“It’s one of them, dead sure,” muttered the trooper, making ready to give him a proper reception; “he can’t do any mischief until he comes nearer, and if I don’t let the moonlight shine through his noddle it will be because I’ve forgotten how to fire a gun.”
But after all the chance for a test of his marksmanship was denied the man who was so anxious to pick off the miscreant. While carefully watching and waiting until he could make his aim sure, the object, whatever it was, vanished, nor did it appear again.
The soldier could not know of a certainty the explanation of this curious occurrence and asked the opinion of Mendez the following morning. That sagacious scout listened attentively to the story and said in his abrupt way:
“Him ’Pache.”
But the few hours remaining of night passed without further alarm, and men and animals secured a much needed and refreshing rest. Dawn came at last and all felt that the day was to prove a decisive one.
The troopers wasted no time. No coffee was boiled, for the means of kindling a fire was not at command. He who has been on a laborious march knows the meaning of such a deprivation. Rations were hastily eaten and the horses drank from the stream at hand and continued their fasting.
The body of the fallen scout was secured on the back of his steed, which accompanied the scouting party when it headed westward. The time for serious work had come.
The Apaches could not ambush this daring band of campaigners, riding hard through the open country, with their eyes alert for every form of danger.
With no deviation the cavalrymen galloped to the spot where Mendez had located their enemies the previous night, but long before reaching the place it was seen that the raiders were gone.
But whither? That was the question on every tongue.
“I have a misgiving,” said Maurice Freeman to Lieutenant Decker, “that when Geronimo learned we were here, he made a detour and has passed over into the valley after all.”
“I sympathize with you, captain, for you cannot help feeling anxious about your family, but none of the boys believe the thing probable.”
“Of course they would not make the raid with the idea of coming back this way, but they could turn southward toward the Apache Mountains and escape.”
“Not without giving us a chance, which they don’t mean to give,” was the remark of the young officer, uttered with such confidence that it lessened the uneasiness of the ranchman.
Sweeping over a slight elevation in front they came in sight of the ridge behind which the raiders were discovered on the preceding day. Mendez, who as guide was riding slightly in advance, turned his dusky face and looked at the lieutenant with an odd half smile.
“What is it, old fellow?”
“’Pache dere!” was the thrilling response.
“It can’t be possible that they intend to make a stand,” reflected Decker, bringing his glass to his eyes; “that would be too much like honorable warfare.”
There were several instruments in the party, but none revealed the cause of the assertion made by Mendez. No one, however, doubted its truth.
Regardless of any shots that might be fired from the ridge, the troopers swept up the slope on the qui vive for the battle that seemed at hand.
But it would have been strange indeed had they come face to face with the raiders, who would have thus been forced to fight on something like equal terms.
A mile away, however, to the westward, the whole band was seen riding as if for their lives. Geronimo and his men had no intention of meeting a force that had a fair chance with them.
Lieutenant Decker gave expression to his disappointment.
“We might have known it; they won’t fight.”
“But we can compel them,” insisted Armon Peyser.
“How?”
“Run ’em down.”
“Ah, if we could, but what chance have we of that?”
This question carried its own answer. Several of the scouts, including the lieutenant himself, were so well mounted that by pushing hard they might have come up with some of the fugitives; but the majority of the troopers could not do so. Their horses were no fleeter than those ridden by the Apaches. Besides, they were hungry and in need of rest. The task was impossible.
Another peculiar recourse was at the command of the fugitives. If they should find the pursuit growing hot, they would separate into two or three parties, these again breaking up, until perhaps every warrior would be looking out for himself. All would be scattered and fleeing for the mountains, and they would remain scattered so long as the chase continued, after which they would come together at some rendezvous perhaps twenty or fifty miles away.
Far off to the southward a mountain range was outlined against the sky. Looking keenly toward the faint bluish line, the eyes that had the help of field-glasses traced a thin, wavy column of smoke ascending straight upward. About the same time it was noticed that Geronimo and his hostiles had headed in that direction.
