which brought this knowledge was so exceedingly faint
that at first the captain could not decide what point it came from. He
did not dare move, therefore, through fear of a misstep; but, grasping
his Winchester, he looked and listened with all the acuteness he
possessed. The Apache must have been the first to detect the presence
of another, for, with all of Freeman’s caution, he was outwitted by the
warrior, who appeared so suddenly that he seemed to rise out of the
very earth and to be standing erect in front of the astonished captain
before he knew where to look for him.

But Freeman was a veteran soldier and was not the man to surrender, so
long as he was able to strike a blow for himself. He recoiled a step,
so as to secure elbow room, and was in the act of raising his rifle to
his shoulder, when the Apache spoke:

“No fire—me friend.”

“Heaven! Mendez, where did you come from?” asked the astounded white
man, recognizing the Apache, upon whom it may be said all their hopes
rested.

The warrior was standing in the edge of the moonlight where his hard
features were in so plain view that Freeman wondered why he failed to
identify him the instant he presented himself.

“’Pache here—soon come,” explained Mendez; “we go ’way, where don’t
come.”

This precaution was so sensible that Freeman willingly followed him a
few steps further, to a spot where they were not likely to be seen by
any one approaching the spring. When they halted it was beside one of
those boulders, so numerous in that section that it may be said they
were never out of sight. The Apache kept his feet, as did his companion.

The heart of Maurice Freeman was throbbing painfully, for instinctively
he felt that this singular visit had something to do with his child.
He and Lieutenant Decker supposed the friendly Apache was at a
considerable distance, intent on his task of rescuing the little one,
and now, much sooner than was anticipated, he had come back, almost to
his starting point, and the boy was not with him.

“But he brings news—he brings news and my heart tells me it is bad
news,” thought the stricken parent, striving manfully to quell all
signs of his great sorrow.

What intensified his anguish was the evident fact that something was
the matter with Mendez. While walking in front of the captain, he
made several missteps. Once he stumbled, lurching far to one side, and
violently recovering himself. Then he straightened up and moved with a
firm step, as if he had regained his self-control.

“He has managed in some way to get hold of his favorite drink,” was the
despairing thought of Freeman; “he is a fine one to attempt to get my
boy out of the hands of a band of his countrymen!”

If anything was needed to confirm this belief it was the manner of
Mendez. It has been shown that he was morose by nature, but now his
tongue was loosened in a way that Freeman had never known before. He
did not stop his walk until he had gone more than a hundred yards from
the spring. Then he stopped abruptly, wheeled about and said:

“Cap’n Freem’n brave man—heap big warrior!”

“No, Mendez, I am no braver than you, nor as good a warrior in fighting
your people, for I know less of them than you; but tell me, do you
bring any news of my boy, who was stolen by some of your people?”

Instead of replying, the Apache devoted a minute or two to regaining
mastery of himself. He managed to fix his black eyes on the white man,
with something of his old defiant expression, when meeting the gaze of
an enemy. By the exercise of his iron will, he succeeded in keeping his
poise, but he could not drive out the fumes of the horrible tiswin
from his brain. They loosened his tongue and gave an odd twist to his
ideas.

“’Pache got boy,” said he; “Mendez see ’im.”

“I know that as well as you, for I too saw him in their hands. Is that
all the news you bring me?”

“Mendez can’t git ’im.”

“Why not? Have they put him to death?”

The Apache shook his head, without speaking.

“I thought Mendez was a great warrior,” said Freeman, hoping to taunt
him into an effort that he seemed reluctant or unable to make; “they
told me he could do anything; that he could get my child for me; that
he would earn the reward I will give him——”

“Mendez want no reward—he take no money!” interrupted the Apache,
fiercely thumping his breast.

“Then has he become a squaw? Is he no longer the great warrior that he
used to be? Has he become old and weak?”

“Mendez not old—Mendez not weak! He great warrior!”

Any reflection upon the courage or skill of the friendly Apache roused
his resentment, which was the reason why Freeman pressed him.

“Where is your greatness? You come and tell me that you cannot get my
boy away from your people, and yet it is not long ago that you set out
to do so. You did not say then you could not take him from them, for
you were the brave Mendez that the white people praise and that is
not afraid of any one, whether he be white man or red man. Now you are
_afraid_.”

“Mendez not ’fraid! white man lie!” the warrior thundered as he laid
his hand on his knife.

“I am not afraid of you, Mendez, but you have been too good a friend of
the white people for any of them to wish to harm you. But I repeat your
own words. Shall I tell you what is the matter with you?”

“No matter wi’ Mendez! He brave—he strong—he fight.”

“There is much the matter with you; you have been drinking tiswin; you
are not yourself; but for the tiswin you would be the true, brave,
noble Mendez.”

This charge being true, intensified the anger of the Apache. He again
placed his hand on his knife and drew it partly forth. His scowling
face, never attractive at its best, was working with rage. He seemed
to be gathering himself to leap upon the man who dared to speak these
words to him. Believing he was about to do so, Freeman quietly braced
himself for the struggle. He disliked to come to violence with one that
had done so much for the settlers and the army, but the exasperation of
the captain can be understood. At the moment when his hopes were at the
highest, and when he was certain that the scout was putting forth his
best efforts, he came staggering back to his friends maudlin, helpless,
worthless, good for nothing.

The belief was strong with the parent that if this opportunity was
allowed to pass, it would not come again. More than one peculiar
circumstance favored the cunning and ability of the scout, the
combination being of that nature that a repetition was not in the
natural order of things.

The weakness of Mendez for the vicious drink was well known, and no
person could be better aware of its palsying effects than Mendez
himself. It was to be expected that he would indulge in it when not
on duty and the chance offered, but when engaged on an enterprise
in which his highest skill was needed, there was no palliation for
his dissipation. He must have drunk deliberately, and the father,
distressed by fears for his child, could find no excuse for him. His
anger was natural.

But, if the Apache meditated an attack on the white man, he changed his
mind for the moment. He drew his hand from his knife.

“Say Mendez weak?—say he squaw?” he mumbled.

Freeman saw an appeal in these questions. It was as if the fellow had
become sensible of his condition and craved indulgence rather than
censure.

“The real Mendez is a brave warrior, but, if he is afraid of the
Apaches, he is not Mendez; if he wishes to show to his white brother
that he is still brave let him go the Apaches and bring back the boy
they hold a prisoner; then Mendez will be cunning, he will be brave, he
will be a great warrior.”

The fellow straightened up with a majestic dignity that could not fail
to command respect. He had thrown off the spell of the horrible stuff,
as a Roman warrior might fling off his cloak to give his limbs freer
play.

“Mendez is brave: he is a great warrior; he is greater than Geronimo
or Cochise; he is not afraid of them; he will bring back the child to
his white brother; let his white brother wait here and soon his heart
shall be made glad; he shall sing with joy like the birds in the trees.
Mendez will soon return; let my brother have patience.”

Maurice Freeman was amazed. He had never heard the surly fellow
speak the English tongue with such fluency and eloquence. It was a
revelation. He appeared to be another person. He towered in height and
was the picture of the great Tecumseh himself, addressing an array of
chieftains and urging them to battle.

