Chapter V: Compliments at Long Range

Geronimo, as every reader of these pages knows, has been a “good Indian” for many years. He makes his home among civilized people, has acted as usher at the dedication of a schoolhouse and believes in education. No fault can be found with the old chieftain in these times, but only a few years ago, he was the most terrible scourge of the southwest border.

The outrages committed by him and his desperadoes are matters of history, as are the hardships and sufferings undergone by our soldiers in their desperate efforts to run him to earth. There was a universal sigh of relief among the ranches and settlements of Arizona, when it became known of a certainty that Geronimo and his principal associates had been taken eastward and would never again be permitted to place foot west of the Mississippi.

We are writing of the trying period preceding the capture of this Apache, when the mention of his name caused an involuntary shudder on the part of the bravest man.

Mendez had given such incontestible proof of his astonishing power of vision, that when he handed back the fieldglass and announced that the Indian, a mile away, was that ferocious chieftain no one doubted him.

The lieutenant passed the instrument to Cemuri with the request that he would make use of it. The fellow hesitated but did as desired. A moment after he pointed the glass westward, the Indian, as if aware of his own recklessness, sank down until as in the case of his companions, only the top of his head and forehead was visible.

But the second scout secured a good view the moment before this took place.

“Mendez right—he Geronimo,” remarked Cemuri, as if that being settled no further interest attached to their arch enemy.

“Since that is the case, it is probable that his whole band is with him. If I had the rest of the boys at hand, we would sail in and hustle those bucks westward faster than they came eastward.”

“But you haven’t them at hand,” observed Freeman, “so there isn’t much chance of doing anything against the party.”

Having “located” Geronimo and his band, the next question for the lieutenant to decide was what should be done. Brave as was the young officer (and his companions were equally brave) it would have been madness to attack a company of Apaches, fully armed and on the warpath, and who outnumbered them four or five to one.

Those cunning warriors were at home in this sandy waste and nothing would have pleased them better than to be assailed. No doubt they were keeping well out of sight in the hope of drawing on the little company of horsemen, who, had they ridden over the ridge, as there seemed a likelihood of their doing, would have entered a trap from which there was no extrication.

“We must make connection with some of the boys who are scouting,” remarked the lieutenant; “then when we are strong enough we’ll give Geronimo a tussle. If it should be my good fortune to wipe him out what a feather it would be in my cap!”

“And if it should be his bad fortune to wipe _you_ out,” suggested Freeman; “where would be your feather?”

Decker shrugged his shoulders.

“Honors that are not hardly earned are not honors. We’ll ride to the right, and see whether we cannot gain a better sight of them. It may be that this is only a part of the main band, and if so we’ll have a fight.”

The scheme seemed to be the only one feasible and was followed. The clear sunshiny afternoon was drawing to a close and nothing could be hoped for, in holding their motionless position in the midst of the low, valley-like depression.

The young officer struck his horse to a moderate gallop, with Freeman at his side and the scouts following closely at the rear, grim, silent and watchful. The hostiles whose heads had been showing above the ridge vanished from sight and there was no saying what their course of action would be.

Had not the contour of the country been favorable, there would have been an imprudent risk in the course of Lieutenant Decker; for it is evident that it would have been easy for the hostiles to shift their position along the ridge so as still to confront the whites who would have ridden into the trap that has already been described.

But a comparatively short distance to the right, the moderate elevation sloped down to the level of the plain, permitting a view of the winding stream which further to the left passed out of sight behind the ridge. The Apaches could not advance upon this without being observed, though (so wonderful is their cunning) had they been given more time, they would have formed an ambush, where neither wood nor elevation gave screen or protection. It would not have been the first time that members of that tribe have performed this seemingly impossible feat.

The promptness of the four horsemen prevented such a trap. They swung forward at a swift gallop, until the ridge was flanked and their position admitted a view of both sides for a considerable distance.