“It is a signal and they are obeying it,” remarked Lieutenant Decker, who was not the only member of the party that was sorely disappointed.
Mendez checked his pony so that he fell back beside the officer, who directed his attention to the vapor, as he handed him his fieldglass. The Apache held the instrument for several minutes to his eye.
“That is made by a party of Apaches?” said the lieutenant inquiringly.
“Yes—’Paches do dat for Geronimo.”
“What does it mean?”
“Dunno.”
“It looks as if it is a call for the old fellow to go thither.”
“Yes—look like dat.”
“I don’t see the need to signal him, for he’s his own boss and knows what to do without directions from any one else.”
“Yes, he do,” assented Mendez, who seemed to be suffering from a burst of talkativeness, altogether unusual with him.
“Is there any use of our keeping up this chase, Mendez?”
“No use, big fool to chase Geronimo.”
“Then we’ll stop.”
And the troopers drew rein, talked a few minutes, after which the lieutenant gave the orders to wheel about and return to Camp Reno.
True the pursuit of Geronimo and his dreaded warriors had ended in failure, and yet in the right sense it was a brilliant success.
The Apaches had set out to raid a portion of Sutra Valley, but were discovered in time and sent skurrying back to their fastnesses, with the loss of two of their number and without having been able to set foot within the section which they had meant to devastate. It was they who had met the most egregious failure.
The chagrin of the troopers was that they were unable to force the raiders to the wall and make them fight. Could this have been done they might have administered an effectual chastisement that would have averted woful consequences. Geronimo and these hostiles were off the reservation and were not likely to return until after inflicting some of their fearful blows. The revolt would spread and not unlikely another miniature Indian war would follow, which, if it roused little interest further east, would have dreadful significance to those exposed to its consequences.
These were the gloomy reflections that accompanied the troopers on their return to Fort Reno, and there is little doubt that their fears would have become real, but for an unexpected series of events.
It so happened that at the very time Lieutenant Decker was engaged on his scout, a party of about the same strength was out from Fort McDowell, a considerable distance to the south. Rumors of the restlessness of the Apaches had reached them, and they discovered that a band were heading for the Sutra Valley. With no knowledge, however, that the notorious Geronimo was their leader, the cavalrymen made a determined and well-directed effort to bring the raiders to book.
They were fortunate enough to discover the fleeing hostiles when the latter were on the open plain, and the troopers had the concealment of a wooded and rocky range. Still better, the raiders headed almost directly for the point where the scouts were eagerly awaiting them.
The consequences were disastrous to the Apaches, who did not learn of their danger until the bullets of the troopers were doing their deadly work. The terrified wretches fled to the nearest cover, losing six of their number, while many others carried away serious wounds.
Geronimo himself met with an exceedingly narrow escape. He was slightly wounded by a rifle-ball and was barely able to elude two troopers who tried to run him down. Had either of them been aware of his identity at the time, that famous Apache would have scourged the border no more.
But, as will be seen, this was a severe blow to the raiders, among whom were a number that were much discouraged by the outcome. They had counted confidently upon one of their most delightful and soul-satisfying excursions, when not only human lives but much plunder should be at their disposal, but the survivors who rejoined their families carried the gloomy news that more than one-third of their number had been killed and there was absolutely nothing to show for it.
One beneficent result, therefore, of the affair was that a formidable insurrection was nipped in the bud. Maroz and Ceballos were among those who returned to the reservation, loud in their declarations that it was useless to fight the white man longer, and they had resolved to be good Indians henceforth and forever.
When these two Apaches were questioned about their presence with Geronimo, they replied just as Lieutenant Decker said they would. They had entered his camp, as ordered by the officer, their intention being to help the white people, but Geronimo compelled them to aid him. They had made believe to do so, but were only awaiting a favorable chance to desert to their real friends.
