Mendez and Cemuri made some pretense of wearing civilized costume, though their clothing could hardly have found a purchaser at a second-hand sale. They never covered their heads, the long, coarse black hair dangling about their faces and shoulders, with occasionally a stained feather projecting from the crown. No paint disfigured the countenances, which in fact could not have been made to look uglier, but they had the cartridge belt, trousers and leggings of the cowboy, most of which they would have been glad to dispense with, but respect for the prejudices of their white brethren forbade.

Mendez was glancing toward all points of the compass, in that quick, fitful way named, when he suddenly fixed his eyes on the ridge to the westward. The fact that he did not change his gaze for fully a minute was proof that something had attracted his suspicion, and the faint exclamation which followed was proof that an additional discovery had been made or that the suspicion had become conviction.

The two white men instantly ceased talking and looked at him. He did not turn his head, but peered with the same intensity as at first.

“What do you make of it, Mendez?” asked the lieutenant.

“Huh! ’Pache ober dere,” was the reply, accompanied by a pointing of his dusky finger at the ridge.

The other three were gazing in the same direction. Whether Cemuri was equally fortunate could not be decided, for he gave no sign. Neither the lieutenant nor captain detected anything with the naked eye. The former drew out his fieldglass and directed it at the point of interest, holding it leveled for several minutes.

The ridge like the plain was of sand. Not so much as a mesquite bush was to be seen in any direction. Here and there grew a species of sand grass, which seems to thrive where there is no earth nourishment, while an occasional prickly cactus added to the desolateness of the scene. There was nothing, therefore, to interfere with the vision in any direction.

“I’m blessed if I can see anything unusual!” exclaimed the lieutenant, passing his instrument to Freeman, with the remark, “Maybe you can do better.”

But the elder was no more successful than the younger. The latter turned to Mendez, upon whose face were the faint indications of a smile, and asked:

“What was it you saw?”

“One—two—tree ’Pache crawl up ridge—look ober—see dere eyes!”

It seemed incredible that the scout should have been able to detect this fact—if it was a fact—at that distance, and yet we have the record that Tycho Brahe, hundreds of years ago, did as well in the same line and his visual powers could not have received finer training than those of this White Mountain Apache.

“That won’t do,” remarked the lieutenant, smilingly shaking his head; “I had the record at the Point of being able to see a professor further than any of the cadets, but I wasn’t equal to that.”

“By heavens! he’s right!” exclaimed Freeman, who was still holding the instrument pointed toward the ridge; “he doesn’t need a spyglass.”

“When you are through, let me try it again.”

Freeman handed the glass to the lieutenant, who, being shown the exact point toward which to direct it, did so with much doubt and misgiving as to the result.

“Just as I supposed!” he muttered impatiently; “all imagination——”

When he first used the instrument he saw nothing besides the bare, sandy elevation, but the words were yet in his mouth, when, on the very crest of the ridge, something resembling a crow came into sight. His first thought was that one of those birds or a buzzard had hopped up from the other side, and was peering over, but a moment’s scrutiny left no doubt that it was the head of an Apache Indian, for it could belong to no other tribe and act in this manner, the circumstances being as they were.

While Decker was studying the miscreant, who took care to expose only his forehead down to his eyes, a second head appeared at its side, the movements being precisely the same. The third, however, of which Mendez had spoken, did not show itself.

The hostiles must have believed their presence unsuspected, or at least not known of a certainty to the four horsemen, for they lay on their faces and peered for a long time over the crest of the elevation.

“I apologize, Mendez,” said the lieutenant in his cheery manner; “your powers of vision surpass anything I ever met. Will you please tell me when the Apache on the right winks his eye?”

The scout, however, was too dignified to pay attention to this attempted witticism. He gazed long and steadily at the two heads faintly showing, and then Freeman, who was watching his countenance, noted that his eyes were wandering along the ridge, evidently in search of other ominous evidence.

