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.”