Gradually the shadows upon the rocks and timber paled; and then, suddenly—hark!
Rifle-shots! A spatter—a volley—more and faster, rolling and echoing among the crags! The attack had been made. Throwing aside their blankets, up sprang the doctor and Concepcion, bewildered and staggering, but awake.
“Fighting!” exclaimed the doctor. “They’ve struck the hostiles! Good!”
“Much shooting, much shooting,” stammered old Concepcion.
For fifteen minutes the rapid firing continued. It lessened, to dropping, scattered shots, and in about an hour ceased altogether. The sun rose.
“What’ll we do now?” demanded the doctor, of Jimmie. “Crawford’s licked them, don’t you think?”
“Sounded like it, doctor. But we’d better be watching sharp. Some of the bronc’s are liable to come this way.”
There was another period of anxious waiting. They took turns doing look-out duty from a high rock. With Concepcion’s aid, Jimmie packed the mules. About ten o’clock he could stand the suspense no longer.
“If we moved on we probably would meet the word from the captain, and get there all the sooner with the packs, doctor,” he proposed.
“All right. But Concepcion and I can’t move fast.”
They toiled on, following the trail. At noon they met Dutchy.
“The soldier-captain says to come, with mules and medicine-man and Concepcion.”
“Did you whip the Chiricahua?” queried Jimmie.
“Yes. We ran them like turkeys. Capture everything—many horses. Chiricahua get away, but they send word they will talk to-morrow.”
The doctor, who had been outstepped by Jimmie and the mules, limped eagerly in, with poor old Concepcion in his wake.
“What’s the news? Have they got Geronimo?”
“Not yet; but they captured the camp. We’re to come on at once, doctor.”
“How far? Any of our men hurt?”
Jimmie asked Dutchy.
“Ten miles. Only Chiricahua hurt.”
“I’ve got to rest,” panted the doctor. “Go ahead with your mules. We’ll follow. Any danger?”
“No danger,” said Dutchy, answering Jimmie. “Chiricahua hide till to-morrow.”
Dutchy plainly was in a great hurry to get back—probably to share in the plunder. Jimmie left the doctor and Concepcion to come as best they could, and again hustled his mules to keep up with Dutchy. But that proved impossible. The trail was a corker! How in the world Captain Crawford and men ever had traveled it in the darkness was a wonder.
Dutchy disappeared. Only the trail remained, as guide. It dipped into canyons, and wound over rocks and steep ridges. Jimmie wheezed and puffed and sweat. He was empty from chin to knees, his legs were leaden, he ached in every muscle. His mules repeatedly halted, and stood heaving and straddled. But he pushed on. The captain had sent for the packs, and orders were orders.
The sun set. He had been half a day covering these few miles! A damp fog was descending, cloaking the mountains. If he missed the trail——! No! Good! He saw camp-fire light, glowing on the low clouds. At last, in the gathering dark, he labored into the camp, to report.
Everybody there was asleep, utterly worn out. Jimmie peered about, and wakened Chato and got a small chunk of pony meat from him; unpacked his mules and went to sleep himself, in defiance of the cold rain that was falling. He had done his stint. The doctor and Concepcion hardly could arrive before morning.
It seemed to him that he scarcely had closed his throbbing eyes ere he was aroused by excited cries and loud shouts. But he had slept, for dawn was here—a wet, foggy dawn. Amidst the fog the scouts were yelling shrilly; upon every side men were jumping up, grabbing guns, and staring into the mist before.
“Look out! Somebody comes! Many come!” were shouting the scouts.
Tom Horn was up; so was Lieutenant Maus, and Lieutenant Shipp. From where he lay exhausted, by his fire, Captain Crawford directed the defense.
“Be careful! They may be some of Captain Davis’s men,” he warned. “Don’t fire on them till you see who it is.”
“Wait for me to tell you, before you begin shooting,” repeated Tom Horn, to the scouts.