All at once his gaze was arrested. He was looking at a point fully a hundred yards to the right of where the crowns of the enemies had been discerned and had detected something.

“What is it, Mendez?” asked the lieutenant, bringing his glass again into use.

“’Pache,” was the response; “look dere!”

The scout was right, as Decker was quick to learn. In this instance, however, the buck did not content himself with simply peering over the elevation. He seemed to be creeping forward until he reached the crest of the ridge, when he raised the upper part of his body, so that his face and shoulders were in sight. In this posture he was evidently studying the four horsemen.

“Mendez,” said the lieutenant; “you have the best pair of eyes I ever heard of, but no person has eyes which cannot be helped by a glass like this. You know that as well as I, for I’ve seen you use a fieldglass. Now, since that buck off yonder isn’t afraid to show his ugly countenance, see what you can make of him with the aid of the instrument.”

The scout complied with the request. As the officer had stated the scout knew how to use the glass and it brought a revelation. He leveled it at that hard, wrinkled, peering countenance lifted above the distant ridge, and scrutinized it with the intensity of a man seeking to read his own fate.

Only a few moments were thus occupied, when he passed the instrument back to its owner who observed the peculiar half-smiling expression on his usually stolid countenance.

“Have you ever seen that buck before?” asked the lieutenant.

“Seen him—one—two—tree—hundred times.”

“Who is he?”

“Geronimo!”

CHAPTER V.
COMPLIMENTS AT LONG RANGE.

Geronimo, as every reader of these pages knows, has been a “good Indian” for many years. He makes his home among civilized people, has acted as usher at the dedication of a schoolhouse and believes in education. No fault can be found with the old chieftain in these times, but only a few years ago, he was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border.

The outrages committed by him and his desperadoes are matters of history, as are the hardships and sufferings undergone by our soldiers in their desperate efforts to run him to earth. There was a universal sigh of relief among the ranches and settlements of Arizona, when it became known of a certainty that Geronimo and his principal associates had been taken eastward and would never again be permitted to place foot west of the Mississippi.

We are writing of the trying period preceding the capture of this Apache, when the mention of his name caused an involuntary shudder on the part of the bravest man.

Mendez had given such incontestible proof of his astonishing power of vision, that when he handed back the fieldglass and announced that the Indian, a mile away, was that ferocious chieftain no one doubted him.

The lieutenant passed the instrument to Cemuri with the request that he would make use of it. The fellow hesitated but did as desired. A moment after he pointed the glass westward, the Indian, as if aware of his own recklessness, sank down until as in the case of his companions, only the top of his head and forehead was visible.

But the second scout secured a good view the moment before this took place.

“Mendez right—he Geronimo,” remarked Cemuri, as if that being settled no further interest attached to their arch enemy.

“Since that is the case, it is probable that his whole band is with him. If I had the rest of the boys at hand, we would sail in and hustle those bucks westward faster than they came eastward.”

“But you haven’t them at hand,” observed Freeman, “so there isn’t much chance of doing anything against the party.”

Having “located” Geronimo and his band, the next question for the lieutenant to decide was what should be done. Brave as was the young officer (and his companions were equally brave) it would have been madness to attack a company of Apaches, fully armed and on the warpath, and who outnumbered them four or five to one.

Those cunning warriors were at home in this sandy waste and nothing would have pleased them better than to be assailed. No doubt they were keeping well out of sight in the hope of drawing on the little company of horsemen, who, had they ridden over the ridge, as there seemed a likelihood of their doing, would have entered a trap from which there was no extrication.

“We must make connection with some of the boys who are scouting,” remarked the lieutenant; “then when we are strong enough we’ll give Geronimo a tussle. If it should be my good fortune to wipe him out what a feather it would be in my cap!”

“And if it should be his bad fortune to wipe you out,” suggested Freeman; “where would be your feather?”

Decker shrugged his shoulders.