The result was interesting. Four warriors were in plain view, all mounted on their tough ponies and facing the white men and scouts. A space of a fourth of a mile separated the parties, when they thus confronted each other.

The Apaches immediately began tantalizing the whites, in the hope of inducing them to attack. They swung their blankets aloft, shouted, and Geronimo, riding out a short distance from his companions, deliberately fired his rifle at the horsemen. He had a good weapon, for the singing of the bullet was heard as it passed over the heads of his enemies.

“I can be as polite as you,” remarked Lieutenant Decker, bringing his Winchester to his shoulder and letting fly.

He aimed at the chieftain, and nothing would have delighted him more than to see him pitch from the back of his pony, but the distance was too great to make the aim accurate and the leader suffered no more harm than had his enemies at his hands.

“Mendez,” said the young officer, turning to his principal scout; “do you think it likely there are only four of the Apaches? If such is your belief we’ll charge them.”

The sagacious scout grimly shook his head.

“More—plenty more—hide in sand—want us to fight ’em.”

“But where are their ponies?”

“Hide ’em easy—lay down—cover ’em wid sand—go in water—only nose stick out.”

Nothing would have pleased Geronimo more than to be attacked. In his broken English he called out taunts so insulting that the swarthy cheek of Lieutenant Decker flushed. How he would have leaped at the chance of a fight with him on anything like equal terms!

The chieftain now rode his pony more than a hundred yards in a straight line toward the group. His animal walked slowly and his rider continued to shout his taunts.

Lieutenant Decker, holding his horse well in hand, advanced the same distance toward Geronimo.

“What do you intend to do?” sternly asked Freeman.

“I’ll take care of myself,” was the quiet reply.

“I don’t know whether you will or not,” added Freeman, with no little misgiving.

Decker continued his guarded advance until like his enemy, he judged he had gone far enough, when he too halted.

“I’ll go as far as he dare,” he muttered; “if he will only come far enough to be beyond the support of his men, I’ll meet him and we can have it out between us.”

Geronimo had ceased his taunting shouts, and, with his horse perfectly motionless sat like an equestrian statue with his gaze upon this young David. Then he did a singular thing.

All four, while watching him, discovered that instead of holding his pony stationary, as at first, he was backing him. The well-trained animal, keeping his nose toward the foe, was stepping slowly backward, the movement of his legs and the change of position being clearly seen by all.

Mendez and Cemuri looked at each other and smiled; they knew what it meant. Geronimo was seeking to lure the young officer away from his supports, or, better still, striving to tempt forward the whole four, under the belief that the two forces were equal.

“Don’t go any nearer!” called Freeman, growing impatient with the recklessness of the officer; “he’s trying to draw you on.”

The lieutenant made no reply. His spirited horse, of his own volition, took two steps forward, but his rider checked him.

“Thank you, Geronimo, but the fly isn’t ready to walk into the spider’s web.”

Seeing the failure of his scheme, the Apache chief, with the quickness of a flash, raised his Winchester again and fired directly at the officer, whose escape was quite narrow, for the interval admitted of a fatal shot, provided it were well aimed.

As if to imitate every action of his enemy, Decker brought his rifle to a level and sighted carefully at Geronimo. It required no phenomenal marksmanship to bring him down, and he was hopeful of doing so, but at the moment of pressing the trigger, the chieftain disappeared as if by magic.

He knew what was coming and saw his danger. He flung himself over the side of his pony, whose body was thus interposed as a shield. Not to be baffled, the officer sighted as best he could and fired.

He did not harm the chieftain, but the bullet passed through the brain of his pony, who, with a cry of agony, reared on his hind legs, pawed the air and rolled over as dead as Julius Cæsar. His agile rider, who had no saddle, leaped free and ran hastily back to his companions, amid the jeering shouts of the youth who had unhorsed him.

“Geronimo is a squaw! He runs from the white man! He dare not come forward and fight him! He is afraid he will be hurt!”

All which, if it were so, did not change the situation or give any additional advantage to him who uttered the taunts.