“I think,” said the lieutenant, “that we shall have trouble with those two fellows again. What do you say, Mendez?”
“Huh! leften’t right—dey bad ’Paches—soon make trouble.”
The days became weeks, the weeks grew into months and peace reigned in Southern Arizona, that section which time and again was harried by the fierce raids of the terrible Apaches, until many of the ranchmen abandoned their homes and sought safety at the posts and settlements.
The history of those outrages proves the fact which has already been hinted: had the management of the tribes been left to the army, the reign of terror would have ended years before it became necessary to run down Geronimo and the other disaffected leaders and transport them to the east, there to spend the remainder of their lives.
I have no intention of giving anything in the nature of a history of the Indian troubles in the Southwest, but a single episode will enforce what has been said.
In April, 1873, Buckskin Hat, head chief of all the Indians in the Tonto Basin, went to General Crook and said he wished to surrender. Crook took his hand and told him that if he and his people would stop their outrages and become orderly citizens, he would be the best friend they ever had. He promised to teach them to work and agreed to find a good market for everything they could produce.
Within a month General Crook had all the Apaches in Arizona, excepting the Chiricahuas, who were not within his jurisdiction, at work at Camp Apache and Camp Verde, digging irrigating ditches, planting vegetables, cutting hay and wood and with everything on the highway to prosperity. Then a gang of politicians and contractors, remembered as the “Tucson Ring,” persuaded the authorities in Washington to order the Apaches down to the dismal sand waste of the San Carlos, where the water is brackish, the soil worthless, and the flies intolerable. Roused to fury by the injustice, the Apaches took the warpath, and then followed those terrible scenes which are matters of public record.
For a long time, Maurice Freeman was so doubtful of the continuance of peace, that he was on the point of removing from the territory. Indeed he would have done so but for the persuasions of his nearest neighbor and close friend, Captain Murray, who insisted that no serious danger would come again.
“You have established a pleasant home here,” said the Union veteran; “the soil is fertile; the country is rapidly settling; we shall soon have schools, churches and all the advantages of civilization; to abandon these now will be to throw away that golden opportunity which does not come twice to a man in this life. I intend to stick and you will regret it if you do not.”
And so Maurice Freeman allowed himself to be persuaded and stayed.
By the time the frightfully hot summer was drawing to close, Freeman was so convinced of the wisdom of the advice given by his friend that he thanked him for it.
“There hasn’t been a ripple since that flareup last winter,” remarked Freeman, as he sat in a chair at the front of his neighbor’s house and smoked a pipe with him; “it looks as if Geronimo, Natchez and the rest have made up their minds to do like their race further east—accept the inevitable.”
“Of course,” replied Murray; “an Indian isn’t a fool and when he sees it’s no use of fighting longer he stops—that is, he generally does,” added the speaker, conscious that his assertion needed a slight qualification. “There will be occasional disturbances now and then, but they will never amount to anything.”
“Do you think we shall ever have a raid through this section?”
“Never,” was the emphatic response; “it’s too risky for those that attempt it; they haven’t the chance of success that they had a year or even six months ago. The soldiers at Camp Reno and the other posts are on the alert and would detect anything of the kind before it could come to a head.”
“I can’t feel quite so sure on that score as you,” observed Freeman, with a vivid recollection of the incidents of the previous winter; “it was only by the merest accident that we learned of Geronimo’s coming in time to head him off.”
“You must remember that that was more than six months ago and great changes have taken place since then.”
“I don’t question that fact, but the Apaches are the worst desperadoes when roused that ever cursed this continent.”
“By the way, captain, how was it you learned of that intended raid? I was here at home and never knew of it until you came back with the news.”
“I have never been able to find out the exact means by which the news reached the ears of Lieutenant Decker and his troopers. I was coming from Fort Reno, when I met him and two of his scouts, Mendez and Cemuri, who were hunting for the hostiles. I presume that he got it from those two White Mountain Apaches, who are the shrewdest fellows at that business I ever knew. The lieutenant virtually admitted as much to me, though he never gave the particulars.”