Before the white man could frame a suitable reply, Mendez turned and
strode off, his step that of a conqueror. Captain Freeman gazed in
silent wonderment at the figure until it vanished in the gloom and he
was left alone.

The only explanation that Freeman could find for this extraordinary
occurrence was that when Mendez came to him, though he was so under the
influence of tiswin, he was conscious of his unfitness for the task he
had undertaken. Prompted by a strange self-accusation, proving that
conscience burns in the breast of every being, he had come to make
confession. Then he was so stung by the reproofs of the white man that
he was roused out of his sodden condition. He had really thrown off the
effects of the poison. In other words he was sober, and the Mendez of
old.

With his self-restoration came his natural courage and confidence in
his own prowess. He felt able to do what he had planned, and set out to
do it. He would show Captain Freeman, not by words but by acts, that he
was the invincible Mendez, as the white man had described him to the
Apache himself.

All this was well, but it could not remove the shuddering dread from
the heart of the father that the fatal blunder had already been made.
The Apache’s relapse had allowed the golden chance to slip beyond
repairing or recovery.

Freeman felt the need of Lieutenant Decker’s presence and counsel,
but he could not go to him, for the signal agreed upon had not been
sounded, and besides, the instructions of Mendez were that the father
should wait where he was until his dusky friend returned. He was
obliged, therefore, to content himself as best he might.

How long would he be gone? Would it be one hour, two hours, until
daylight, or, if he gave way to his weakness again, would he ever
return?

Had not the hostiles learned what he was trying to do? Had they not
plied him with the atrocious stuff on purpose that he should make an
exhibition of himself?

These and similar questionings were rioting in the brain of Maurice
Freeman, when he perceived that Mendez was with him again. He appeared
with the same strange suddenness as before, but alas! he was alone.

“Where is my boy?” asked the agonized father.

“The heart of Mendez is heavy, for he brings evil tidings; the pappoose
of his white brother is—dead.”




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE REALITY.


As Mendez pronounced the dreadful words, the father, overcome by his
emotions, uttered a groan and sank to the earth. As if pitying his
grief, and feeling that it was idle to say anything more, the Apache
turned slowly about and walked away, leaving the white man alone with
his grief.

And then some one touched Freeman on the shoulder, shook him and
he—awoke.

It was all a dream. He had sat down with his back against the boulder
to await the signal from Lieutenant Decker, and, hearing it not, had
sunk into a restless sleep, and now opened his eyes under the vigorous
stirring of his young friend.

“Come,” said the officer in a guarded voice, “a sentinel must not sleep
on his post. I heard you moan and thought you had been hurt.”

It is impossible to throw off on the instant the effects of a vivid
dream. It will linger for a time in our thoughts, even though strong
sense tells us the whole thing is absurd. Captain Freeman during his
days of campaigning had learned to fall asleep and to awaken quickly.
He saw almost on the instant the true situation and greeted his friend
cordially and cautiously.

“This was a piece of thoughtlessness on my part; but, lieutenant, I
have gone through a frightful dream: it makes me shudder even now.”

“I thought something of the kind was under way, for I was guided to
this spot by a moan that was like that of a dying person. It was only a
little while ago that three Apaches came down to the spring or rivulet,
as you may call it, to drink. They stood for some minutes talking. Had
you groaned in your sleep or breathed heavily, your slumber would have
turned to that which knows no waking.”

“I have been fortunate, but perhaps it is well that I slept, and yet I
am sorry, for its remembrance is terrible.”

“You have no faith in dreams, captain, I am sure?”

“None the less they impress us, no matter how we ridicule them.”

“But come! that must have been a lively one; let me hear about it.”

Seated under the shadow of the huge boulder, where they knew no
danger threatened, the two talked freely, though each took care that
their voices did not penetrate far from the spot. Freeman gave the
particulars of his dream, and it was plain that despite his rugged
nature it had made a deep impression on him.

“Lieutenant, do you suppose there is anything in it?” he asked at the
conclusion of the singular story. The young man respected the sorrow
of the elder too sincerely to make light of what he said, though he
himself felt not the slightest faith in the warnings and visions which
it is claimed sometimes come to people in slumber.

“Nothing at all; your feelings have been so wrought up with anxiety
that it would be still stranger if you had not dreamed of your boy. How
could it be otherwise when there is nothing else in your thoughts?”

“But it was so realistic that it clings by me.”

“As a matter of course; your brain was surcharged and overflowed with
the same string of ideas, and did not cease its throbbings when the
rest of the body was asleep. They say we never dream of anything which
has not previously been in our thoughts, but that is an error, for I
know I have had fancies in sleep which had never been in my head during
waking hours.”

“I have always held the same views as you, and yet we cannot deny,
lieutenant, that there have been many verifications of dreams. To
dispute it would be to make out some of the best of men and women to be
falsifiers.”

“In their cases, I think, a good deal was due to imagination, but you
are not of that build. A physician would explain your ugly dream on the
plainest of physiological principles, so literally there’s nothing in
it.”

“You know how fond Mendez is of tiswin.”

“That feature alone proves the character of your vision. The fellow
shares with his people the weakness for that extract of hades, but when
he is engaged on business like this you could not induce him to swallow
a drop, if you held it under his nose. That phase of your dream,
therefore, condemns it all.”

“I am relieved to hear you say so,” remarked Freeman with a sigh; “you
know more about him than I do, and could hardly mistake on that point.”

“Rather curiously it is only a few days ago that some of us were
talking about that very peculiarity. One of the men who had scouted
for months with him and Cemuri said that both had a certain
conscientiousness or rather devotion to duty which kept them strictly
sober, till their work is done. Then, too,” added the lieutenant, as if
resolved to leave no foundation for Freeman’s fears, “there is no way
by which Mendez could have got the vile stuff, had he been so disposed.”

“Could he not have gone among the Apaches and drunk with them?”

“He, a White Mountain Apache, whose work for us is well known, venture
among the hostiles, when they are on the war path!” exclaimed Decker,
turning with astonishment to his companion; “why do not you and I go
among them? It would be less sensible for him, since they hate him more
than both of us together.”

“Well,” said Freeman, “your words have given me comfort. I have never
had any experience in the dreams which serve as warnings.”

“Besides,” added the lieutenant, as the new thought struck him, “my
recollection of the old superstition is that dreams go by contraries,
so that on that basis your omen is a good one. Let me see—the theory
was that every dream was to be translated by the rule of contraries,
unless it came to us of a Friday night. Since this is Thursday evening
that lets you out.”

“Enough,” said Freeman, now able to rally from his depression; “I care
nothing for the dream, and can look at it through your eyes. You have
not told me whether you saw or heard anything out of the usual, though
there must have been something of the sort, or you forgot to give that
call for me to join you.”

“Well,” replied the lieutenant lightly, “I had a little entertainment
of my own, and at one time it looked as if matters would become lively.”

Thereupon he gave the incidents which have already been told the
reader, and which drove the last remnants of the dream from Freeman’s
thoughts.

“It seems to me,” said the captain, “that what you tell me gives good
cause for uneasiness.”

“How so?”

“You have met four of the Apaches at least, or rather you saw them. We
thought none of them were near. We must be close to the main party.”

