The Young Scout: The Story of a West Point Lieutenant

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

When Mendez, the White Mountain Apache, who was acting as guide for Lieutenant Decker and his men, pointed across the Gila, it was not at the fugitives, for they had disappeared from view several minutes before, but at a point some distance to the right of the route taken by Maroz and Ceballos.

From a spot among the foothills of the Apache range, that was several hundred feet higher than the river, and where the rocks, boulders and pines offered secure shelter, a wavy column of smoke was ascending. It was so thin that, as it climbed slowly upward, with the towering mountains beyond serving as a background, it was perceptible only to the keenest vision. It was fully dissipated before reaching a point that would bring it in relief against the clear sky, above the mountain crest. More than likely that but for the searching scrutiny of Mendez the others would not have discovered it at all.

Beyond question the column of smoke was intended as a signal for the hostiles who had crossed the river but a short time previous. It proved that they had allies already among the mountains, and that between them and themselves a perfect understanding existed. No doubt could remain that the outbreak was more serious than at first supposed, and instead of having three or four renegades to run down, there was likely to be double or triple that number, with the prospect of another of those long, exhausting campaigns under the sun of Arizona, in which the innocent would suffer tenfold more than the guilty.

Lieutenant Decker was so well convinced of the serious task before him that he adopted a radical change of plan. Even though he should succeed in tracing the hostiles to their hiding place in the mountains, his force was too small to strike them an effective blow. He decided to return to camp and report to the colonel, that no time might be lost in organizing a movement that would bring the Indians to terms, always provided the opportunity could be secured for doing so.

This meant a long halt in the pursuit, which to the father was unbearable. He could not remain idle during the long, sultry hours, when his child was in the possession of the band, who certainly meant him no good. He must keep moving or he would lose his self-control.

Declining, therefore, the invitation of the officer to accompany them on their return to the post, and thanking him for what he had already done, he turned the head of his mustang toward home, and struck an easy, swinging gait, while they rode westward to Fort Reno.

But Freeman had no purpose of returning to his desolate wife and child until he could gather decisive tidings of his boy, whether good or bad. After reaching a point where the intervening undulations of land were likely to shut him from the sight of any watchful Apaches, he changed his course, making it parallel with the river, spurred his pony to greater speed, and finally returned to the stream at a point more than a mile east of where he had parted from the lieutenant and his little company.

He was familiar with that part of the country, and without losing any time he rode into the water and headed for the southern shore. The river was narrower than below, but it was deep, and his mustang was forced to swim most of the way; but the bath was as welcome to him as to his rider. Though both emerged dripping wet, it mattered naught under the smiting rays of the sun.

Once across, Freeman felt that he had fairly entered upon his important task. Disquieted as he was by his grief, he was too old a campaigner to lose his head, no matter how critical the emergency. He had set out to locate the Apaches who held his boy, and then, if no possible means of rescuing him presented itself, he would give his knowledge to friends who would be only too ready to help him.