THE FINAL CHARGE.
AT THE earliest streaking of gray in the eastern horizon the three men
and Herbert Watrous, all of whom had been sleeping fitfully by turns
through the long dismal hours, silently rose to their feet and walked
to where the ponies, a short distance off, had resumed their cropping
of the grass. They were thirsty, like their masters, but no water was
within reach, and they were doing their best to satisfy their hunger.
The outlines of the old adobe mission building showed faintly through
the obscurity as the little party headed westward, and advanced at a
moderate walk, on the alert for the Apaches, of whom they had detected
signs now and then during their wearisome watching.
The action of the red men had puzzled the trapper as well as Strubell
and Lattin. It was hard to understand why they had not stumbled on the
truth, but there was good reason for believing they were still ignorant
of the presence of the white men so near them. It was upon this theory
that the success of the daring enterprise was based.
Eph Bozeman placed himself at the head, Herbert coming next, with one
of the Texans on either side. The veteran was the best qualified to
lead, while the disposition of all was with a view of protecting the
younger and less experienced member of the party.
Nothing was seen of their enemies until half the distance was passed,
when Lattin, who was on Herbert’s right, exclaimed in an undertone:
“Yonder are the varmints!”
The horses were in excellent condition because of their long rest, and
up to this moment moved at a moderate trot. As the Texan spoke, the
trapper, who had detected the danger, struck his animal into a brisk
gallop, the others doing the same without any urging of their riders.
The Apaches must have relaxed their vigilance toward the latter part of
the night, for most, if not all the group, were observed to the south
of the structure instead of being near it. They were closer to it,
however, than the whites, and showed their daring by immediately riding
forward to meet them.
The trapper turned his head and said: “Let ‘em have it the minute
they’re near enough to hit.”
These were words which had meaning, and Herbert, like his companions,
looked at his Winchester to make sure it was ready for instant service.
“I think they’re all there,” added Lattin.
“I don’t believe it,” remarked Strubell, “for there isn’t more than six
or eight.”
“And Nick isn’t with them,” Herbert could not help exclaiming, with a
thrill of pleasure.
No reply followed this, which might signify nothing, for all were too
intent on what was before them.
The interest deepened each moment. The Apaches, numbering exactly
eight, were advancing at a speed fully as great as that of the whites,
riding close together and apparently all eagerness for the conflict.
They indulged in no shouts, whoops, or gestures, but came on like the
grim demons they were.
Each carried his gun, and he was not afraid to use it whenever the
chance offered. Nothing could have looked more frightful than they,
their chests naked, their irregular features daubed with different
colored paint, their long black hair dangling about their shoulders,
while each rode like a centaur.
A distance of two hundred yards separated the parties, neither of
which had made the slightest variation in its course. Our friends were
heading directly toward the building and did not swerve to the right or
left. To have done so would have shown fear, and brought the redskins
down upon them like a cyclone.
One of two things was inevitable, and that within the space of a few
seconds: the Apaches or white men must turn to one side, or there would
be a fierce fight. Eph Bozeman and his comrades were resolved to keep
on until the noses of their ponies should touch. What was the purpose
of the red men must appear immediately.
The break came from an unexpected source. Belden Rickard and Harman
Slidham had not forgotten the parting words of the trapper, and were
on the watch at the upper front windows. The rapidly increasing light
showed the four horsemen coming down the slope, and they saw the
Apaches set out to meet them. Matters were on the eve of explosion
when Rickard took deliberate sight from his window and fired at the
warriors. The shot was a long one, but so accurately aimed that a dusky
horseman, with a rasping screech, rolled off his pony, the animal
breaking into a gallop, circling away from the others, and, facing
toward the building, whinneying with fright and dashing aimlessly
hither and thither in a panic.
The other Apaches acted as if the report of the gun was the signal for
them to break apart, for they did so with a suddenness that could not
have been surpassed had a bombshell burst beneath them.
Several turned to the right and others to the left, while one, as if he
absolutely feared nothing, headed his black pony directly at Bozeman
and thundered forward on a dead run.
The miscreant was actually charging the whole party.
He emitted a terrifying whoop, leaning almost on his horse’s ears, as
he brought his rifle round in front to fire, but a master hand at that
business had not taken his eye from him since he started on his daring
ride. The raising of the gun and the aiming and firing seemed to take
place all together, and in the twinkling of an eye.
“Thar’s one fool less,” was the quiet remark of Eph as he lowered his
piece; “now, boys, grab ground.”
His pony was stretching away at headlong speed for the building, the
others imitating him so quickly that the four continued in a bunch.
“Keep it up,” he added, firing again at their assailants.
Strubell and Lattin discharged their pieces as often as they could take
any sort of aim, but the conditions were against accuracy, and there
was no evidence that they did any execution.
The Apaches had branched off to the right and left, and kept popping
away, with no more success than the white men. They held the
marksmanship of the others in such fear that they gave much effort to
screening their bodies, by flinging themselves over the sides of their
animals and firing from under the neck or directly over it, where
little could be seen of the riders except their glaring eyes and their
hair, looking as if they were a part of the mane of their ponies, or
the black eyes flashed for a moment in front of the breast of the
galloping steeds.
It cannot be said that Herbert Watrous felt pleasant when he heard the
bullets singing about his ears, and knew that more than one was aimed
at him. He did not attempt to reply, but gave his whole attention to
urging Jill to his utmost. The building was only a short way off, and
the briefest kind of a respite insured safety.
Fortunately his steed was fully the equal of the others in fleetness
and did not fall behind. Had it done so he would not have been left
by his friends, for all were governed by that devotion which belongs
to the highest form of chivalry. There was not one who would not have
protected the youth with his life.
Suddenly the broad door at the front of the adobe building was drawn
inward. Rickard and Slidham had hurried down to make sure no delay took
place at this critical moment.
Herbert Watrous was leaning forward, with his eyes fixed on the avenue
to safety, when he felt Jill shudder under the saddle, as if with a
sudden chill. He veered to one side, throwing his nose against the
shoulder of the trapper’s pony, and staggered uncertainly in the
hopeless effort to recover himself, but, unable to do so, plunged
forward on his knees and rolled over on his side, gasping his last
breath.
[Illustration: “_The building was only a short way off._”
Page 335.]