“Honors that are not hardly earned are not honors. We’ll ride to the right, and see whether we cannot gain a better sight of them. It may be that this is only a part of the main band, and if so we’ll have a fight.”

The scheme seemed to be the only one feasible and was followed. The clear sunshiny afternoon was drawing to a close and nothing could be hoped for, in holding their motionless position in the midst of the low, valley-like depression.

The young officer struck his horse to a moderate gallop, with Freeman at his side and the scouts following closely at the rear, grim, silent and watchful. The hostiles whose heads had been showing above the ridge vanished from sight and there was no saying what their course of action would be.

Had not the contour of the country been favorable, there would have been an imprudent risk in the course of Lieutenant Decker; for it is evident that it would have been easy for the hostiles to shift their position along the ridge so as still to confront the whites who would have ridden into the trap that has already been described.

But a comparatively short distance to the right, the moderate elevation sloped down to the level of the plain, permitting a view of the winding stream which further to the left passed out of sight behind the ridge. The Apaches could not advance upon this without being observed, though (so wonderful is their cunning) had they been given more time, they would have formed an ambush, where neither wood nor elevation gave screen or protection. It would not have been the first time that members of that tribe have performed this seemingly impossible feat.

The promptness of the four horsemen prevented such a trap. They swung forward at a swift gallop, until the ridge was flanked and their position admitted a view of both sides for a considerable distance.

The result was interesting. Four warriors were in plain view, all mounted on their tough ponies and facing the white men and scouts. A space of a fourth of a mile separated the parties, when they thus confronted each other.

The Apaches immediately began tantalizing the whites, in the hope of inducing them to attack. They swung their blankets aloft, shouted, and Geronimo, riding out a short distance from his companions, deliberately fired his rifle at the horsemen. He had a good weapon, for the singing of the bullet was heard as it passed over the heads of his enemies.

“I can be as polite as you,” remarked Lieutenant Decker, bringing his Winchester to his shoulder and letting fly.

He aimed at the chieftain, and nothing would have delighted him more than to see him pitch from the back of his pony, but the distance was too great to make the aim accurate and the leader suffered no more harm than had his enemies at his hands.

“Mendez,” said the young officer, turning to his principal scout; “do you think it likely there are only four of the Apaches? If such is your belief we’ll charge them.”

The sagacious scout grimly shook his head.

“More—plenty more—hide in sand—want us to fight ’em.”

“But where are their ponies?”

“Hide ’em easy—lay down—cover ’em wid sand—go in water—only nose stick out.”

Nothing would have pleased Geronimo more than to be attacked. In his broken English he called out taunts so insulting that the swarthy cheek of Lieutenant Decker flushed. How he would have leaped at the chance of a fight with him on anything like equal terms!

The chieftain now rode his pony more than a hundred yards in a straight line toward the group. His animal walked slowly and his rider continued to shout his taunts.

Lieutenant Decker, holding his horse well in hand, advanced the same distance toward Geronimo.

“What do you intend to do?” sternly asked Freeman.

“I’ll take care of myself,” was the quiet reply.

“I don’t know whether you will or not,” added Freeman, with no little misgiving.

Decker continued his guarded advance until like his enemy, he judged he had gone far enough, when he too halted.

“I’ll go as far as he dare,” he muttered; “if he will only come far enough to be beyond the support of his men, I’ll meet him and we can have it out between us.”

Geronimo had ceased his taunting shouts, and, with his horse perfectly motionless sat like an equestrian statue with his gaze upon this young David. Then he did a singular thing.

All four, while watching him, discovered that instead of holding his pony stationary, as at first, he was backing him. The well-trained animal, keeping his nose toward the foe, was stepping slowly backward, the movement of his legs and the change of position being clearly seen by all.

Mendez and Cemuri looked at each other and smiled; they knew what it meant. Geronimo was seeking to lure the young officer away from his supports, or, better still, striving to tempt forward the whole four, under the belief that the two forces were equal.

