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.