“What has become of Mendez and Cemuri?”
“They have remained on the reservation, like the loyal fellows they are, but they are so useful to the colonel that he keeps them continually within call. There are several peculiarities about those scouts.”
“What are they?”
“Both are so addicted to that infernal tiswin, that there’s no saying when they will not make themselves helpless from drinking it, and the next is that they seem to have become fond of Maroz and Ceballos, two other Apaches.”
Captain Murray smiled.
“I see nothing peculiar in an Apache Indian being fond of tiswin; indeed he would be eccentric if he was not, and what is remarkable in their association with two others of their race?”
“During that flurry last winter, Maroz and Ceballos were among the fiercest allies that Geronimo had. Mendez overheard a conversation between the two and Geronimo which proved their treachery. At that time, Mendez would have shot both could he have gained the chance. He and Cemuri know they cannot be trusted and yet they seem to be bosom friends.”
Captain Murray could not restrain the remark:
“You wore the gray and I the blue; it is not so many years ago that we were striving to kill each other; I don’t think there’s much of the desire left. You must bear in mind that this is the era of good feeling.”
“Ah, my dear fellow, your examples are not parallel. You and I, like tens of thousands similarly placed, will be the best of friends to the end, but an Indian’s nature is different. He will nurse his wrongs for ten or twenty years, to break out in a fury when least expected. But,” added Freeman, “you will begin to suspect from my words that I am giving away to idle fears, which is not the case. I believe with you that there’s not one chance in—say a score—of this part of the country being raided by hostile Indians.”
“Say not one chance in a thousand and you will be in accord with my views.”
“I can hardly put it as strong as that; but I’m going to ride over to the fort to-morrow, and as the day is sure to be like tophet, I will leave my Winchester at home.”
“You would be foolish to do otherwise. I haven’t carried mine for two months past. The iron gets so hot that if you don’t look out it will blister your hands, and the burden is an unnecessary one.”
“Then,” added Freeman slyly, “if the Apaches should happen to make one of their raids while I am away, it will be a handy thing for Molly, for she knows how to use it.”
“Have an end with such jests,” said his friend impatiently, “or I will begin to suspect that you do not believe what you have just been telling me.”
“Well, we will drop it,” said Freeman, shaking out the ashes of his pipe and refilling it; “I can only repeat my thanks for your arguments which prevented me from pulling up stakes last spring and leaving the country for good.”
“I may have been a trifle selfish about it, for I didn’t wish to lose a good neighbor, with whom I could sit down and fight over our old battles with out either of us losing our temper. Since I admit that all the bravery during the war was on your side and you have graciously conceded that there wasn’t a bit except on mine, why the dispute has never become serious.”
“Well,” remarked the visitor some time later, “the night is wearing on and I will go home. Where is Fulton?” he asked, looking around as he rose to his feet.
“Your little boy ran off half an hour ago. My youngster wanted him to stay all night, but Fulton said it was Jack’s turn to stay with him and he wouldn’t.”
“Why didn’t you let Jack do so?”
“His mother thought he had better wait until to-morrow.”
“Good-night,” called Freeman to his neighbor, who responded, and remained at the front smoking for an hour or more after his departure.
It was not a long walk to the home of Maurice Freeman. When he reached there, he found it later than he suspected, for his little boy and girl had been put to bed and were asleep.
The husband announced that he expected to visit the fort next day, and at his request his wife named a few small articles for him to obtain for her. The journey to Phœnix or Prescott was so much longer, that neither Freeman nor Murray went thither except when necessary. The ride to Fort Reno, ten miles away, could be easily made within the day and allow a good call at the post.
“I have been talking with Murray,” said the husband, recalling their conversation; “he insists that we shall never again be in danger from the Apaches. I am inclined to agree with him, though I can’t feel quite as positive as he. I told him, however, that I intended to leave my Winchester at home, when I visit the camp to-morrow. What do you think of it, Molly?”