“That does not follow; the one with whom I played hide and seek was a
sort of wanderer. He had drifted into this section, and, not liking the
look of things, has gone.”

“But he learned that you were here—you a white man, and would not be
likely to believe you were alone.”

“I do not see why he should not think so, since he himself was alone.
He has known of the water here and concluded that I had come from
somewhere to get a drink and was on my return, when we came near
running against each other. Remember that we did not meet at the rock
where we agreed to await the return of Mendez, so he can know nothing
of that.”

“But, if he carries the news to camp, will not the Apaches suspect the
truth, or perhaps more than the truth? They will think a party of white
men are after my child and become doubly cautious.”

“While it is possible you may be right, I place less importance on the
incident than you.”

“And the three whom you saw at the spring?”

“Their course proved they had not the slightest suspicion of anything
of that nature. Had they believed any of us were near, they would have
come and gone without detection, or they would have done worse.”

“Well, I hope it is as you say; I am in that nervous state that I
cannot look at matters with the coolness you do.”

“Don’t get the idea that I consider it fair sailing before us. Mendez
has a hard job in hand, and, were any one else concerned, I would have
little hope; but he understands what he is doing and is following
some carefully laid plan of his own. At any rate we shall know before
morning.”

The consciousness that the crisis was so near added to the uneasiness
of Freeman. He rose to his feet and looked anxiously around in the
gloom; but they were so far removed from the little rivulet or spring
of water that a dozen men might have come and gone without being seen,
had they but exercised ordinary caution.

“Since there is no telling when Mendez may return,” suggested Freeman,
“is it not best that we should return to the other rock?”

Lieutenant Decker saw no objection to this course, and he, too, rose to
his feet. He stood a moment, debating some question with himself.

“I wonder,” he finally said, “whether any more of them can be in the
neighborhood. I am inclined to take another look at the spring. If you
will remain here, I will promise not to keep you waiting more than a
few minutes.”

“Very well; there’s no fear of my falling asleep again, and if you are
absent too long I will go forward and find out the cause.”

“Wait for the signal, or better, I will return to you.”

“It is the same distrust,” reflected Freeman, when he was once more
left alone; “but in this business I suppose one man is better than two.”

Despite the reassuring words of the lieutenant, he was somewhat
troubled by the new phase of the situation. Of the four Apaches whom he
had seen, one received a sharp reminder of the presence of a white man
in the neighborhood. If he carried the news to the camp of his people,
they would see the probable meaning of it, since no white person
would come thither for a drink of water, unless he left companions
in the vicinity. The fact that he was near the spring would indicate
that others were not far off, and that the solitary Apache held such
belief was almost proved by his withdrawal in the face of danger. A
warrior with his acumen and skill, who had come so near outwitting his
antagonist, would not be apt to give up the game of hide and seek,
unless he expected a change of conditions through the arrival of other
white men. He must have felt himself the equal of a single foe, but
had no wish to become involved with several. His course was simply a
retreat before an enemy whom he expected to be joined by reinforcements.

On the other hand, he might be operating on his own responsibility, or,
if a scout, would not rejoin the main party until he could take more
definite information to them.

It will be seen that the young officer was in a maze of doubt and
speculation. Like the detective trying to trace a crime, he could spin
theories without limit, only perhaps to find them all wrong in the end.
The situation which confronted them was that they were to wait at the
rock some distance off until the coming of Mendez, and when he came, he
would bring good or evil news. That was the situation in a nutshell.

Had the lieutenant discovered more Apaches near the spring, he would
have seen cause for misgiving and alarm. He, therefore, reconnoitered
the spot with the utmost care, listening and peering here and there
with the patient caution of an Apache himself. It required but a brief
while, however, to satisfy himself that none of his enemies were
prowling in the neighborhood. Some of them might have come and gone,
while he was holding converse with Freeman, but it was unlikely.

The lieutenant, therefore, did not hesitate to emit the guarded whistle
which quickly brought his friend to his side.

“I have discovered nothing amiss,” he explained; “I don’t believe any
of them have been here since the three I told you about.”

“I presume you wish to take the lead as usual?”

“It makes no difference,” replied Decker, who, however, took care to
place himself in advance, with the other only two or three yards behind
him. The route had become familiar to both and neither needed to warn
the other to be careful. They advanced in the crouching posture to
which they had become accustomed, with heads thrown forward, stepping
softly, looking keenly on all sides and listening for the first
indication of danger, which might come from the rear as well as from
the front.

When the lieutenant found himself facing the huge boulder where he had
encountered the Apache some time before, he paused, raising his hand
for Freeman to do the same. It seemed as if his old enemy must still
be near, and the young man did not pass the dangerous point until he
had called into play all the skill of which he was master and convinced
himself that nothing further was to be feared. Then the two picked
their way to the rendezvous by the rock.




CHAPTER XXV.

A REMINISCENCE.


Reaching the rock, the two men made another reconnaissance before
sitting down to await the return of the White Mountain Apache. Nothing
was discovered to cause misgiving, and they were almost convinced that
they would remain undisturbed until the coming of the scout upon whom
all their hopes were now placed.

The moon had passed further over in the heavens, and its face was
frequently screened by drifting masses of clouds which rendered
its light treacherous and uncertain. They talked in low tones, not
forgetting to keep constant watch for the approach of their enemies,
some of whom it was certain were at no great distance.

“That affair of mine with the rattlesnake,” said the lieutenant,
“recalled the singular adventure of two scouts under Major Forsythe,
in the autumn of 1868. The peace commissioners concluded treaties the
previous year with the Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Kiowas, Comanches and
Apaches. Other treaties were formed, the object being to secure the
removal of the different tribes to the reservations selected for them.
There was delay and bad faith on the part of our agents, and, in the
face of the treaties, many outrages were committed by the Indians in
Kansas and Colorado. Troops were kept on watch along the lines of
travel across the State of Kansas into Colorado, and a company of
scouts under Major Forsythe, numbering fifty picked men, left Fort
Hayes, Kansas, in September. A week was spent in scouting, when they
reached Fort Wallace, where Forsythe proceeded to refit his command.
Then news came that the Indians had attacked a train near Sheridan, a
small railway town, eighty miles away. Forsythe set out with his force
to punish the marauders.

“The Indians were pressed so hard that they resorted to their old
trick of breaking up into smaller parties, thus confusing their trail
and rendering effective pursuit impossible. Forsythe pushed on to the
Republican River, where he struck another trail which grew broader and
more distinct, until it was clear that a large number of horses and
cattle had been recently driven over it.

“At the close of day, the command went into camp on the Arickaree Fork
of the Republican, at a point were the river divides so as to inclose
a low sandy island about a hundred yards long. The soldiers had but
one day’s provisions, but their intention was to push on and strike
the Indians, who were known to be not far off. At daylight, while the
men were saddling up, they were attacked by fully a thousand Brulés,
Sioux, Cheyennes and ‘Dog Soldiers.’ Forsythe retreated to the island,
and the position was made as strong as possible. In the first attack,
Forsythe was badly wounded and two of his men killed. A few minutes
later a second shot shattered the major’s left leg between the knee and
ankle. Almost at the same moment, the surgeon was killed. Every horse
was shot. That fight and siege formed one of the most fearful episodes
in the history of our Indian wars. At the end of the first day not a
horse was alive, the provisions were gone, the surgeon was dead, there
were no medical stores, four men were killed, four mortally and four
badly wounded, ten others being slightly hurt, so that almost one-half
of the command had been struck.