“Don’t go any nearer!” called Freeman, growing impatient with the recklessness of the officer; “he’s trying to draw you on.”

The lieutenant made no reply. His spirited horse, of his own volition, took two steps forward, but his rider checked him.

“Thank you, Geronimo, but the fly isn’t ready to walk into the spider’s web.”

Seeing the failure of his scheme, the Apache chief, with the quickness of a flash, raised his Winchester again and fired directly at the officer, whose escape was quite narrow, for the interval admitted of a fatal shot, provided it were well aimed.

As if to imitate every action of his enemy, Decker brought his rifle to a level and sighted carefully at Geronimo. It required no phenomenal marksmanship to bring him down, and he was hopeful of doing so, but at the moment of pressing the trigger, the chieftain disappeared as if by magic.

He knew what was coming and saw his danger. He flung himself over the side of his pony, whose body was thus interposed as a shield. Not to be baffled, the officer sighted as best he could and fired.

He did not harm the chieftain, but the bullet passed through the brain of his pony, who, with a cry of agony, reared on his hind legs, pawed the air and rolled over as dead as Julius Cæsar. His agile rider, who had no saddle, leaped free and ran hastily back to his companions, amid the jeering shouts of the youth who had unhorsed him.

“Geronimo is a squaw! He runs from the white man! He dare not come forward and fight him! He is afraid he will be hurt!”

All which, if it were so, did not change the situation or give any additional advantage to him who uttered the taunts.

CHAPTER VI.
APACHE CUNNING.

Enough has been told to prove the surpassing cunning of the two White Mountain Apaches who served as scouts. Once they had been among the fiercest of the followers of the fearful scourge of the border and were fully trained in his ways.

Captain Freeman was an old campaigner and had lived sufficiently long in Arizona to learn much of the methods of the hostiles, while Lieutenant Decker had made the matter his study for weeks.

And yet, despite all this and the fact that each one of the four knew that the Apache leader and his warriors were doing their utmost to lure the horsemen to their ruin, the red men came within a hair of doing so.

Only by the merest chance or accident or providence, as it may be termed, was the ingenious scheme detected in time to thwart it.

Naturally the eyes of the three horsemen in the background were fixed upon Decker and Geronimo, with glances at the warriors beyond, who were in direct range of vision, and who were watching events with apparently the same interest.

What induced Maurice Freeman to withdraw his gaze from his young friend and their enemies he could never explain, but he did so for a single instant, looking to the left of the ridge, and somewhat toward the spot where the four had been in consultation when they first discovered the Apaches. His eyes were roving over this sandy stretch when he saw something move. At first glance it was as if some burrowing animal had stirred a hummock of sand, while the animal itself was underneath and out of sight.

Wondering what it could mean, and vaguely suspecting mischief, Freeman forgot the lieutenant and Geronimo for a minute, while he watched the strange manifestation.

To his amazement, several places in the sand were similarly agitated, the disturbance showing that whatever caused it was approaching the horsemen.

Suddenly the truth flashed upon Freeman. The curious movement was caused by several Apache warriors, who, it may be said, were burrowing their way like moles through the sand, and making so little display of what they were doing that even Mendez and Cemuri did not detect them, and only the merest accident, as has been shown, revealed the dangerous artifice to Freeman.

The Apaches had but to approach a little closer, when they would secure an aim which would empty every saddle.

“Lieutenant!” called Freeman, “we must retreat at once or we’ll be surrounded!”

Decker did not pause for an explanation, but whirled his horse and came tearing back on a dead run. Before he could rejoin his comrades, they were on the move, the scouts, now that their fears were aroused, having been quick to learn the nature of the peril.

The flight was so sudden that the Apaches, stealing up in this ingenious manner, did not suspect the meaning of the sudden flight until all four had ridden some distance. Then the miscreants, of whom there were four—just enough to carry out the scheme—still groveling in the sand, took quick aim and fired at the fleeing horsemen.