He started to climb higher, for a better view. Lieutenant Maus and Lieutenant Shipp were running to right and left, to take command of their companies. Down below, beyond a little basin, forms were dimly visible. They acted like soldiers.
On a sudden there was a resounding crash—the red flare of a volley lighted the fog, and a storm of bullets pelted the camp. Jimmie, wriggling for cover, leveled his gun, for the scouts were replying.
“Follow me, valientes (braves),” clearly called a voice, in good Spanish, from the basin in front; and a line of figures moved swiftly forward.
“Wait! Wait! Cease that firing! Stop your scouts, Horn!” shouted Captain Crawford, on his feet. “It’s a mistake. Those are Mexicans!”
And so they were.
Captain Crawford leaped upon a rock, to wave a white handkerchief, in signal, and call.
“No tiras! Amigos, amigos! Americanos! (Don’t fire! Friends, friends! Americans!),” chimed in Lieutenant Maus, who spoke Spanish.
He ran down, into the open. The captain followed him. Under the lifting mist they met four of the Mexicans. One was a strapping big officer, evidently the commander; another was a slender young lieutenant; the two others were officers, also. The line of men behind them had halted, and stood uneasily. They looked like a wild lot, too.
Chief of Scouts Horn advanced. Lieutenant Maus talked earnestly with the big officer, and interpreted to Captain Crawford. Tom Horn joined them, to assist.
On either side of Jimmie the scouts were poking their heads above the rocks, and cramming fresh cartridges into their Springfields. The carbine breech-locks snapped briskly.
“Mexicanos!” hissed Chato, with avid face. “Kill them all.”
“You and I will kill that big man, first,” answered Ka-e-ten-na.
“See!” bade Dutchy.
A file of other Mexican soldiers were sneaking through a ravine, to flank the camp.
Lieutenant Maus had seen; he pointed, and protested to the big officer.
“Watch those Mexicans, Shipp!” shouted the captain.
“No tiras, no tiras!” again appealed Lieutenant Maus, this time to the scouts.
“No tiras!” boomed the big officer, as if in much alarm.
“Bang!” From the Mexicans at the rear sounded a single shot. Instantly the group in the basin scattered, each man for his own place. The Mexican line came on at a trot, firing, loading and firing. Tom Horn was left for a moment alone, as the captain and the lieutenant scurried for the rocks.
“The captain, is killed!” shrieked Chato, at him. “Come back!” He and Ka-e-ten-na fired together, and the big Mexican officer, running, threw up his arm, and hurling his rifle far, plunged headlong.
“Give it to ’em,” yelled Tom, running also.
“Whang-g-g-g!” Everybody shot. The slender Mexican lieutenant fell riddled. He had been hit thirteen times! The two other Mexicans were behind a tree; the scouts’ bullets cut the tree almost down and the twain crumpled in a heap. The whole Mexican line melted into sprawled figures, some lax and motionless, some squirming for safety.
Lieutenant Maus arrived, panting.
“Head off those fellows on the right,” he rasped, to Lieutenant Shipp. Away darted stripling Shipp, to prevent the flank attack.
“Crawford’s dead—shot in the brain!” gasped the lieutenant to Jimmie. “He’s yonder, behind a rock. Horn’s shot in the arm. Those are Mexican irregulars. What are they up to? But they began it.”
The scouts were still firing rapidly on every moving form. The Mexicans were now hard to see.
“Give me orders to send out my men into the trees and rocks and we will kill every Mexican!” shouted Chato, to Tom Horn.
“Don’t waste bullets,” cautioned Tom, in Apache. “Be careful. We are many miles from more.”
“We will use the Mexicans’ guns,” retorted Chato.
“Give me the dead captain’s gun and belt and I will help you kill Mexicans,” spoke a new voice. “Make me your prisoner and tell me to fight.”
It was old Nana the Chiricahua chief. He had somehow tottered in, from the rear—he was ninety years of age and lame from a broken hip.