“On the other hand, the Indians had been decisively repulsed, the
soldiers had plenty of ammunition, water could be obtained by digging
in the sand, and the bodies of the horses and mules would ward off
starvation. But the men needed help in the worst way. The nearest post
from which this could be obtained was Fort Wallace, one hundred and
ten miles distant. Two of the best scouts, Trudeau and Jack Stillwell,
volunteered to run the gauntlet.

“As soon as it was dark, they stole from the island. There was little
hope that they would succeed, but both men were brave and cool-headed,
and, if the thing were possible, they were the ones to accomplish it.
The defenders waited long and listened, and hearing nothing, believed
they had been captured. At dusk on the second day, during which there
was continuous fighting, two more scouts were sent out, but they were
discovered and barely succeeded in getting back to the island. This
convinced all that Stillwell and Trudeau had failed, but such was not
the fact.

“Those two scouts, in leaving the island, moved down stream, keeping as
near the middle as they could. The water was so shallow that neither
could swim, and they crawled on their hands and knees for most of the
distance. Lucky for the men, the night was clouded, and the moon had
set before they left the island. They kept in the river for three miles
when they waded ashore, and, hiding their trail as best they could,
made for the nearest timber. When day dawned, they were ten miles from
the river and their danger was greater than ever. The Indians were
patrolling the stream, on the watch for just such attempts and the
prairie grass was so short that it was impossible for the scouts to
advance without exposing themselves. The only way to escape capture was
to conceal themselves and wait for night.

“Sweeping the surrounding prairie, they observed a spot where the grass
was about a foot higher than the rest. With the utmost care they crept
to it and found it just the place they wanted. The dead body of some
animal had acted as a fertilizer, causing the grass to grow with more
vigor and density than elsewhere. The bones were those of a buffalo
whose flesh had disappeared long before.

“Lying down in this hiding place, the scouts munched the slight meal
they had brought with them, and then peeped out at their surroundings,
which were anything but reassuring. Indian horsemen seemed to be moving
on all sides, and the sound of firing from up the river showed that
fighting had been renewed. Neither of the scouts dared rise from a
prone position, and were in constant danger of discovery. If some of
the sharp-eyed redskins detected the trail leading from the river, they
were certain to follow it to the clump of grass.

“Trudeau and Stillwell agreed to take turns in sleeping and watching
for every three hours. Trudeau was the first to act as sentinel. He lay
upon his side, took a big chew of his army plug tobacco, and peeped
between the blades of grass, while his companion slept. Before long
Trudeau saw a sight which was so alarming that he awoke his companion.
Twenty Indian horsemen were approaching and were sure to pass very
close to the clump of grass, even if they did not ride through it.

“Stillwell peeped out and said:

“‘We’ve got to hug the ground close, but if they see us, they’ll find
out we come high.’ ‘You bet,’ replied Trudeau and the two grimly waited
events.

“The Indians seemed to have no special business, and rode so slowly
that it was a long time before they reached the point only a hundred
yards away. It was at this critical moment that a feeling of impending
danger caused Stillwell to turn his head. As he did so, he saw an
immense rattlesnake gliding through the bones of the dead buffalo and
coming straight toward them. It looked as if the scouts had invaded
the reptile’s home, for he did that which my pet did not do—he advanced
upon them with the intention of attack.

“The first thought of the men was to shoot or to club him to death
with the stocks of their rifles, but any such act would have revealed
their presence to the Indians now close at hand. The next thought was
to stare the snake out of countenance as the rattler himself sometimes
does with his victims. Stillwell made the attempt, but without any
success. The snake meant business.

“The rattler came straight forward until within four feet of Trudeau,
when he began coiling to strike. Not a moment was to be lost, and
Stillwell made up his mind to shoot the reptile. He preferred death at
the hands of the redskins to that from the bite of the rattler.

“For a minute or two, however, the jaws of Trudeau had been vigorously
working on the tobacco in his mouth. He had accumulated a volume of
spittle, surcharged with nicotine. He was nearer to the snake than
his companion, and he now shot out a thick yellow stream, as if from
the nozzle of a hose. It landed directly in the eyes and mouth of the
rattler, as he was almost in the act of striking.

“Well,” said Lieutenant Decker, with a smile, “that particular serpent
had never learned to chew, and the pungent stuff in his eyes and mouth
must have disgusted him to fury. He had never been attacked with that
sort of ammunition and it threw him into a panic. He flung himself out
of his coil a good deal quicker than he entered it, and, turning tail,
glided through the grass and out of sight with such celerity that the
scouts, despite their dangerous situation, shook with silent laughter.

“Their mirth did not last long, for the Indians were so near that
discovery seemed inevitable. Lying as flat as they could, and wishing
they had the power to stamp themselves into the earth, the scouts
knew that a minute or two would decide their fate. Capture by the
Indians meant death by torture, and they held their rifles tightly
grasped, resolved that if the worst came they would prove the truth of
Stillwell’s boast that they ‘came high.’

“The redskins, however, were not making for the clump of grass. They
rode past, the horses on a walk and so close that their hoofbeats and
the mumble of their voices were plainly heard, but they did not stop
and that particular danger was over.

“Trudeau and Stillwell alternately watched and slept until night
came again. The rattler was too sick of his reception to bother them
further, and not once did the Indians approach so near as in the early
forenoon. When the coast was clear, the two stole out from their hiding
place and resumed their journey to Fort Wallace, walking rapidly and
often breaking into a trot. They were tough fellows who could keep
this up for hours, and, knowing the extremity of their friends on the
island, they did not spare themselves. They reached Fort Wallace and
quickly made known the need of sending instant help to Major Forsythe.

“Such an appeal is never made in vain, and Major Bankhead was soon on
the way with four troops of cavalry. The Indians tried to jump his camp
twenty miles from the Arickaree, but failed, and, without waiting to
give battle, the whole band retreated. Major Forsythe and what was left
of his command were saved.”[1]

“And it was your experience with the rattler a little while ago that
called this incident to mind?” was the inquiring comment of Captain
Freeman.

“Yes; I had not thought of it for a long time, but when I leveled my
revolver and was about to pull trigger, the whole thing flashed upon
me. I saw the similarity of my situation with that of Stillwell and
Trudeau, though I was not in quite so bad a fix, for the rattler did
not mean to attack me, if I let him alone, and there was but the single
Indian that was looking for me. But to fire my pistol would undo what I
had accomplished by my change of base.”

“You had other charges in the weapon, to say nothing of your
Winchester, which was within reach.”

“It was not that, but the dusky dog would have known where I was and
gained the advantage that was mine.”

“It did you no good.”

“On the contrary, it convinced him that I was up to his tricks and
caused him to withdraw without any more attempts against me.”

During these minutes, the two maintained their watchfulness. The words
were spoken in low tones, and, while the lieutenant was relating his
reminiscence, he continually glanced from side to side. The fact that
all remained tranquil confirmed the two in their growing belief that
nothing was to be feared from the Apaches.