This time one of the bullets passed through the fleshy part of Cemuri’s thigh, inflicting a painful wound, though he made no reference to it, and it was not discovered by his companions until some time later.

It may be admitted that only one fact saved the four from death. Each was mounted on a horse, the equal if not the superior of any ridden by the Apaches, although, as is well known, those people are always provided with good animals when on their raids. If pursued, they have the advantage of fresh horses, continually renewed while on the run before a superior body of pursuers.

The parties had been too near each other, and without giving any time to discussion or consultation, the four devoted the next fifteen minutes or half an hour to skurrying off as fast as they could. Finally, thanks to the fleetness of their animals, they drew rein and dropped to a walk.

Before this the Apaches had discovered that it was useless to try to overtake the little party and had given up the attempt. For the present nothing was to be feared from them.

“There is reason to believe they will not push any further eastward,” said Freeman, giving expression rather to his hope than his conviction.

“Why do you think that?”

“They have learned that their presence is known in this neighborhood and that a force will be sent out from the fort, if it has not already been sent—halloo!”

The speaker, happening to glance at Cemuri, was shocked to observe the startling effects of his wound. The exclamation of Freeman caused the others to note the same, and the horses came to a halt.

“That looks bad,” remarked the lieutenant; “let me examine it.”

“Huh! no hurt—soon be well,” said Cemuri, with a look of contempt, and displeased at the expressions of sympathy.

“It may get well if it’s attended to,” was the comment of Decker, who insisted upon an inspection of the hurt.

It did not seem to be dangerous, but it was clear that it required attention. From the clothing of different ones were torn sufficient bandages to stanch the flow, and despite the indifference of the scout he must have felt extreme pain.

“I remember just such wounds in the army,” commented Freeman; “little was thought of them at first, but many a death came from their neglect.”

“His people are tough and have little faith in surgery.”

“Which may all be the case and not affect the truth of what I have stated.”

When the rude service was finished, the lieutenant said:

“Cemuri, you must go to the fort as soon as you can.”

The dusky face showed anger and the scout shook his head.

“Me no pappose—me warrior—me scout!”

“And a very good one too—so good that we want to save your services to us. I don’t believe that wound will kill you, old fellow, unless it is neglected, but it is going to lay you up for a time. You won’t be able to do yourself justice till your leg gets well, and that will take place sooner at the fort than in the saddle.”

Cemuri looked appealingly at Mendez. Why did he remain mute and not come to his relief? His opinion would have great weight.

But Mendez shook his head.

“Leg no good, for one—two—tree—many days—go to fort—do what he say.”

The last prop knocked from under him, the brave fellow submitted. He was sullen, and without a word started his horse eastward toward Fort Reno.

“I meant to give him some orders,” remarked the officer with a laugh; “for the colonel ought to know the particulars, but the fellow is huffy.”

“He will give the colonel all the news, have no fear about that.”

When Cemuri had ridden some distance, and had time to rally from the irritation into which he was thrown by the command of the young officer, he must have felt that it was all for his good. He was suffering much; he had lost strength and was so weak, despite his indurated frame, that he felt dizzy and weak, with occasional spells when it was hard to keep in the saddle.

Night was drawing on, and he could not hope to reach the post until long after darkness had come. But his horse was strong and fleet, and such a thing as failure to complete his task did not enter his thoughts.

The stream which had been in sight so long now made a sharp curve northward, so that it was speedily left out of sight. The ride to the post was over the same open plain which had been traversed most of the day. The sky was clear and the moon rose early, making the ride as pleasant as if the sun were shining.

The American Indian, as all know, can bear with equanimity more suffering and grievous wounds than his white brother, but there is of necessity a limit to the toughest frame that nature ever put together, and Cemuri, the White Mountain scout, began to suspect that he had struck or was about to strike that limit.

He had ridden less than three miles at a swinging gallop when he drew his horse down to a walk; the jolting of the speedier gait was unbearable. As he made the change of pace, he first looked around to be sure no one saw him. Then he gave expression to his views in the form of an English expletive, altogether too vigorous to be recorded in these pages.

