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.