“It must be growing late,” finally remarked Freeman, “and Mendez, it
seems to me, is overdue.”

The lieutenant drew out his watch, but the moonlight was not strong
enough for him to discern the figures.

“I’m bound to know the time,” he said, removing his cap, so as to shade
the light of the match which he drew from the small rubber safe he
always carried and scraped it across the face of the rock.

“That’s risky business,” whispered his companion.

“That’s the reason I’m doing it,” replied the officer, speaking more
truthfully than he suspected. “But it shan’t give much help to any of
the fellows lurking near.”

Before the twist of flame could assume shape a puff of the breath
extinguished it.

“It’s later than I suspected,” he remarked.

“I suppose it is near ten o’clock?”

“It’s a quarter to eleven.”

“It must be time to look for Mendez.”

“I think so, but there’s no certainty about it; he may be here in five
minutes and not for five hours. I suspect he will delay his return for
a considerable while.”

“For what cause?”

“You know there isn’t much chance of doing anything against Maroz and
Ceballos for a long time yet, and there is no need, therefore, of his
coming here and waiting for hours. He would have to lose sight of
them for a good while, so that the conditions are likely to change
very materially when he ventures on a move against them, whereas, by
keeping the two under his eye until it was time to move, he could do so
intelligently.”

“Furthermore, so long as he keeps beyond our reach we can’t urge him to
a haste that is against his judgment.”

“Doubtless that has something to do with it, but—_st_!”

Both heard the same signal that had alarmed Freeman during the
afternoon, when he believed he was inextricably caught. They listened
for its repetition, but the next few minutes were marked by perfect
stillness. Then, when they whispered their speculations about its
import, they disagreed as to the point whence it came.

Freeman thought it was from the direction of the rivulet, where they
had quenched their thirst, but the lieutenant was positive that it
issued from a spot at right angles to that course.

“We’ll find out when we hear it again, as we shall do in a few minutes.”

“Do you think it is Mendez?”

“Yes, but it won’t do to bank on it until we get further data; it’s the
favorite signal of his to announce his coming, but no doubt others of
his people use a similar call. If it is he he will come right to this
spot—ah, you are right!”

So it proved. The gentle whistle sounded again and this time there
could be no mistaking its source; it was about half way between the
rock and the rivulet or spring.

“Don’t forget that it may be some one else; if so, leave him to
me,” said the officer, stealthily drawing his revolver; “I’ve
been disappointed so many times to-day that I am entitled to this
chance—there he is!”

The outlines of an Apache warrior silently assumed shape in the dim
moonlight, and another “disappointment” fell to the lot of Lieutenant
Decker, who returned his weapon to its place as he recognized Mendez,
when he uttered a single word of greeting.

It takes a great deal to rouse the emotions of an American Indian, but
if ever there was an amazed warrior it was this White Mountain Apache.
He had visited the camp of Maroz and Ceballos and the discovery he made
was one that fairly carried him off his feet, and which, when related
to Maurice Freeman and Lieutenant Decker, held them dumfounded with
astonishment.

[1] This incident is a fact.




CHAPTER XXVI.

A SURPRISE INDEED.


Mendez, the White Mountain Apache and friend of the whites, possessed
mental gifts above most of his race. More than once he had displayed
a grasp of details and a comprehension of plans rarely shown by his
people, and which were so unexpected to the officers on the reservation
that they were filled with admiration. They trusted more to his skill
and perception than they did to any other of the dusky scouts.

He had little to say, immediately after the outbreak of Maroz and
Ceballos, but those who knew him were sure his active brain was at
work, and that, sooner or later, he would surprise them by some exploit
that proved an almost intuitive knowledge of the schemes of the
hostiles.

The part he acted during the day of the revolt of Maroz and Ceballos
has been told. Lieutenant Decker, who was his constant companion,
afterward stated that from the moment he rode out from Fort Reno with
him and the three cavalrymen, he did not utter twenty words, and those
that fell from his lips were mostly in answer to inquiries, while the
majority remained unanswered.

It is to be presumed that Mendez was satisfied with the steps taken to
head off Maroz and his confederates, for, had it been otherwise, he
would have protested. But the effort failed, and then the fellow found
use for his tongue. He was freely consulted by the colonel, and the
steps that were taken to subdue the outbreak were materially modified
to meet the views of the sagacious Mendez.

No member of the hostiles knew more about the fastnesses of the Apache
range than did he. He read in the display of the signal smoke and the
actions of the band that had slain the family of Captain Murray an
attempt to mislead the whites as to their true purpose. Instead of
rendezvousing at the advanced point, where from their actions it would
be supposed they had arranged to come together, they fixed upon a wild,
precipitous gorge nearly two miles further in the mountains.

Locating there and keeping vigilant watch against surprise the leaders
would send out their runners and bring in all the disaffected warriors
that could be persuaded to take the risk of another revolt against the
authorities. When they were fully assembled they would burst from the
mountains like a cyclone and spread woe and death among the ranches and
settlements over an area of hundreds of square miles.

To crush this rebellion in the bud was the work of the soldiers, and
enough has been told to show that it was a task most difficult of
accomplishment. How could the brave boys in blue hope to surprise the
camp of the hostiles, when they were prepared for such an attempt and
were certain to take every possible precaution against it?

Evidently there was but one way and even that offered scant probability
of success. By taking the direct trail of the raiders and following
it into the mountains every rod of advance would become known to the
Apaches. They would form their ambush, empty many a saddle and scatter
the survivors in dismay. It was for just such a campaign that the
hostiles planned and which they believed was to be attempted against
them.

It is not insisted that, but for Mendez, this course would have been
adopted. The intelligent officers and soldiers of the Southwest learned
fast, and speedily became adepts in the subtlety of Apache warfare.
They learned how to ambuscade their dusky foes as well as to avoid the
traps set for them, and the fight was often that of cunning against
cunning, rather than bravery against bravery.

The colonel, however, willingly based his course of action on the
belief of Mendez that the rendezvous of the hostiles had been fixed at
a certain point among the foothills, which he described and located so
clearly that the other White Mountain scouts recognized the spot, and
were able to guide the troops unerringly to it, by a route which would
allow them to use their horses for most of the distance.

Fort Reno, standing on the western bank of the Tonto, is fully twenty
miles north of the Salt River, a principal tributary of the Gila.
Instead of riding eastward toward the Sierra Ancha, which would have
been the most direct route, the cavalry swept down the valley of the
smaller stream, crossed the larger, and then headed eastward toward the
Apache range, passing to the south of Grape Vine Spring, and fording
Pinal Creek, which flows directly northward into the Salt River.

Under the guidance of the Indian scouts, this was carried out with
perfect success, the cavalry entering the foothills from an unexpected
point, and stealing their way toward the Apache camp without detection
from the enemy.

But the ride was a tremendous one, covering as it did a distance of
more than fifty miles. It was not begun until the afternoon was well
along, and when daylight dawned much was still before them. They were
forced to halt to rest their exhausted animals and to prepare for the
more delicate and dangerous work before them.