In one respect the scout was specially favored: his pony was not only well trained, but possessed unusual intelligence. He had given his master warning many a time of the approach of danger and he now did it once more.

The slow, steady walk through the soft sand was suddenly checked, the pretty head elevated, the ears thrown forward, and a slightly vigorous expiration followed through the silken nostrils, yet not loud enough to be heard a dozen yards away.

There was but one possible interpretation of this demonstration, and the rider knew on the instant what it was. Had he been himself, he would have remained in the saddle, but he was in no condition to make a fight, and he deftly dismounted, despite the stinging pain caused by moving his limb.

No sooner were his feet on the ground than his pony lay down. His purpose was to lessen his danger of discovery by an approaching enemy or stranger. Cemuri knelt beside him with rifle ready for instant use.

Hardly had these precautions been taken, when two shadowy horsemen, barely visible through the gloom, entered the field of vision and immediately passed out again. They came from the direction of the fort and were riding toward the little party of Lieutenant Decker. They were Indians, and, though Cemuri could not be absolutely certain in the gathering darkness, he was convinced that they were Maroz and Ceballos, two Apaches whom he thoroughly distrusted.

CHAPTER VII.
A SIGNAL.

Lieutenant Decker and his friends held their position for some time after the departure of Cemuri on his return to Fort Reno. Although they had left the stream, which had served them as a partial guide for a number of hours, they were not far from it, and the young officer was inclined to think it was the part of wisdom to stay in its vicinity.

The situation may be explained thus:

Geronimo and his band were evidently aiming to reach the more exposed ranches and dwellings to the eastward in the Sutra Valley, although when on their raids it seemed to matter little to them where they struck their terrible blows. Nothing was to prevent the swift riders from sweeping through the section whenever they chose, but brave and reckless as they were, they did not shut their eyes to peril.

From what had occurred they knew that their presence was discovered and that movements were already under way to check them. They had seen scouts from Fort Reno, and may have known that others were scouring the country. If the hostiles pushed on, they might find a strong party of cavalry in their rear or on their flanks, with the certainty of losing some of their best warriors before the rest could escape.

Lieutenant Decker’s anxiety now was to open communication with a party of his friends and arrange an attack upon the Apaches. Could this be done within the next few hours, Geronimo would be frustrated and compelled to withdraw without striking one of his fearful blows.

Until such junction could be effected, the officer wished to keep up a demonstration in front of the bucks, or show such activity that even if it failed to turn them back, it would retard or check their raid until the soldiers could do something more effective. It would seem that a decisive blow ought to be struck against the raiders within the next twenty-four hours.

This will make clear why after having retreated part way to the fort, Decker halted, unwilling to yield what he considered an advantageous position.

But, admitting all this, the three were in a situation of extreme delicacy and peril. The Apaches had drawn off from pursuit, but, at most, were not far off. They had but to advance somewhat further along the line they had been pursuing to come upon the three horsemen, who had no means of concealing themselves. The cunning and ingenuity already displayed by Geronimo’s men made it seem folly for Decker and his companions to believe they could avoid being outwitted.

Nevertheless the officer resolved to hold his ground, or rather not to continue his flight, and Maurice Freeman was as earnest in the same purpose as he. The all-powerful motive with the elder, however, will be understood, for he was really fighting for the sake of those that were dearer to him than his own life.

On these scouting excursions the lieutenant always carried a few rations, so, while they waited for night to close round them, the three partook of food. When that was finished it was growing dark.

Pointing his Winchester toward the sky, the lieutenant discharged it twice in quick succession, following with a third report at a longer interval.

“That is a signal to whoever of the boys may hear it,” he explained to Freeman.

“And means what?”

“That I have located the hostiles and my friends must join me with the least possible delay.”

“How will you know whether it is heard?”