“I fight the Americans no more,” he cackled. “But I will fight the Mexicans any time. And so will all my people.”
He nodded backward; they looked, and there were many more of the Chiricahua hostiles, at a short distance, peering and waiting. Geronimo mounted upon a boulder and yelled across.
“If you are fighting the Mexicans, tell us what to do.”
That was an odd situation. If the Chiricahuas had attacked the camp from the one side and the Mexicans from the other——!
The Mexicans called, where they were concealed.
“Send somebody to talk with us.”
Lieutenant Maus and Tom Horn advanced again. Four of the Mexicans met them half-way. One of the Mexicans was crying. His brother was the slender young lieutenant who had been riddled.
Lieutenant Maus returned and talked with Lieutenant Shipp. The Mexicans claimed that they had made a mistake. They had lost all their officers—among them Major Corredor, who was the big man, and, they declared, “the bravest man that ever lived.” They asked permission to remove their dead.
Lieutenant Maus accompanied each body into the Mexican lines. The Mexicans seemed to be afraid of the scouts.
Now noon was at hand, but instead of withdrawing, the Mexicans had taken a strong position that threatened the camp. Many of them were Tarahumari Indians, a Mexican tribe hostile to all Americans and Apaches.
The camp was short of food and ammunition. Several of the scouts had been wounded, one of them severely. Tom Horn’s arm hung useless. Captain Crawford lay underneath a blanket, with a bandanna handkerchief spread over his face. A piece of his forehead and a portion of his brain had been shot out, but he still breathed.
Jimmie at last reported his arrival to Lieutenant Shipp.
“Yes, I’ve seen you,” answered the lieutenant. “You did well, but,” he frankly added, “we’re all in a bad fix. If there’s war between the United States and Mexico, our pack-trains are likely to be captured; and while we’re fighting our way north, carrying Captain Crawford, there’ll be nothing to prevent the scouts from joining the other Chiricahuas and all together making off to do as they please. Where’s the doctor? Lieutenant Maus has been asking for him.”
Doctor Davis and Concepcion came in, agog to know what had occurred. They had heard the firing, again, and had hidden until it had stopped.
The doctor attended to the captain, and reported that he could not live long. The other wounded were patched up. The Mexicans needed a doctor, and he went over to them, as was his duty.
He was gone some time. On his return he said that the Mexicans had many killed and wounded, but that he had been badly treated, with scowls and insulting language.
Some of the Geronimo Chiricahuas were in sight, waiting. The officers did not think it advisable to hold a council with them until the Mexicans had been disposed of. Only old Nana was still tottering about, cackling among the scouts. He was harmless.
“Give us the orders, and we will clean the earth of those Mexicans,” implored Chato and Ka-e-ten-na, of Tom Horn. “Then we will all have plenty of pinole (which was meal) and bullets.”
Another cold, rainy night settled down early. Lieutenant Maus directed that camp be broken at daylight, for the march north. Captain Crawford should be moved at once, and the pack-train that had been left must be protected. After that, the Chiricahuas who did not surrender would be hunted again.
In the morning, while a litter of reeds from the river was being made, for carrying the captain, old Concepcion, who had been rounding up some ponies, called that the Mexicans had him and demanded a talk with the commanding officer.
Lieutenant Maus again met a squad. They led him aside, behind some rocks, as if to get shelter from the rain—and presently a Mexican brought a note from him. The note stated that he, too, was a prisoner, until he could show papers to prove that he had permission to “invade” Mexico. The Mexicans insisted also upon a supply of food, and mules for their wounded.
Lieutenant Shipp and Chief Scout Horn conferred together. The Mexican messenger was told to get four or five men and return for the mules and rations. Lieutenant Shipp slipped around with his company of scouts, to a position where he might pour a deadly fire into the Mexican lines. When the five Mexicans returned to the camp, for the mules and rations, they were suddenly ringed about with carbine muzzles.