Meantime Mendez and Lieutenant Decker were doing their part well.
Accompanied by a squad of half a dozen cavalry, they crossed Salt River
at a point where they were certain of being seen by the hostiles,
riding here and there, apparently in a blind search for the trail. They
were ordered to keep this up until night, and then recross at different
points, come together on the northern bank and return to the fort.

It will be understood that the object of this diversion was to deceive
the hostiles as to the real plan of campaign. It was sought to make
them believe the pursuit and attack would come from the front, whereas,
the cavalry were at that very time making all haste to reach the rear
of their camp.

The members of the smaller party found their way in due time to the
fort, with the exception of a couple—Mendez and Lieutenant Decker. They
stayed behind and pushed matters on their own account.

Their purpose was altogether different from that of Captain Shindle and
the others, for they could not hope to accomplish anything effective
against the hostiles: they were aiming to help Maurice Freeman to
recover his boy.

As the lieutenant had stated, Mendez knew and told him that the father
would do precisely what he did do, and that, unless he was checked, he
would fall a victim to Apache ferocity, without affording the slightest
aid to his child. Freeman had made the natural mistake of believing the
hostiles would rendezvous at a point much further in advance than they
did. Some of their scouts would be there, on the watch for the approach
of the whites, and the chance of the father’s circumventing them was as
one in a million.

The lieutenant and the scout, having completed all they could do in the
way of diverting the suspicion of the Apaches, now gave their whole
energy to the help of the stricken parent.

The whole question narrowed down to that of the whereabouts of the
captive, and whether it was possible to secure possession of him
unharmed. Mendez suspected that Maroz and Ceballos, with probably
one or two companions, were at the advanced position referred to,
but whether they retained the immediate custody of the child, or had
sent him further into the mountains with the main band, or had put
him to death, were questions which could be answered only by personal
investigation.

The natural conclusion was that the first proceeding of the leaders
in the outbreak would be to send the child away from them, not only
as a surer means against his recapture, but to leave his abductors
untrammeled in their movements. Such, I say, was the natural theory,
but the sagacious Mendez saw a reason for hoping that the reverse was
the case; in other words, that matters were just as it was desired they
should be.

Maroz was irrestrainable in his ferocity when aroused. No crueler
savage ever lived. He carried off little Fulton Freeman, because he saw
the chance of torturing his parents’ hearts with deeper grief by doing
so than by driving a bullet through his brain. He helped to shoot down
the children of Captain Murray, because their father and mother fell
during the opening of the scrimmage, and, therefore, they could not be
distressed further; but he recognized the son of Freeman and saw his
opportunity.

To turn the little fellow over to the other Apaches back in the
mountains would be to relinquish, for a time at least, control of his
fate. There were turbulent spirits with the main band who were likely
to insist on their own views as to what should be done with him. It was
not improbable that these would conflict with the purposes of Maroz and
cause him keen disappointment.

It cannot be denied that this was theorizing matters down to a fine
point, but it was the theory upon which Mendez acted in his attempts to
help Maurice Freeman in his extremity.

The correctness of his belief in the first instance was proven by
his discovery of the white man near where he expected him to be. Not
intending to be hampered by the movements of the anxious parent, his
first step was to pilot him to a safe point, and leave him in the
company of the lieutenant until such time as their services should be
needed—a contingency that, as the Apache viewed it, was so remote as to
be almost out of sight.

Parting from them, as has been described elsewhere, Mendez began one of
the most difficult tasks of his life: it was that of locating not only
Maroz and Ceballos, but the young captive. That had to be done before
the still harder work of rescuing the little one should be attempted.

It is not worth while to follow the wonderful scout, step by step, in
his approach to the camp of the hostiles. It may be described as the
absolute perfection of woodcraft—noiseless, unerring, and as direct
as that of the bloodhound on the trail of the fugitive. As the gloom
closed him in, and the black eyes lost half their function, his
advance showed hardly any diminution, for he was never at a loss as to
the course to take.

But there came a time when he was within a stone’s throw almost of the
spot he had fixed upon as the right one that his phantom-like progress
was checked. The slow, silent, gliding motion ceased and the dusky
scout stood motionless.

At that moment he was among the stunted pines, where the moonlight was
so faint that his keen vision could penetrate only a short distance
in any direction, but the conviction was strong upon him that some
person was near. He had not seen or heard anything to impart such
knowledge, but that peculiar sense known by the name of intuition was
as unmistakable as sight or hearing could have been.

Sure enough, while gazing to the right, he outlined the figure of an
Apache warrior, standing as quiet as himself, in a spot where the dim
illumination would have been secure protection against any eyes except
those of Mendez. The figure remained stationary only a few seconds
when it vanished among the trees in the direction of the camp of the
hostiles.

As it moved off the friendly scout received a shock, caused by
observing a resemblance to one whom he had known before, and who was
the last person in the world he expected to see. The emotion, however,
was transitory, and, waiting but a minute or two, he resumed his
stealthy approach to the camp.

A few steps further and he caught the twinkle of a fire among the
trees, and he had only to put forth the matchless caution he had
displayed from the first to gain sight of that which he was so desirous
of seeing.

There was a small fire of broken sticks kindled against the face of
a boulder, and in front of it was an Apache warrior stretched on the
ground in a lazy attitude, smoking his pipe and seemingly half asleep,
as he gazed thoughtfully at the embers; but Mendez needed no one to
tell him that every sense of the fellow was on the alert, and that the
slightest misstep on the part of the scout would bring him to his feet
like a flash.

It was Ceballos who lolled in this fashion, and he was the only Indian
in sight. His companion or companions were absent, doubtless on the
lookout for the approach of the soldiers, who had been observed
hovering on the trail during the afternoon. Mendez scanned every
portion of his field of vision, but Ceballos was alone.

That he had friends near, however, was proven the next minute when a
call, similar to that used by the friendly scout, sounded among the
trees. Instantly the Apache came to a sitting posture, with his head
turned partly sideways, in the attitude of intense attention.

Then he answered the signal in the same guarded manner, and looked to
the left, whence a second figure emerged, with the noiselessness of a
shadow. As the firelight fell upon his face, Mendez recognized Maroz,
the fierce Apache, who had led the revolt and whose hands were already
stained with crime.

He bent down by the fire, lit his pipe, coolly seated himself beside
his companion, and the two began talking together.

It was all important that a part at least of their words should be
overheard, since they were sure to help materially in gaining the
knowledge which the White Mountain Indian was seeking. Their voices
were low, but it was rather in obedience to custom than through fear
of any eavesdroppers. The stillness was profound, and the listener was
able to catch enough of the words to hold the drift of conversation.

The result was a remarkable confirmation of his own wisdom, for it
proved that the couple had placed themselves in this position, near
the trail leading into the mountains, to detect the approach of the
soldiers, and to give notice to the band, that they might fully
prepare to receive them. Maroz and Ceballos speculated as to whether
their pursuers had formed any suspicion of the truth, and were making
their advance with such care that they would not reach the spot until
midnight or later. Nothing, however, that was overheard showed that
they suspected the cavalry would try to steal to the rear of their
camp; they looked for them over the direct route, as it may be called.