Was it that wonderful intuition of her sex which led the wife to reply without an instant’s hesitation, “Leave the Winchester with me, Maurice?”
Maurice Freeman was correct in his prophecy of the weather for the following day. As had been intimated, the temperature in some portions of the Southwest, attains an intensity during the summer and early autumn, which makes one wonder how animal life withstands it. For weeks the thermometer ranges far above a hundred, and there is a record of it standing over a large area at one hundred and ten at midnight, for a full week.
Life would be unbearable except for the dryness of the climate, which renders a day more tolerable than many in the east that are twenty degrees lower, with a humidity which makes existence a burden.
But Freeman was a native of the extreme South and had lived in Arizona long enough to become acclimated. He saw before the sun rose that another “scorcher” was coming, but it did not deter him from his intended twenty-mile ride to Fort Reno and back. He partook of an early meal, kissed his little boy and girl good-by and did the same with his brave wife. Holding her for a moment in his arms, he looked down in her brown eyes and said:
“And so, Molly, you think it best that I should leave the gun at home? Have you any special reason for thinking so?”
“It will be a burden to you, during this hot day,” was her evasive answer.
“But I have carried it many times and found it no burden.”
“And of late you have left it behind because it was an incumbrance; if you prefer to take it, do so.”
“I prefer always to please my little wife,” he said, kissing her once more, and finally: “I pray that neither of us will ever need it again for the use to which it has been put so many times.”
A few minutes later he was in the saddle and headed for Fort Reno. He had abundance of time at command and rode past the home of his friend, Captain Murray.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he called, as the two greeted each other.
“Nothing for me, thanks, but something for yourself.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep cool; we are going to have another pull at the furnace; I don’t envy you your ride.”
“I got used to all sorts of weather in the army; so did you, but you are growing effeminate; luxury and idleness are bad things, captain.”
“But none the less enjoyable for all that. How is it you haven’t your Winchester with you?”
“Didn’t I tell you last night that I meant to leave it with Molly, so that she shall be able to defend herself, during my absence?”
“Defend herself against what?”
“Nothing; adios, my old friend.”
Freeman looked back as he made his military salute, which was cordially answered by Murray. That parting will be remembered by Freeman as long as he lives.
“He is right,” reflected the ranchman, as he struck the trail leading northward to the military post which was his destination; “months have passed since there has been a rumor of trouble with the hostiles, and every week lessens the danger which has hung over our homes like a pall of death.”
In a comparative sense the early part of the day was pleasant. The frightful heat would be felt in all its intensity, as the sun climbed to meridian and descended the western sky; and, since there was abundant time in which to let his horse rest, Freeman spurred him to an easy gallop, which was continued without break for mile after mile.
Two-thirds of the way was passed, when, in riding up a slight elevation, the ranchman came face to face with five Apaches, all of whom were well mounted and armed. They were strangers, but the white man knew they had been with the hostiles in the recent troubles.
“It might be a handy thing if I had my rifle with me just now,” he thought; “and yet this may be one of the occasions when a man without weapons is safer than a walking arsenal, for he isn’t tempted to do anything rash.”
A viciously inclined Indian is quick to seize his opportunity. These five Apaches, if they chose, could shoot the white man from his horse in a twinkling, and the chances were that justice would never overtake them, for no torture could force any member of the party to betray the other.
The best course was to put a bold face on the matter and Freeman did so. Instead of shying off or making any move to avoid the Indians, he rode directly toward them, so close indeed that there was only room for them to meet and pass without brushing knees. It need not be said, however, that the white man kept his “weather eye” open.
As the parties came opposite, Freeman made a salute, smiled and called out:
“Howdy?”
