Chapter XVII: The Shadow of Danger

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.”