But the great question, after all, remained unanswered. Where was the
boy that these vagrants stole from the destroyed home of Captain
Murray? Inasmuch as he was not in sight, it was fair to presume he was
with the main band, further in the mountains. Mendez suspected this
was the fact, but he was not prepared fully to believe it until proof
was given. It need not be said, therefore, that he listened with the
closest attention to the words of the couple.

But the minutes passed without affording a hint of the information he
was after. Neither Maroz nor Ceballos referred to the lad, but talked
about the soldiers, whom they were expecting, and who they were anxious
should come. The two took turns in moving back over the trail, so as to
prevent any possible surprise, and their presence together was intended
for only a short time, and came about because they were quite sure
their pursuers would wait until the night was further along.

All at once Mendez caught a reference to the child, but the usually
stolid fellow was roused to the point of exasperation by the action
of Maroz, who, at the moment he made the remark, shifted his position
so as to turn his face directly away from him. Ceballos imitated the
movement in order to accommodate him, so interfering with the sounds
of their voices that Mendez could not identify a word, even though all
were uttered in the same tone as before.

No more trying situation can be imagined than that of the scout, who,
on the threshold of information, found the door shut in his face. It
was evident that the couple were uttering the very sentences he wished
to hear, and it was equally evident that he could not hear them so long
as the relative position of the parties remained the same.

Instead of waiting in the hope that they would make another move that
would favor him, Mendez promptly took the only course that offered
hope; he moved round to the other side of the camp, so as to place
himself in front of his enemies.

This was a task of such extreme delicacy that he stealthily withdrew
until beyond sight of the little blaze. With all his wonderful
woodcraft he dared not attempt the circuit while so near to camp, nor,
great as was his impatience, did he allow himself to be unduly hurried.

But he was expeditious, and striking the right point he again advanced,
catching the glimmer of the fire before he had gone a dozen steps in a
straight line.

It was a night of surprises, and the greatest of his life now came to
him.

Maroz and Ceballos held the same position as before and were talking
apparently about the captive, concerning whom the spy was anxious to
secure information; but a third Indian was present. He must have come
during the few minutes the scout was out of sight of camp. His coming
was as skillful as that of Mendez himself, for he had heard and seen
nothing of him. That singular intuition which revealed the presence of
another, when invisible to the eye and inaudible to the ear, was not
always with Mendez, or he would have discovered his approach.

The new arrival was standing erect, between the couple on the ground
and the fire, with his back toward the latter. He was talking, and
while holding his rifle in one hand gesticulated with the other. The
same indefinable something in his appearance and manner told Mendez
that he was the warrior whom he had seen a short time before.

But the face of the Apache was in shadow, and for several minutes he
could not identify him. At the end of that time, however, he suddenly
turned, so that the firelight fell upon his countenance. And then, as
Mendez looked, he recognized him as Cemuri, his companion of years,
whom he was certain was slain by Maroz within the preceding twenty-four
hours.




CHAPTER XXVII.

CONCLUSION.


It must not be supposed, from what has been related about Mendez, the
White Mountain scout, that he was superior to the weaknesses peculiar
to his race. That he was brave, loyal to the whites, cunning, full of
resources and a consummate master of woodcraft, was conceded by his
bitterest enemies; but while he possessed these admirable traits, it
must be stated that he shared the unfortunate fondness of his people
for intoxicants. At times he indulged in this love for the frightful
decoction, “tiswin,” which, as has been made known elsewhere, is the
product of fermented corn, and is one of the most villainous forms of
“fire-water” conceivable.

Had Mendez related the particulars of the outbreak of Maroz and
Ceballos, he would have stated that he, Cemuri and they were indulging
their weakness and that, humiliating as the confession must have been,
he fell more under its influence than any one of them. In fact, he was
so far gone that his recollection of the affray was always exceedingly
misty. He recalled that, like the explosion of a bombshell, the
party suddenly became engaged in a fierce conflict, in which he was
the principal offender, and in some way he was slightly wounded and
then left alone. The facts that afterward came to light were of an
interesting character.

It is a physiological fact that intoxicants remove the sense of moral
restraint in a person, or, as it has been expressed, a man, when under
their influence, will do that which he would do when sober if he dared;
in other words, while in that condition he acts out his natural self.

This was the case with Maroz and Ceballos, who, though less helpless
than Mendez, became so reckless that they threw off the mask they had
been wearing so long, and showed themselves the ferocious miscreants
they had always been. They cast aside all restraint, and, being more
sober than Mendez, would have slain him but for the interference of
Cemuri, who had more self-command than even they. He was able to
refrain when he had barely tasted the fiery stuff, and with a subtlety
like that of Mendez, when he was his own master, he convinced Maroz and
his companion that he was with them in sentiment and would eagerly join
in the outbreak.

He professed to have a grievance against the colonel at the fort, and
was only awaiting the chance to repay it. He would have preferred to
wait still longer, but since the couple were determined upon taking the
warpath without delay, he was ready to risk everything.

That he succeeded in convincing the two of his earnestness was proof
that he was as sagacious in some respects as his comrade for many
years. He would not permit the latter, however, to receive any serious
injury, and thus it was that the courageous fellow, who was literally
helpless, was allowed to wander off in the darkness, with little more
than a scratch, received from Maroz himself, who had meant to destroy
him without mercy. Cemuri joined the rebels, displaying an ardor that
surpassed, if possible, their own, and so well counterfeited that they
were wholly deceived.

Mendez spent the night in sodden slumber, but became himself on
the morrow. Brushing the cobwebs from his brain, and recalling the
grotesque incidents of the night before, he found himself mystified to
understand how it was he was alive and substantially unharmed.

It was a part of Cemuri’s far-reaching scheme to make it seem he was
dead. By this means his opportunities for befriending the whites
were increased. When, therefore, Mendez heard from others that his
former companion had been slain and his body flung into the bush he
doubted the truth of the statement no more than he doubted that Maroz
and Ceballos were leading the formidable revolt. He leaped upon his
pony and dashed to Fort Reno in all haste with the tidings. He was
considerably mixed as to details, but his story was accepted with
little questioning; and the measures were set on foot that have been
made clear elsewhere.

Although Maroz and Ceballos had burned their bridges behind them, they
were not sufficiently recovered from the effects of their debauch to
undertake offensive movements before the morrow.

Enough has been told to give an idea of the emotions of the scout,
when he recognized Cemuri in the camp of the hostiles, and saw him in
friendly converse with them. Even his stolid nature was too startled to
permit him to form a satisfactory explanation, until he had listened
awhile to their conversation, and had managed to recall a little more
clearly the events of the preceding evening. But it was not long ere he
grasped the whole plot of his friend, whose peculiar mental qualities
were better known to him than to any one else.

The first natural question was as to why Cemuri, if aiming to give the
whites his individual aid, had deferred action until this late hour.
There must have been many opportunities for striking an effective blow
before this. It may have been, however, that he contemplated a grand
_coup d’etat_ when matters should approach a crisis.

These and similar thoughts passed through the brain of Mendez, while
standing too far back in the gloom to be detected, watching the party
and listening to their conversation.