“I will receive the same answer. The whole thing is understood by every one who left the post—halloo! do you hear that?”

The faint but distinct report of a rifle sounded in the distance, and all three listened for the sounds needed to complete the signal, but to their disappointment there was none.

“Now,” said the lieutenant, “since Geronimo may take it into his head to renew his acquaintance with us, it is best to call upon Mendez here to help us out.”

“The very suggestion I was about to make; how will he do it?”

Mendez and Lieutenant Decker had scouted so much together that they were familiar with each other’s signals, and no preliminary rehearsal, therefore, was necessary.

“The captain and I will go back to the stream,” he explained to the Apache, “and follow the bank some distance. When you have anything to communicate you will know where to find us. At any rate we will not be far off.”

“Provided nothing unexpected happens,” Freeman thought best to add.

The scout was a man of few words and only said “Huh!” to signify that he understood everything. Then, without more ado, he turned the head of his horse westward and rode off in the darkness.

“That brave fellow takes his life into his hands,” remarked the lieutenant; “he knows he would receive scant mercy if Geronimo or any of his band got hold of him.”

“Wherein would he differ from us?” questioned Freeman.

“In no respect, so far as final results are concerned, but they would punish him frightfully, for it is human nature to detest a renegade, as he and Cemuri are considered.”

“I don’t know whether it makes him more or less useful, but it seems to me he must be handicapped in his movements.”

“He doesn’t appear to be; I think if Mendez or Cemuri should become convinced that there was no possible escape from capture he would shoot himself.”

“So would I,” said Freeman.

“I wouldn’t, for as long as there’s life there’s hope.”

“I meant when all hope is gone.”

“We may as well make our change of base.”

Side by side the friends rode to the left of the course they had been following, until they struck the shore of the stream already alluded to. It seemed broader and shallower than below, but it was a winding current through the sand, which licked a great deal of water. The banks were so low and flat that a slight rise of the creek would cause it to overflow on both sides. No trees or undergrowth being in the neighborhood, the same difficulty of concealment remained.

When the full moon should rise in the unclouded sky objects would be discernible for a long way in every direction. While in some respects this might not be desirable, the two looked upon it as an advantage, since by diligence and watchfulness, they ought to discover the approach of an enemy, no matter how stealthily made, or from what point it came.

It was a cause for self-gratulation that both were so well mounted that none of their enemies could overtake them in a fair contest of speed.

“It strikes me that as the moon will not show itself for nearly an hour we may as well dismount. I have been in the saddle so continuously to-day that the change will be as grateful to me as to my horse.”

“It doesn’t strike me as the wisest thing to do,” replied Freeman, “though I don’t know that it increases our danger. I will not dismount, since I have ridden less than you. You won’t leave your horse?”

“No, though he knows my call so well he would come to me at once.”

The lieutenant walked slowly with his steed along the bank of the stream, for it seemed wiser to shift their position, even if slightly, so as to prevent the guarded approach of their enemies.

“I wonder whether any of them are in the neighborhood,” he remarked, as they came to a halt again; “I don’t see how they can be, but there’s no saying what mischief they are up to. Listen!”

The two were motionless and used their eyes and ears as best they could. In the gloom it was barely possible to distinguish the opposite shore, only a few rods distant, while darkness walled them in on every hand.

The only sound that reached their ears was the soft flow of the stream, barely distinguishable in the profound stillness. Once they fancied they heard the report of another gun, but, if so, it was so distant it could not be identified.

One distressing question pressed upon Maurice Freeman. Ought he to remain in this lonely place or return to his home a number of miles distant? His family would not be disturbed over his absence, for he had occasionally stayed at the fort over night and had been absent longer at Prescott or Phœnix, but at such times everything was so quiet that there was no ground for alarm.

He reflected that his wife knew nothing of the threatened raid of the Apaches, unless it had come to her after his departure from home that morning. Consequently, in the event of the hostiles making a dash into that section, she would be wholly unprepared against surprise.

