Chapter XV: An Interrupted Flight

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.”