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.