All this was bad enough, but still worse was to come.
Lieutenant Decker shook his head:
“There’s no stopping them; they’ll cross the river in the face of all we can do; they must be followed into the mountains, and by that time there is likely to be a dozen of them together.”
Freeman made no answer, for he had none to make, but he observed that the officer now abated the killing pace of his horse. Since it was impossible to overtake the Apaches in a fair pursuit, and there was no possible way of preventing them from crossing the river, it was cruel to hold the animals at such exhausting speed.
Sure enough, when the horsemen struck the northern bank of the stream, the others were emerging on the southern shore. Their animals had swam most of the way, for the river was deep. The enemies were now in plainer sight of each other than ever.
Reining up his horse, Lieutenant Decker leveled his glass and studied the Apaches with the utmost care during the few minutes the opportunity presented. He had no difficulty in identifying Maroz and Ceballos, who, halting their ponies in plain sight, made tantalizing gestures and uttered defiant shouts in a mixture of Apache and English.
The other bucks were strangers to the officer, though he was quite sure he had seen one of them at the fort. It was the latter who still supported the body of his fallen friend on his horse, as if resolved that it should not fall into the hands of their pursuers.
Maroz held young Fulton Freeman on the mustang in front of him. Not only that, but he raised the lad, and steadied him on his feet, so as so make sure his friends saw him. The boy stared wonderingly across the river, as if searching for some one whom he knew. He would have recognized his father had not the latter shrank behind the lieutenant.
“Don’t move,” he said to the officer in a husky voice; “I can’t stand it if he sees and calls to me. Tell me when he is gone!”
The strong man bowed his head, while the others silently watched the scene on the other shore.