Chapter XVIII: A Cruel Blow

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.