Chapter XI: Cavarho and Mendez

The scout selected by Geronimo showed his wisdom by dismounting and setting out on foot to perform his delicate mission. Like Mendez, he did not mean to handicap himself with the presence of his horse.

In going to the stream he almost stepped upon the White Mountain Apache, who, fortunately for him, had about buried himself in the sand, but with all his astonishing skill, the hostile saw not the object which could not have escaped his vision had he once looked down to the earth, instead of keeping his eyes fixed on the silently flowing stream and the clearly defined bank beyond.

Mendez had certainly gone through his share of trying danger. He had learned all that it was necessary to know and much more than he expected to learn, and his one desire now was to get back to his friends. A grim warrior had started to seek their lives, and, knowing his own race as he did, Mendez feared the issue.

The moon had climbed so high in the heavens and its light was so powerful that the scout not only dared not approach the creek, but was afraid to change his position or fling off any part of the blanket of sand that had served so well to conceal him. He must stay where he was until Geronimo and his band moved away.

Luckily for the scout his suspense was soon relieved. Suddenly the horsemen were in motion, and, approaching the stream, followed its bank until out of sight to the eastward.

This was the chance for which Mendez was waiting with a feeling akin to impatience. Like a sleeper roused from slumber, he shook himself free from the rattling particles, and, rising to his feet, skurried to the water’s edge, at the point where he had emerged. A quick glance showed no one in sight, and stepping into the current he made his way to the other shore without incident.

His object now was to rejoin his friends as soon as he could, impart the important tidings he had gained, and help them guard against the treacherous attempt that was sure to be made against their lives.

Lieutenant Decker had told him where to seek himself and Freeman. They might have shifted their position, but not far. He recalled the point whence the fatal shot had been fired into the group of three Apaches, and turned his footsteps thither.

It was destined to be a night of adventure to the daring scout, for while he was making his way along shore, two horsemen suddenly loomed to view. They were on the other side of the stream, however, and he might have taken them for his friends had the light been less powerful. As it was, the first glance showed them to be hostiles.

It will be understood that in one respect Mendez held an immense advantage over them, for he knew they were enemies, while they took him for a friend—a natural mistake, since he belonged to their own race, and his attire was similar to that of many of the tribe.

Another incident contributed to the blunder: their own scout had crossed but a few minutes before. He was on foot, and in height and general appearance resembled Mendez, while the moonlight was just faint enough to exclude a close scrutiny.

The distance between the two was so slight that it was easy to understand each other by using an ordinary conversational tone.

“Cavarho,” said one of the horsemen, using the name of the supposed scout, “why do you seek the white men by the side of the stream?”

“Was it not from this side that they slew one of our bravest men?” asked Mendez in turn.

“True, but not from that spot.”

“It is further up the bank and I am making my way there.”

“But in the strong light of the moon they will see you, Cavarho.”

“No sooner than they will see you on your horses.”

“We shall watch for them.”

“And I will do the same.”

“Cavarho is our best scout,” was the complimentary remark of the horseman who had done the talking for himself and companion.

And as if nothing more remained to be said, the two wheeled their ponies and rode off, taking a course that led away from the stream, as if in respect to the warning their supposed friend had given.

Mendez silently brought his rifle to his shoulder. He could not have asked a better target and he was certain of bringing down one if not both of them. He made his aim true and then—lowered his weapon without firing.

It is not often that an Apache is inspired by anything of a chivalrous nature, but it was so in this instance. Had the horsemen been facing him, probably Mendez would have discharged his Winchester, but with their backs toward him, and without a suspicion of their danger, even his soul rebelled. He allowed them to ride beyond range, and never did they know how close they trod the verge of death.

The scout resumed his guarded advance along the stream and concluded that he was in the neighborhood of his friends. He halted and looked around, but saw nothing of them. As far as the eye could reach, which in the clear atmosphere was further than would be supposed, the white sand stretched, with the winding stream agleam in the moonlight.

Mendez was on the point of emitting the signal, when once more the whinny of a horse sounded on the still night air. It startled him more than any sound he had heard that night, for it was from his own pony. Its direction left no doubt of that.

The conviction flashed upon him that the hostile who had preceded him in crossing the stream had come upon his horse and was probably trying to make off with him. The whole nature of Mendez flamed up at the outrage. He forgot everything for the moment and set out to punish the criminal and prevent the success of his daring purpose.

But intense as was his anger, the scout did not forget the situation. He was about to confront one of the most daring and skillful of his own race, who was eager to make him bite the dust.

The suspicion of Mendez was correct. Cavarho, after crossing the stream, had gone inland and away from the shore, instead of turning to the left, which would have taken him near the spot where Lieutenant Decker and Maurice Freeman were awaiting the return of Mendez and the development of events. This course led him almost in a straight line to where the pony of the friendly scout was also awaiting the coming of his master.

Cavarho showed his quickness of perception by discovering the animal before the latter detected him. The presence of the pony in this lonely place suggested the proximity of his master, and the scout did considerable maneuvering before venturing nearer. A complete circuit of the animal, however, showed that nothing of that nature was to be feared. Probably Cavarho suspected the true state of the case, though of course nothing can be said with certainty on that point. At any rate, having learned that no person beside himself was in the immediate vicinity, he walked toward the animal with the intention of making a prisoner of him.

Before this, the horse had perceived him and stood with head erect, studying the figure as it drew near. His intelligence quickly told him it was not his master, but a number of soothing expressions quieted his fears, and he suffered the stranger to come quite close before taking the alarm.

Cavarho advanced with a slow and almost imperceptible movement, murmuring gently in his own tongue, while the beast hesitated whether to permit more familiarity or to bound away.

He decided upon the latter, but deferred the matter just a second too long. In the act of wheeling, the Apache made a catlike leap and grasped his forelock, holding him with a grip which could not be shaken off. The pony uttered an angry whinny and struggled to free himself, but, unable to do so, quickly gave up the effort.

It was rarely that Mendez used a saddle. He generally preferred to ride bareback, with a rope or a strap for a halter, his voice being generally sufficient for all directions. The fact that he had no bridle or saddle must have given Cavarho an inkling of the truth and told him that the horse belonged either to Mendez or Cemuri. Be that as it may, he flung himself upon his back and became for the moment master of the situation.

It was at this juncture that a faint, peculiar cry struck the ear of the horse, which recognized it as the call of his master. Instantly he dashed in the direction whence it came. A dozen Cavarhos would not have been sufficient to restrain or turn the steed aside from his purpose.

But the acumen of the strange rider told him the meaning of all this, and he leaped to the ground in a twinkling. As he did so, he saw the figure of the enraged Mendez bearing down upon him.

There was little time for preparation and none for the peculiar strategy in which both were experts. Each was armed with a Winchester, and almost simultaneously they were brought to a level.

Mendez was quick enough to anticipate Cavarho.

The pleased horse, happy to recognize his own master, rubbed his nose against his cheek, while Mendez petted and uttered many an endearing expression. It would have been a sore grief to the scout to lose his precious steed, that had been his faithful companion in many a perilous experience.

Mendez was on his back the next instant, and keeping in mind the points of the compass, he readily guided him toward the spot where he expected to find his friends.

Nor was he disappointed. Lieutenant Decker and Captain Freeman were on the alert, and, when the familiar whistle of the scout pierced the still air, there was so little doubt in the mind of the young officer that he answered it without hesitation.

A few minutes later, Mendez emerged from the gloom, and, riding forward a brief space, the two saluted the other.