“Now,” spoke Chief Scout Horn, “you call to your comrades. Tell them that if our lieutenant is not released immediately, you will all be killed!”
“Hi!” cackled old Nana. “That is good. Yes, you will be killed. But we will not kill you quick. We will shoot you in many places, first.”
Carbine hammers clicked. Young Lieutenant Shipp’s scouts were crouched and aiming, ready. All the scouts were yelling, while the five Mexicans, calling piteously, pleaded that the lieutenant be released.
That, as Tom Horn said, “ended the row.” Here came the lieutenant, angry but safe. The five prisoners were allowed to scuttle back.
“They’re an ugly lot,” announced the lieutenant. “They have over thirty dead and a dozen wounded. Concepcion is still held. I’ve agreed to let them have six mules in exchange, so they can pull out.”
The mules were Mexican mules, but the lieutenant required a receipt for them, and the Mexican government paid the value of them to the United States.
The Mexicans finally withdrew. Scouts were sent out, on their trail, to watch them to a safe distance. The next morning, January 13, camp was broken.
Captain Crawford was living, but unconscious. Four of the scouts carried him in the litter. The trail was too rough and narrow for any other method. The Geronimo Chiricahuas had disappeared, but they stayed near. This evening Geronimo sent an old squaw into the new camp. He requested the talk that had been agreed upon for the day when the Mexicans had interrupted.
In the morning Lieutenant Maus took Tom Horn, Ka-e-ten-na, Dutchy, and two or three other scouts, and, all unarmed, met Geronimo in council.
“Why did you come down in here, where I thought white men could not come?” demanded Geronimo, direct.
“I came down to capture or destroy you and your band,” answered the weary Lieutenant Maus, just as direct.
“I see you speak the truth,” replied Geronimo. He shook hands, sent a long talk, of various complaints, to “Cluke,” and engaged to meet the general at the border when the March moon was full.
“Do you think he will do it, Chato?” queried Jimmie.
“Yes. Ka-e-ten-na has told him what a big people the Americans are. Besides, Geronimo is sending in old Nana, and some women. Chihuahua wants to come in. Juh has been killed by the Mexicans. Pretty soon Geronimo will have no one left.”
Nana arrived, again, and Geronimo’s wife, and one of Nah-che’s wives, and another Chiricahua, and several children. Lieutenant Maus divided his few rations with the Geronimo band, and proceeded. Matters looked better.
But that was a long, sorrowful march, carrying Captain Crawford through the three hundred miles of mountains and rain. He lived, unconscious, for five days—he had an “indomitable will,” as had said Doctor Davis. Without having spoken a word he died on January 17. Of course there was no thought of leaving him behind, in the wilds, so his body was still carried on, in the litter.
He was buried at the little Mexican town of Nacori, near the border, until he might be reburied in the United States. The mayor of the town promised to have the grave guarded.
The news of the expedition was telegraphed by helio to Bowie. Scout runners already had been dispatched ahead.
Almost the first person encountered by Jimmie, when he rode stiffly into Bowie, on the third of February, was Micky the Red-head, as lively as ever, after his own long trip with the Captain Davis column.
“Where is Geronimo, Cheemie?” hailed Micky.
“He will come.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, we will go get him,” asserted Micky. “We will bring him back little by little. You look as though you had been a long way, Cheemie.”
“More than a thousand miles,” laughed Jimmie. And he felt it.
“That’s enough for you,” declared Chief Packer Tom Moore, when Jimmie reported. “You stick around, now, and take things easy.”
The post was still talking of Captain Crawford’s one march of eighteen hours with only the twenty minutes’ halt; and of his tragic death, at the end, when he had won his goal.
Lieutenant Maus, with Lieutenant Faison and Lieutenant Shipp, Tom Horn and the scouts, was ordered back below the border, to camp until the Chiricahuas signalled for the talk.
Jimmie was laid up with his leg, for several weeks. And at Bowie the general waited impatiently for the news from the lieutenant’s camp.