Freeman and his friend Murray had taken an active part in chastising a party of Apaches some months before, most of them being killed, and he suspected that revenge might be a factor in inspiring this advance of Geronimo eastward. If such were the fact, nothing was easier than for him and his warriors to push on during the darkness, wreak their vengeance and get away before the sun rose.

The question, put in another form, was whether he and Lieutenant Decker were accomplishing any good purpose by thus lingering in the neighborhood with a view of watching and possibly checking the movements of the hostiles. If the latter were bent on raiding further eastwards they could make a detour which would carry them to the point they had in view without the knowledge of the two men, or of Mendez, who had gone forward to spy out their actions.

The veteran was loath to leave his comrade, but this hesitation was due to the uncertainty whether it was wiser to do so than to remain.

He was on the point of expressing his misgivings, when a low, soft whistle sounded on the still night air.

“Sh!” whispered the lieutenant, “that’s Mendez!”

CHAPTER VIII.
MAROZ AND CEBALLOS.

The faint signal had only the breadth of the stream to cross and was heard by the two men.

“It is Mendez,” repeated Decker in a whisper; “he brings important news.”

“Are you sure it is he?” was the guarded inquiry of Freeman, whose longer residence in that section of the Union and greater experience with the wily Apaches made him distrustful. The events of the preceding few hours especially warned him that it was impossible to use too much caution in dealing with their enemies.

“I am as sure as one can well be,” said the officer, who, it will be remembered, was not on his horse but standing beside him.

“If it be he why does he not come to us? The stream is not deep.”

“Perhaps he expects us to join him—sh!”

The call which had caught their attention a few minutes before was heard again.

“It will be the height of folly to attempt to reach the other bank while this uncertainty exists,” said Freeman; “I shall not do it.”

“Withdraw a short distance and wait for me.”

“Remember that those people have wonderfully keen eyes, and they may be able to distinguish us when we cannot see them. It is better for both to withdraw.”

“I will soon follow you if there’s anything suspicious.”

Freeman walked his horse a hundred feet from the stream, holding the bridle of the other animal as he did so. The lieutenant remained by the water’s edge, where, instead of keeping his standing posture, he knelt down on one knee, a position which lessened his chance of being observed by any foe on the other side.

Peering intently in the darkness, he was able to make out the shadowy figure of two and possibly three men standing motionless in the gloom, the view being so faint that at first he doubted whether he saw anything at all.

For the first time Decker made a cautious response to the signal, the same that had been employed by him and the White Mountain scout in previous instances of peril. Again it came across the water to him, and, but for the suspicious circumstances, he would have staked everything on its being emitted by the dusky lips of his friend.

“If it be an enemy,” he reflected, “I would give much to know where he got the call, but Mendez had no companions when he left us, and certainly there is more than one man standing on the other shore.”

Nature now came to the help of the lieutenant. The full moon was near the horizon, almost directly behind the opposite bank, and the slight illumination it flung into the sky revealed the forms of three persons so clearly that there could be no mistake.

“It’s a cunning trick, but it will not work this time, my good friends.”

Kneeling on one knee, the lieutenant took the best aim he could at the group and let fly with one charge from his Winchester.

This time the bullet sped true. One of the dusky forms leaped into the air with a screech and fell prostrate on his face, where he remained without rising.

“Geronimo’s band is short one member,” was the cool observation of Decker, who instantly changed his position to a prone one, in which he hugged the ground as closely as he could.

The precaution was not taken a second too soon. Quickly recovering from their shock, the other two Apaches fired at the point where they had seen the flash of the rifle, the missiles whistling so close that but for the act of the young man he must have been struck.

Decker proved his nerve by holding his position for several minutes. His hope was that his enemies in their exasperation would dash into the stream to cross to him, in which event he would have them at his mercy, but they were too wily for that. Instead of advancing, they retreated, evidently fearing another shot from the one who had outwitted them.