The words were disappointing to Mendez, for they gave him no knowledge
not possessed before. They referred to the expected pursuit by the
soldiers and the plan for ambuscading them, whenever they should
penetrate far enough into the mountains to render the success of the
Apaches beyond question. He heard nothing about the stolen child, and
was, therefore, in as much ignorance of his fate or whereabouts as
before.

The one indispensable step remained for Mendez to establish
communication with his friend; that accomplished, and the prospects
would become the brightest. But as matters stood, the task was beyond
the skill of the wonderful scout. The most guarded signal that he could
make was certain to be heard by the hostiles, at the same instant
it reached Cemuri; and, instead of proving a help, must overthrow
everything.

His only possible hope was that the party would break up by and by and
leave Cemuri to himself. If that should take place, the object could
be readily attained. The belief that something of the kind would occur
held Mendez like a statue, during nearly all the long period he was
absent from Lieutenant Decker and Mr. Freeman. He showed the patience
of the Esquimau waiting by the air hole, in the ice for the appearance
of the nose of the seal.

The experience of the scout was another illustration of the truth that
everything comes to him who waits. After awhile Maroz stole away in the
gloom, leaving the couple alone. By and by he returned and Ceballos
took a hand. They reported that the soldiers were not yet near, and
were likely to push their pursuit until the night was further along.
All this time not the first reference, so far as Mendez could learn,
was made to the little captive.

Then, when the scout was looking for Cemuri to start off on his
reconnaissance, a fourth Apache suddenly appeared in camp. He was from
the main body, further back in the mountains, and he remained a half
hour, discussing business with the others, and making sure that no
possible miscarriage could occur in the plan laid for the overthrow of
their pursuers.

But the messenger finally left, and then Cemuri set out to look after
matters, disappearing in the wood in the shadowy manner that his
predecessors had done.

The opportunity had come at last, and it need not be told how Mendez
improved it. He and his former friend met within a hundred yards of the
camp, and that which has been told at the beginning of this chapter was
made clear to the scout, confirming the suspicions he had formed while
playing the part of eavesdropper.

All the information the latter sought was speedily given to him, and,
parting from his companion for a time, he made his way to his other
friends and told them the amazing story.

Maurice Freeman was so overcome that he was forced to sit down until
he could regain mastery of himself. Even Lieutenant Decker lost his
facetiousness for the time, and stood with open mouth and staring eyes,
unable at first to ask the questions that rapidly took form in his
brain.

Mendez was a little foggy, as before, in describing the occurrences
of the preceding night, but the officer suspected the truth, which,
if fully told, would have humiliated the brave fellow. He forbore to
question him on the point, for it was of little importance.

Cemuri was not present at this interview, but was only a short way off,
awaiting the return of his companion. Telling his friends that the two
would soon be with them, Mendez withdrew, and they were again left to
themselves.

“It is the most wonderful thing I ever knew,” remarked Mr. Freeman, in
an awed tone; “in all my calculations and surmises, I never deemed this
among the possibilities.”

“It would have been still more remarkable had you done so,” replied the
lieutenant; “it begins to look as if you will recover your little boy.”

“I hardly dare believe it,” said the parent, with a shiver of anxious
hope, “and yet why not?”

“I think I understand the _motif_ of those fellows in taking the
extraordinary course they did. Maroz and Ceballos, I needn’t tell you,
are among the worst Apaches that ever lived, and that is a tremendous
statement. They saw that if they allowed the child to pass into the
hands of the principal band, they must surrender control of him. In the
complications likely to follow, it is not impossible that the others
would agree to give him up, in order to save their own necks. That
would be wise, but at the same time it would rob Maroz and Ceballos of
their pet scheme of enjoyment.”

“It seems incredible that even an Apache should be so cruel.”

“There is nothing which human ingenuity can conceive that is too cruel
for an Apache to do. This being so, they did not handicap themselves
by keeping your child near them. They were liable to lose him, in the
event of a sudden attack, before they could remove him, after the
fashion that has been popular among the aborigines, ever since the Miss
MacCrea episode, more than a hundred years ago.”

“How readily they might have ended the difficulty by putting him out of
the way at once!” exclaimed the parent with a shudder.

“But for their cruelty of disposition, they would have done that. Such
a course, however, must have robbed them of the exquisite happiness
they are now feasting upon in imagination. So they carried the sleeping
fellow, as tenderly as you could have done, to the place among the
rocks, within a hundred feet of their camp. There they secured him
against molestation from any prowling wild beast, believing he would
sleep until morning, though it mattered little whether he did or not,
since there is no way by which he could help himself.”

“If I only knew the place,” added the parent, half rising to his feet
in his excitement, “I would go thither at once.”

“That is the reason Mendez gave us no hint of its location. I’m afraid,
Freeman, he doesn’t rank you as being among the champion scouts of the
country.”

“I never laid claim to that honor,” replied the man, with an
earnestness that he would not have shown under other circumstances,
“but it is so hard to wait—wait, when there’s no saying what obstacles
may arise.”

“You must content your soul with patience as best you can, for Mendez
is running this administration, and no one can do it better.”

The suspense was briefer than the lieutenant anticipated, though it
seemed ten times its real length to the distressed parent. A gentle
rustling, evidently made intentionally, caused both to turn their head.

There stood Mendez and Cemuri, and the former held in his dusky palm
the dimpled hand of a little boy.

“Oh papa, is that you? Why did you leave me so long?”

“God be thanked!” was the fervent ejaculation of the delighted father,
as he seized his child in his arms, pressed him to his breast and
kissed him over and over again.

Fulton was sleeping soundly when released from his prison among the
rocks, and Mendez started to carry him, but the disturbance awoke the
child, and, seeing that he was feverish and frightened, his rescuer
allowed him to walk at his side as he wished, while he led him to his
father.

When a few minutes later the party was about to start northward, in the
direction of the river, with the intention of picking up their ponies
on the way, and seeing Maurice Freeman safe home again with his loved
boy, Lieutenant Decker remarked:

“It seems to me we’re forgetting that we are not yet out of the woods;
are we not in danger, Mendez, of being followed by Maroz and Ceballos?”

“_No!_”

While the little party were silently threading their way northward to
the desolate home which, in due time, was illuminated with perfect
joy by the return of the child that had been mourned as dead, Captain
Shindle and his cavalry were pressing matters from a different
direction. The severe ride deferred their assault on the Apache
stronghold until later than was desired, but the diversion, described
elsewhere, produced the best effects. Under the guidance of the other
White Mountain scouts, the hostiles were so effectually entrapped that
their overthrow was complete.

In the conflict that followed, half of them were destroyed by the
cavalry, who knew it was mercy to the innocent that such heroic
measures should be adopted. Those who were not exterminated were
captured and taken back as prisoners to the fort.

The disastrous results of the outbreak speedily became known to all the
hostiles on the reservation, Maroz and Ceballos, the leaders, being
among the first victims to the vengeance they had invoked. The lesson
was of the most salutary nature. Others were on the point of joining
the hostiles, and, had a temporary advantage come to the band in the
mountains, one of the most formidable outbreaks known in the history
of the southwestern frontier would have followed, carrying in its train
unutterable woe and suffering.

But the prompt measures of the cavalry, and especially the actions of
Mendez and Cemuri, nipped it in the bud.

THE END.