They responded in kind, one of them, who seemed to be of mixed breed, grinning to the extent of showing the two rows of his fine white teeth. Their ponies were walking and Freeman’s heart beat a little faster, when they seemed about to stop; but he affected not to notice it and held the same easy, swinging gallop.
The real trial was within the few minutes following this meeting. Nothing was easier than for all five to turn and fire a volley, and he half expected they would do so. It was hard to restrain himself from spurring his horse into a dead run and leaning forward on his neck. This would have been his course had the Apaches made any demonstration, but they did not, and he shrank from showing distrust, much as prudence urged him to do so.
He had ridden less than a hundred yards when he turned and looked behind him. All the Indians were riding away at the same moderate pace and not one displayed any interest in him.
The sight was an inspiriting one and did much to remove the misgiving that had been with him to a greater or less degree ever since he left home.
“That’s one of the most decisive tests of what Captain Murray has been insisting upon for the past week,” reflected Freeman, with a thrill of pleasure. “It is not so many months since that a meeting like this, where I am beyond any help, would have been my death warrant, but now they do not even turn to look at me.”
A half hour later he arrived at the fort, where he was always welcome. He was acquainted with all the officers, whose life at these remote inland posts is sometimes intolerably monotonous. It is the same routine, day after day, month after month, from one year’s end to the other, with the eternal brassy sky overhead, the dreary stretch of sandy waste which grows more hateful to the eye, and the vain sighing for an exchange with some of the more favored posts, or a transfer to another branch of the service.
To many of the ardent young officers who leave West Point and assume the stirring duties of military life, the news of trouble with the red men is most welcome. It not only serves to break the monotony, but opens the prospect of the realization of every soldier’s hope—promotion.
When making his call upon the colonel, Freeman related the incident of his meeting with the Apaches, commenting upon it as a pleasing omen. The bronzed campaigner smiled and nodded his head.
“Such is probably the fact; I know the bucks, for they were here this morning; there is not a worse set of scoundrels on the reservation. One of them was the right hand of Cochise, before he became a good Indian, another was with Natchez, and the remaining three are murderers.”
“And yet they did not offer to molest me.”
The colonel shrugged his shoulders.
“No, times have changed mightily within the past year, and yet I cannot feel that this calm is sure to last.”
“Why should it not continue forever?”
“Because human nature is as it is; if the politicians would not interfere with our management of the Apaches, there would be no trouble. Those people, or rather the leaders, have had all the fighting they want. They would settle down and give no more trouble if treated right, but as long as politics are what they are, so long will there be the mischief to pay on the frontier.”
The officer had touched upon a phase of the question to which Freeman had not lately given much thought. The views of the colonel were those of an experienced and well-informed man and they impressed his listener.
“You know, captain,” he continued, “that the Indian doesn’t forget a wrong. He may seem to do so, but none the less he broods over the injustice he has suffered, and when he strikes the rule is that it is the innocent and not the guilty who suffer. When they have been plundered and robbed by the ‘ring,’ they turn upon and kill innocent men, women and children. They simply regard themselves the victims of the Caucasian and strike him wherever and whenever the chance offers.”
“But this thing cannot go on forever. I have been half inclined more than once to move out of the Sutra Valley, but my old friend, Captain Murray, my next door neighbor, dissuaded me. Do you think I have acted wisely?”
The colonel pulled the ends of his mustache and puffed thoughtfully at his cigar before answering:
“I hope so—yes, I think you have; the danger is certainly less now than at any time in the past; and, since you have gone through all that without harm, the inference is fair that your chances are better than ever.”
“Your views cause me some uneasiness, colonel.”
“I did not mean that they should; I am neither an optimist nor a pessimist, but try to look at things as they are. Peace reigns now, but so long as we have the Apaches with us, and so long as evil men have the power to control Indian affairs, so long are we certain to have trouble. It may be that the authorities will learn wisdom after awhile and show common sense in treating with the ‘wards of the nation,’ but I confess I have little hope of their doing so for a long time to come.”
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.
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!”